Tag Archive | healing

The Grief That Waited Until I Was Safe Enough to Feel It

Aug12

A Note From the Writer

I actually started writing this over a week ago, during a particularly difficult stretch of grief. I was feeling pretty down, and a lot of what I had been holding back finally started coming out.

I’m still going through much of what I wrote here. Some days are better than others, and grief continues to come in waves. But I decided to finish this and share it because this is where I was—and, in many ways, where I still am.

This isn’t a case of feeling sorry for myself. I’m grieving. There is no timeline for grief, and I don’t need to medicate it away. I need to feel it, work through it, and allow myself to heal.

I think that’s what I’m doing now—grieving and healing at the same time.

This isn’t a polished account of grief. It’s simply an honest look at what it has felt like for me lately.

The Wall Finally Came Down

Gosh, where do I start? The wall finally came tumbling down. Grief after losing my husband has finally hit me in a way I wasn’t prepared for.

I’d been doing so well the weeks and months after my Dave’s passing. Everything I’d suppressed came flowing out like a broken dam. Now I realize the mourning hadn’t even truly started until now.

My brain has been protecting me.

There were so many decisions. I couldn’t break down completely. I went through the motions of a grieving widow. Posting photos on Facebook. Sharing on his page. Wanting to keep him alive in everyone’s minds.

But his soul is gone elsewhere. His earthly body is dead. Buried in a beautiful coffin, lying in a cold hole.

I feel so alone.

I go by the cemetery almost weekly to change his flowers and hope he sees what I am doing. It is my way of saying, “I love you. I don’t want you to think I’ve forgotten you.”

We do our nightly prayers together when I’m there.

I’ve lived with Alzheimer’s for over 11 years. It was terrifying and confusing, frustrating, and all that time I grieved for the man he once was, but not to this extent.

My subconscious protected me. It kept me functioning because of all the decisions I had to make.

I’ve been in survival mode for a long, long time. Grief after losing my husband is different from the grief I experienced during those 11 years of Alzheimer’s.

Now my body and brain are saying:

“Now that we are safe enough, here is everything we could not process before. I loved someone. I lost someone. This hurts terribly. I don’t know how to carry this alone.”

I can’t.

So I talk to God.

I know He is there. Only He will carry me through this. That much I know.

Right Now, I Just Don’t Care

At the moment, I either want to sleep or I can’t sleep.

Right now, I don’t want to cook anything. I’ve been eating handfuls of protein cereal, slices of turkey and chicken, protein shakes, fruit. My favorite is hazelnut spread on a carb-free tortilla rolled up—well, almost my favorite. I’ve been gobbing handfuls of dark chocolate almonds, and my butt is showing it too, lol, even with the exercise. Quick and easy.

My Brain Finally Told Me Why

I’ve quit checking my email, and it takes me days to check my snail mail. I don’t care. All my bills are on autopay, and that’s what matters the most, right?

Upon reflection, while writing this paragraph, I realize why I quit checking my snail mail. Dave had received three jury notices even though he had been permanently excused because of his multiple medical conditions. I sent each one back, writing “deceased” on the envelope.

Those jury notices were the triggers that stopped me from checking my mailbox.

I just feel like writing in my blog and watching British series.

I’m So Sick of Death

I really need to mow, but right now I don’t care.

My dogs are slowly dying. Their bodies are disintegrating along with their brains. Both are the same age. Both will probably die close to the same time.

What a downer.

Top it off, these new veterinarians want you to do everything to keep them alive, regardless of the pain and suffering the dog has to go through. I won’t have them go through that. Death is a release.

But the vets are really good at guilt-tripping.

One more thing to look forward to.

Oh joy.

Their guilt-tripping and my dogs dying. Their dying is in my face daily.

I’m so sick of death.

Can I please stop losing everyone I love?

I dress up for Mass, and that makes me feel good. Being in His presence makes me feel good. I know He’s with me all the time, but being in His physical presence is like a dopamine hit.

I also still work out. I don’t want to become crippled and dependent on anyone. I’m fiercely independent. I learned a long time ago I couldn’t rely on anyone completely.

My kids have their own lives and life complications. They do what they can, and I love and appreciate them so much. But bottom line, I have to be able to function independently until the day I die myself or end up warehoused.

Finding Little Things That Feel Good

I’ve tried to lose myself in hobbies: photography and writing. Both are helpful. I’m not good at either, but I enjoy them, and that is what counts.

I also love to go hiking and look at wildflowers, rocks, and taking pictures of the phenomenal landscapes Alaska provides.

I forgot my houseplants. I love to putter with them and enjoy their beautiful flowers.

