Glimpses of Grief

 Grief is defined as "deep sorrow, especially that caused by someone's death (noun)."

What they don't tell you is how fickle grief can be.

With my first post, I shared the moment we learned Rob had cancer.  When I internally screamed at the world to make time stop.  That was fear, but it was also grief.  Throughout the journey of cancer, I had the oddest reactions of grief at the seemingly most random times.

I slammed a cup full of coffee down on the table beside the couch, permanently staining the lampshade when Rob was trying to discuss what I needed to do if/when he died.  I had, and still have, moments out of nowhere where I want to throw something against the wall and break it because of the anger from how unfair life is.  

As for crying, I rarely broke down which was in stark contrast to when my dad was sick and I cried constantly.

I remember wondering why I didn't cry a lot, but I remembered Rob telling me not to let my dad see me cry, so I guess I did the same with him.  When we learned children would not be an option due to the treatment unless we did in vitro, I had blinding rage and choked back tears but I didn't let them fall.  I told myself "others are faced with fertility issues all the time, this is not something to cry over." But every expectant mother or infant I saw felt like a vice on my heart.  When I had a very close friend tell me she was pregnant, I was so happy for her, but I remember it being one of the first times I actually let myself break down in the car.  I cried again when I told Rob the news.

Most of the time though, I pushed through.  Stay positive.  Rob certainly wasn't and one of us had to.  So, I cleaned bowl after bowl of vomit with a smile and made jokes about myself.  I helped a once independent adult shower and dress.  My back was killing me but I knew if I let myself break even for a minute, I wouldn't stop.

I remember hiding behind a wall and sliding down it with my head in my hands.  It doesn't just happen in the movies, it is real life.  And when he called, asking where I was, I got up with a probably too chipper of a voice saying I was just looking at something and would be there in a minute while I tried to control my shaky breathing.

Otherwise though, we took it all on bravely together.  Every bad piece of news in the doctors office we received was responded to with "ok, what now?" I did not cry once in a doctor's office.  Every single time we were told it had spread a little more, or his weight dropped, I told myself "Well, that's that, we can't change the news so how do we handle where we are at?"

So overall, grief was buried, coming out in harsh moments until the day we received the news that he would not be getting any better.

It was our last hospital stay.  That night I had an awful nightmare that the doctor came in and told us it was time for hospice.  I woke up from the couch I was sleeping on feeling an irrational fear that something wasn't right. I knew it wasn't.  I had taken a picture of our hands the night before and sent family saying something bad was wrong, his color was too off.

I was right. The doctor came in and told us, it spread to his lungs, his stomach, his bones- and then stopped himself saying it didn't matter nothing else could be done.  I sat on the couch shaking but I didn't let myself cry until Rob asked me to come sit with him on the bed.  I lost it.  He had just been told he was dying, but he was the one holding me.  And after that, I didn't stop crying.  But even crying has its variations.

We stayed for blood transfusion then came home.  I had to help him in the house but overall he seemed to be improving.  My mom came to stay with us but he was awake, joking around and the next night we had a family movie night.

Later that night, he struggled to get off the couch.  He would have hit the floor but somehow, by some miracle, I caught him under his leg and arm and physically lifted him back onto the couch.  I still have issues with my back.  We managed to continue me lifting him off the couch and getting him started walking until a day or so passed.  He had taken a shower and sat down to get dressed but even with our combined efforts, he could not get up.  While we waited for my brother-in-law and nephew to come help, I sat beside him and cried. I couldn't stop no matter how hard I tried.  At that moment, he comforted me.  He told me I would be alright and I called him a liar.  I kept crying.  I cried when people arrived, I cried talking to them on the phone, I cried in the kitchen. 

It was at this point I quit eating.  I had to get up every 2 hours to handle medicine.  I was exhausted but couldn't bring myself to eat a bite.  We had friends come help and fix food.  Despite their efforts, I couldn't manage much.  I lost 14lbs in a matter of days.  

When his brother arrived, I met him in the driveway and I remember he was essentially keeping me from collapsing on the ground.  It was like all strength I had left, and I cried harder than I had ever let myself.  It was brief but it was heavy.  I also remember turning corners seeing him standing somewhere and my heart stopping.  For a millisecond, my brain was fooled into hopefully, foolishly thinking Rob was ok and it was all a nightmare.

When Rob quit being able to get up at all and I had to spoon feed him I remember going to bed and feeling like something was constricted around my throat that I needed to claw away.  If people hadn't been in the house, I probably would have screamed and screamed.  All I could think was, my husband will never sleep in this bed again. This is my future from now on.  I was right.  

When he took his last breath, me holding his hand on one side and his brother on the other, I remember both of us crying but at the same time there was this odd sense of "It is over."  Not relief but a feeling of not having to watch a person suffer in a way that nobody should ever go through.  I played with his hair until they took him away.  I've never touched a dead body before more than required, even with my dad. I remember having this horrible feeling about them taking his body.  He was supposed to be with me.  I told the nurse, I should have been the one to die.

At his service, I remember seeing his urn the first time and having the weirdest thought of "How is my 6'2" husband in that box?"  To get through his eulogy, I told myself over and over I was lecturing a class.

Coming home seemed a fog.  You turn a corner and see a memory play out like a movie in front of your face.  You see your life how it once was and will never be again.  It rips you to pieces every time.

Grief after loss is even weirder.  You have days and eventually a week goes by where it doesn't really cross your mind.  Then you are in the yard working in the flowerbeds and you lose it.

As time goes on, people think that part of your life is over.  It is never over.  You learn to take each day as it comes.  You learn to start opening your heart a little to the new life you have.  If this has taught me anything, it is that life is too short to push people away and stop living.

Sometimes, I hear Rob's voice as clearly as if he was in the room. Yet, the other day, I started panicking because I couldn't make my brain remember in detail how he looked.  That was just a momentary thing but it definitely upset me.

As grief starts to slowly ebb away, you feel guilty.  You feel guilty when you have fun.  You feel guilty when you do something you both talked about doing.  You feel guilty when you have good conversation with someone that isn't your husband even if it is just between friends.

What I've made myself do is constantly repeat, "He's not coming back."  I will never stop loving him. He will always be my husband.  But the shitty reality is he isn't coming back.  So, I do what he didn't get to do.  I take a breath, I get out of bed, and I live.  Grief will come and go, it will always be there, but it will not take away the chance of living a full life which I fill I owe to him.