Thursday, August 29, 2013

The relapse



Since I have been home from Baltimore I have found some sense of peace through writing and getting back to work and spending time with friends. The news of my grandmother’s condition worsening and the inevitability that comes with that has been wholly hard to swallow, but I managed. But yesterday my car broke down and it put me over the edge. You would think that the situation with my grandmother would have done that, but no, it was a car. I have officially reached the level of horror to which I can no longer function and I am completely breaking down. I don’t even want to be around my own kids. I want to do impulsive and reckless things. I don’t want to be alone, ever.
It seems like the rest of the world is floating around in a bubble of happiness while I’m left alone to wither in this lonely and awful place from which there is no escape. I have stayed positive through everything and I’ve tried to always find a purpose for my journey. But now I feel like I’ve run out of any sense of optimism, that I’ve used it all up and now there is nothing left to do but hate everything that has happened to me. A few days ago I thought it might not even be long before I could start thinking about the prospect of dating again, or at least not closing myself off to the idea. Now instead I have this entirely unhealthy desire to be with a man just for the sake of not being alone. I want to feel something other than pain and loneliness. But that’s not a real feeling and I suspect it would probably only make me feel worse in the long-run – a temporary reprieve that would only lead to more heartache.

I find myself looking at the world through cynical eyes. I want to be happy for friends who have good things happening to them; those who are expecting or planning weddings or moving into new and exciting chapters of their lives. Instead I look at their individual situations as infuriating and I’m jealous. Why was my perfect little life reduced to rubble while theirs continue unharmed? And while I know that all of my friends and family will continue to be here for me when I need them, I feel like I’ve been at least somewhat set aside. It’s been over a month. I should be on my way toward healing and finding that “new normal” all the grief books talk about. I shouldn’t need constant attention. And it’s this ultimate catch 22 because when they were surrounding me constantly, I kind of just wanted to be alone sometimes. And now that they’re not here, I don’t know what to do with myself.

I have a list of things that need to be done as long as my arm, but every time I try to start tackling them, I freeze in place. I get lost in my thoughts and forget what I’m doing. All I want to do is sleep, or drink or be anywhere but my own home. I know that if I just make myself do the things that need to be done, I will find solace in that. It will lift an immeasurable weight off my shoulders and give me a sense of satisfaction. It will make the rest of my life maybe just a little easier. But I remain frozen.
Nothing about the past month of my life has been healthy. Not physically. I don’t eat right. I drink too much. Hell, I even smoked – something I hadn’t done for almost a year. And I haven’t been doing things best for my emotional well-being either. I find myself obsessed with getting hit on, just to feel some sense of validation that this label I feel like I wear like a Scarlet letter doesn’t paint me utterly untouchable. But then when I do, I scoff at the attention like it’s disgusting. I’ve been cloaking myself in the appearance of happy, when on the inside I feel like all of my vital organs have stopped working the way they’re supposed to work. And I’ve refused to tell anyone that I’m not OK. I want to be OK. And I want people to treat me like I’m OK. I don’t need to talk about what’s happening inside me, but I need people to push me. And all anyone can say is that it will be OK. Is that really the best there is to offer a person who has lost so much? How is it going to be OK? When will it be OK? What can I do to make it go faster? I suppose no one knows those answers. But I need the people closest to me to be there willing me to do the things I know need to be done. Kind of like how I have to get my kids started on their homework, but once they start they’re fine. I need someone to tell me, OK, Janelle, now it’s time to go through this box; now it’s time to mail this packet. I’ve made lists to try and help myself, but I lose them or ignore them. I ask for help, but don’t follow through. And none of this is done on purpose.

I try to end all of my blog posts with something inspirational; some sort of lesson I’ve learned from whatever feelings I’ve experienced that day. But today, I have no lessons. I’m sitting here with a sense of failure and doom. What good is anything I do if there is no lesson? I want people to read this blog and feel uplifted or less alone if they are struggling through a similar loss. And so far I’ve left them with important observations. How does pointing out that my life fucking sucks right now offer any help to anyone? I’m writing this to help people, but if I can’t do that, what’s the point? And now full circle, I’ve made my point yet again – that I went from purposeful and optimistic to doom and gloom in what feels like the blink of an eye.