I recently bought two rose bushes in pink and lavender. They were $7.95 each at Fred Meyer. If I had known how cheap they were, I would have bought the entire color selection.

Flowering plants are another dopamine hit for me.

My brain is desperately searching for moments of comfort and aliveness after years of stress and loss.

I’ve spent too much money already this fiscal cycle.

So be it.

Not like I’m going to be traveling as planned.

I also replaced my makeup, threw out the old, and started painting my nails. I love color, and it always makes me smile.

Dave loved it when I painted my nails.

I bought myself a cheap smart TV for my back bedroom, where I primarily live now. I bought some devices to improve my Wi-Fi. They cost more than the TV!

Then a wave of guilt hits.

Joy after death feels like betrayal

Here I am trying to enjoy life and Dave’s body is cold in the ground.

I don’t want Dave forgotten

And I don’t want my Dave forgotten by anyone.

What an amazing man.

Such brilliance, even though he didn’t see it. He was humble, but could outwit anyone. He was so talented, and he could do anything. I mean absolutely anything.

If it was broken, he could fix it.

He was an artist, a carpenter, a builder, a charmer, a mechanic, a jokester, a bow hunter, and full of love and empathy for others.

He loved animals and didn’t hunt except for food.

He had quite the sense of humor and was so full of love for me.

He accepted my ADHD. We meshed just fine. He didn’t care. All he wanted was what I wanted: someone to simply exist beside me, accept me, and hold me.

Safe and trustworthy.

That’s not a lot to ask for, is it?

Yet I realize I’m lucky to have experienced it once in my lifetime.

When I look back, even before meeting Dave, that is all I ever wanted.

Most of my life has been alone, even with people around me, except for my children. They are amazing people. God sure blessed me abundantly through them.

I Still Want to Feel Like a Woman

Through all of this, I also discovered I still long for companionship, touch, laughter, and closeness.

I miss feeling like a woman instead of only a caregiver.

I’ve been so touch-deprived for over 11 years.

But it wasn’t and isn’t meant to be, I suspect.

That’s okay.

I will survive this. I’m not going to go looking for it. Even in sadness, I will keep marching forward.

I just have to get through this glitch in my life that has suddenly appeared.

Grief comes in waves as it is.

This time it is a tsunami.

Ultimately, over time, I want to be able to laugh, feel attractive, feel desired, and feel alive without the guilt.

Right now, I can’t imagine that happening.

It feels like time has run out for me.

I can’t even really recall my 50s other than my job and keeping up with Dave. I realize I’ve never existed for myself. It’s always been someone else.

My Children Were the Greatest Gift

I loved existing for my children, though. They were the greatest gift ever. I miss the time I had with them as children. I loved being their mom. I would never trade that time for anything else in the world.

And then my hubby, Dave.

You can read more about our Alzheimer journery here:

Letting Go of My Husband’s Belongings After Death: When It Feels Like Losing Him Again

The Man I Fell in Love With

Aug3

The Man I Fell in Love With

Today, while vacuuming and mopping, I found myself remembering my husband after Alzheimer’s—not the man Alzheimer’s left behind, but the man I fell in love with.

Dave was so handsome. His beard was always neatly trimmed and styled. He was sexy too. He was sexy when he pulled his hair back before sliding under a vehicle, when he directed someone while they backed up, when he lifted something heavy, or when that look came over his face while he was focused on a job.

Hell, he was sexy even smoking (thankfully, a habit we helped him break). It was the way he held that cigarette and then took a hit off of it. The way he carried his water bottle.

Dave was a very romantic man. He would softly croon to me while we slow danced in the living room. He would surprise me with a reservation at a nice restaurant. We held hands everywhere at his insistence, and we held hands at night while watching television.

When we watched a movie in the living room, he’d sit in his recliner, and I’d recline back between his legs so we could sit comfortably together. If I dozed off, he made sure no one woke me.

Until Alzheimer’s changed him, Dave made sure I knew I was loved. He made me feel important to him. He cherished me and he cherished our relationship. He was always sneaking up on me and planting a kiss on the back of my neck and taking off. I miss that.

When I sat next to him, he would lovingly caress my back, which could suddenly turn into tickling my ribs.

My Playful, Loving Husband

My Dave was so playful and witty. He matched my playfulness because I am very playful myself. He and I teased one another so often, and we never got offended because we never put one another down. We respected one another. If he got smart with me, I’d reach over, pinch his laughing cheeks, and say, “You’re so cute,” all while giving those cheeks a good squeeze.

Even at the end of his life, being bed bound did not stop him from being a lovable stinker. He grabbed my face and gave me a beard rub. I was laughing so hard. Then he grabbed my glasses and started waving them around just out of my reach.

If I made a big oops, he would say, “Having problems there, darlin’?”

When we did get into a big argument, we didn’t stay angry for long. We couldn’t bear being separated by anger. It made us physically ill. So we made up quickly.

We would take popular songs and change the words to fit whatever situation we were in at the moment, then sing them together.

I miss those times with him. I miss his companionship. We were like a pair of squirrels, I think, playing and enjoying life together. I spoiled him, and he spoiled me. I loved nothing more than getting him a drink and popping the cap for him. He rarely told me, “No,” but then again, I rarely said no to him. We wanted one another to be happy.

The Man Who Made Me Feel Safe

Dave was perfect for me. He accepted me as I was. He didn’t care that my body was imperfect after having babies and C-sections. He loved squeezing my belly at night. He treasured it, actually. He told me that was because it carried our babies.

Dave made me feel safe—a safety I had never felt elsewhere or with any other person. Period.

Remembering Dave After Alzheimer’s

Dave was such a big exaggerator. His storytelling could become so absurd. He’d crack me up. Either someone had seriously abused him, or that moose brushed right up against him when it passed by.

So while I’m smiling while writing about my Dave, I have tears brimming in my eyes as well. I’m always going to mourn him. At the moment, I doubt it will ever get easier. But that’s okay. It reminds me that I still love him and long for him. I cherish the moments we had and can always reach into my memories and find a moment that makes me smile.

The years I spent caring for Dave through Alzheimer’s changed me in ways I never expected. You can read more about our Alzheimer’s journey here:

Lord, Give Me the Grace to Forgive

Hard Truth – Learning to Take Refuge in the Lord

Jul4

Psalm 118:8

It is better to take refuge in the LORD than to trust in humans.

The Hard Truth About Trust

A colleague once told me I was too honest and too trusting. That was a hard truth for me to hear. I don’t want to become paranoid or assume everyone has an agenda against me.

Recently, I was reminded of what she said. She was right. It seems I never learn. You would think after everything I’ve experienced, I would remember.

Most people mean well. Some do not. Some hide their intentions, and when they’re caught, they turn it back on you. Many people don’t believe they are capable of hurting others. They protect their good-guy image at all costs, even to the point of gaslighting.

I have two sides. Everyone does. I try hard, yet I fail too. I worry about the people I confront. Then I feel guilty for confronting them. Does that make sense? Should I keep quiet so they don’t get hurt, even if I do?

Why don’t I ever learn? Probably for the same reason I can’t stay angry. A day later, I’m over it. I forgive, I move on, and I sometimes wonder why that seems so difficult for others. But I am grieving—grieving the loss of my husband and the loss of a friendship. Grief changes how you see people. It also makes you long for connection, which can make it easier to trust when you should be more cautious. I still need people, I just don’t always know how to manage them right now.

Wishing my guardian angel would reach out and smack me on the head when I’m about to trust too quickly would be great! Maybe he already has, and I just wasn’t listening. I don’t know.

Learning to Take Refuge

This much I do know: God has always taken care of me, and I need to remain diligent in remembering that. So I mourn. I’m sad. I feel stupid. And I make impulsive choices.

I’m learning to take refuge in the LORD instead.

Waking up this morning was hard. I listened to some soft classical music with my head under the covers and dozed.

Having ADHD, in order to survive this world and fit in prior to retirement, I masked all the time. It was exhausting. I still mask some, but since my husband’s death, I let the mask fall more often. I can now be myself.

I have decided to stay in bed most of the day, do some writing, maybe read, until it is time to get ready for Mass.

My dogs are aging rapidly. Kaya reminded me of this about two hours ago. She was happily throwing the sheet around on her dog bed. I thought she was fixing it to lie down in. Instead, once done, she squatted and peed all over it. This is the second time this has happened. I was shocked. Her sheet and bed cover are in the wash at the moment. It briefly reminded me of caring for my husband during his Alzheimer’s days—how memory can get pulled up by the smallest things.

I saw an advert for an AI companion that cuddles with you. It looks like a huge marshmallow and it won’t cross boundaries. Then I could cuddle safely with it, my head on its fuzzy chest and its fat arms around me. I may invest in it. No I’m not kidding. If only it could walk and talk, it would be perfect. I’d never need another person again. I’d never have to worry about saying the wrong thing and hurting their feelings or their hurting mine—at least for now.

Regardless I will always turn to God. He has always been there for me. I trust in Him, always—even when I mess up.

Jesus, I trust in You. Take care of everything. Amen.

Wilted plant