I watched my grandmother today struggle to stay awake or move and I saw so much pain on her face. Jon will never have to feel that pain and I know my grandmother is at a point now where she’s probably ready for the suffering to be over. Sometimes death is a blessing. But it wasn’t a blessing with Jon, it was tragic. My oldest daughter told me about a dream she had last night that left her in tears but unable to move. She dreamt that Jon had survived and gotten better. But then one day we went to my dad’s to go swimming and it happened again. But this time, instead of me being there, she was the one trying to save him. Tears streamed down her face as she told me about it. Worse, she said there was something that looked like a chart in the background showing her dreams each night and the chart showed that dream over and over. So now she’s afraid she’ll have another dream tonight. There was nothing I could say to make her feel better, just like there’s nothing anyone can say to me to make me feel better. I wanted to take it all away from her in the same way my mother wants to take it all away from me. No parent wants to see their child in pain. Then later, my youngest daughter, who hasn’t showed even an ounce of emotion since the funeral, said to me, “Mommy, I’m glad it wasn’t you who passed away.” I said, “me too,” but what I was thinking was at least in death there wouldn’t be so much suffering. What kind of horrible thing is that to think? I also keep having to fill out forms for the girls’ school. That first night I cried every time I had to skip over the space where you provide information about a child’s step-parent. Then today came another asking if there were anyone else in the home who could discuss the student’s education and again, I had to skip over it. For the past three school years, I’ve written Jon’s name and phone number in those spaces. Now they are empty. Like me.



Monday, August 26, 2013

Grief strikes again



Another tragedy 

About a month before Jon died my grandmother was diagnosed with terminal stomach cancer. At the same time, we were preparing for the passing of his grandfather, also as a result of cancer. At the time, it seemed too much to deal with. But Jon was my rock. Even though he was expecting the death of his own grandfather anytime, he was there for me anytime I felt sad. Then after his grandfather passed, just two weeks before he would, he grew even more supportive. I went to see my grandmother everyday and he told me each time, to take as much time with her as I needed because he wished he’d have had that opportunity with his grandfather. It meant the world to my grandmother.

This weekend I received the news that my grandmother had taken a turn for the worst and it probably won’t be long. While I feel that her passing will be a blessing for her and will end her suffering, it’s still a difficult inevitability to swallow. I’m still dealing with the loss of my partner in life, the person who made everything bad seem not so bad and now I have to add to that the inevitable loss of my grandmother. And I have to deal with that without him here to comfort me. His memory gives me comfort. I can think of what he would say and do and that gives me comfort, but it’s not the same.

This all makes me wonder why in the world everything good in my life seems to get taken away so abruptly. I tuck my beautiful girls in at night and I can’t help but wonder, are they going to fall fate to my awful luck. I’ve become overly protective over them. I’m obsessed with their safety.

When my ex-father-in-law passed away suddenly last summer his wife became obsessed with the girls’ well being. Jon and I had an argument about it. I remember it well. I was covering a story at USF St. Pete about funding available as a result of the BP oil spill. It was an evening story and Jon had the kids. Our middle daughter had had an allergic reaction to her step-mother’s cat while there for a long weekend and it required a trip to the emergency room. Spring break was coming up and the girls were supposed to go to their dad’s for the week. She did not want them to go. Their dad did. He was taking precautions – buying air purifiers and cleaning every nook and cranny of the apartment, even isolating the cat to areas where our daughter would not have to go. We spoke to her doctor about precautions and it still wasn’t enough. She was obsessed with the idea that something bad would happen to our little girl. I remember defending her thoughts to Jon who thought she was being irrational. Looking back on it, I’m glad I didn’t cave in. I’m now left in the same lonely and terrified place she was in. Every minute I’m away from my girls I’m afraid something will happen to them. Every time they drive in someone else’s car or I drop them off at school or leave them at a friend’s house. We went swimming the other day and while I’ve always been fairly liberal in my watching them because they are all strong swimmers and I’ve always let them venture off to the playground without worrying too much, I was suddenly consumed with watching their every move.

I feel so helpless to stop anything terrible from happening again. The realization that there are some things that you simply just can’t control. I tried to save Jon. Not just that night, but every day we were together. I knew he had heart problems and I urged him to eat better and exercise more. I followed up on his doctor’s appointments. I made sure he was taking his medication and that they were refilled before he ran out each month. And that night I put every ounce of my energy into doing chest compressions. I kept my cool and stayed alert, careful not to miss any instruction. And despite all that effort, he still left us.

This stark reality reinforces the single most precious lesson Jon left for all who knew him and those who have heard his story: live every day and enjoy every moment. I am careful to talk to friends and family more now. I read that one extra bedtime story I used to decline because it was too late. I stay out past bedtime with my girls because, what’s another thirty minutes? I stopped being so picky about what they eat – within reason. Fast food is still off limits. I stopped worrying about whether or not the house is entirely clean. We just live, because we have nothing left to do but live. And every moment I find happiness, I smile on Jon’s memory for giving us a life where happiness is the only option. I’m still sad sometimes and I have a challenging road ahead of me with this new set of grief looming in my future. But I will do what Jon would have wanted me to do – live, smile and do something amazing. I’ve opened my yes!

Thursday, August 22, 2013

One month since you went away




The word anniversary tends to invoke in people a sense celebratory happiness. It’s the mark of some certain beginning. The anniversary of a death is a little touchy though. I don’t particularly like calling today an anniversary, because it’s not a happy one. I try to look at it as a celebration of Jon’s life, but it’s the anniversary of his death, not his life. The latter I’m happy about. The former, not so much.  But what other word could describe it?

The day was particularly unremarkable. I took the day off of work because I had a doctor’s appointment triggered by a stress-induced ailment. I picked my kids up from their bus stop, but other than that, I slept most of the day just to make it go by. I don’t have a particular subject to write about, rather a whole series of things.

I’ll start with the sad parts. Last night was something of an anniversary too. It was one month since I saw my Jon alive. One month since my life was turned upside down. Arguably, last night was far harder than today. I was flooded with the memory of that night. The brunch with friends. The intimate afternoon alone together. The quiet evening watching episode after episode of one of our favorite comedies, Archer. Most of all, the final moments we spent together and how they were the most tender I think we had ever had. The amount of love Jon poured out into words that night was more than I had heard from him in months. But all of those happy memories inevitably led to the ones I wish I could forget. The wheezing, the stumbling out of bed. The pained look on his face just before he lost consciousness. My nightmares have become sparse over the past couple of weeks, but that night played over in my head on repeat last night like a broken record. I thought about all that I lost and couldn’t quite seem to replace those thoughts with all that I had and all that he gave me the same way I usually am able to. I was angry. Furious. Why him? Why me? Why our beautiful girls? These things shouldn’t happen to families like ours, families who were good and, to so many others, far too perfect. Straight A students, loving exchanges, frequent adventures – we had what some people never find in life and in an instant it was taken away. But it wasn’t, only Jon. None of it seemed in the slightest bit fair. It isn’t fair.

I’ve been reading a book given to me by a friend called, something like, Why Bad Things Happen to Good People. It’s written by a rabbi and is a little preachy for my taste, but there was this psalm (or something of the sort) in it. It explained how the wicked are like grass – they seem to grow far faster than the trees, but they eventually die and wither while the trees continue to grow strong. The grass never surpasses the trees even though it seems to grow faster. The meaning portrayed in it is that bad people may seem to skate by life with little consequences for their actions, but the trees are the ones who win over the long run. Now, maybe this is true to a certain extent. This terrible thing happened to my family, but we have decades to be better for it. But that same book went on to explain that some people don’t live long enough to realize those rewards. So, maybe someday I might find love again and maybe it will be just as good as what I had with Jon – different, but still good. But what does that do for him. He doesn’t get to be here to watch the little girls he so adored grow into women. He won’t get to see them graduate high school or drop them off at college or walk them down the aisle or cradle a grandchild in his arms. He was robbed of so many things. If I continue to grow, that’s great and it’s what he’d want, but what about him? Where is his retribution? I’m sure there is an answer out there for me, but I haven’t found it yet.

Through all the frustration of the past 24 hours, there has also been some light. Humor actually. Jon died on July 22nd. The royal baby (in England) was born on July 22nd. My best friend began a sentence like this: “if you believe in reincarnation…” Since then there have been countless jokes about our Jon now being the royal diaper. He traded in this life for golden diapers. He sounds the royal trumpet every morning (fart joke). The list goes on and on. In the midst of royal Jon jokes, we told other stories. One morning he passed gas particularly loud. He did this every morning, but usually from the bathroom. I rolled over and looked at him disapprovingly and just said, “gross.” His response was priceless. “What, you don’t want this hunk of man meat lying next to you.” Then there were stories of him showing a bit too much of himself while hiking the Appalachain Trail wearing a kilt. If you wear underwear it’s a skirt. Need I say more? The kids said things that came straight from Jon’s mouth. He was everywhere tonight. We even had the Jon prayer before dinner: “Thanks for this food, now I’m going to turn you into poo.” It’s hard to be sad when he is everywhere we are. I don’t believe he is actually there. I don’t believe he is watching over us. I don’t believe he’s in heaven or even that he is the royal baby. I just don’t believe those things. But I do believe that he lives on in the countless lives he touched, the strongest of which being in me and the girls and our closest friends and especially in his family.

He left us one month ago, but he will never leave us as long as we love him. And for me, that will be a lifetime. I love you Jon and I will live every moment of my life cherishing your memory. Tonight I am taking my ring off of my finger and putting it on my necklace with his ring. It’s a small step that, to me, seems so huge. But he told me he wanted me to live should this ever happen. And damned if I let him down. It’s one step I can take for him toward finding the post Jon happiness he so desperately needed to know I’d find. I am not ready to go much further than that right now, but it’s a step and I take it for him.

Wednesday, August 21, 2013

Lessons in dirty laundry




In the days following Jon’s death before we flew to his parent’s home to have him buried, my house was full of people wanting, needing I suspect, to do whatever they could to help me. My mom went through all of the dirty laundry in my house meticulously removing anything of Jon’s, washing it and putting it away so that I didn’t have to come home only to weep over Jon’s dirty underwear.

Up until today, her efforts were a huge success. I’ve since had to was some of Jon’s clothes, but only because they were t-shirts I had been sleeping in. That was ok.

But today I was putting a load of laundry in the wash and found myself getting to the bottom of the basket. At first that felt great. The bottom of the basket! I haven’t seen that in, well, forever! But then out came Jon’s swim trunks. And not just any swim trunks, the ones he wore on our camping trip the weekend he died. They were still covered in sand and stained with his sweat. At first I just stood there, not sure what to do. Do I wash them? Do I throw them away before it hits me? They are old and worn out so throwing them away wouldn’t be a bad idea. Instead, I neatly folded them, placed them on top of the dryer, tucked my head into my hands, elbows propped on the stiff fabric and sobbed. Eventually I gathered them in my hands again and sat down on the floor to cry some more. The area where my tears fell quickly turned from moist to soaked. I worried my kids would hear me, but couldn’t stop.

When they finally came into the laundry room looking for me I was sitting on the floor with a dumbfounded look on my face, tears still streaming down my face. All three of them came bounding fearlessly and selflessly to my aid. All the times I have wanted to take pain away from them and now they are the ones wanting to take my pain away. It broke my heart even more. How could I let them see me like this when I know they’re hurting too. They need me to be strong. It shouldn’t be the other way around. But unmoved they told me to come eat dinner and just like that, my spell was over.

When I came out, my ex-mother in-law had arrived with Chinese takeout. I can only assume she saw I had been crying. She lost her husband to an eerily similar situation only one year ago. She told me that before I got home from work she saw I had gotten a card in the mail. She remembered all those days of coming home to sympathy cards and said they always made her sad, so she thought I’d need to not have to worry about dinner. My heart melted. This woman who not so long ago was just as much a mother to me as my own who now has no reason to take care of me, was worried because she knows all too well the pain. I looked at the table set with brightly colored plastic plates and varied silverware and my kids smiling and laughing as they helped themselves to lo mein and fried rice and orange chicken.

Lilli asked where the red chicken was. She hadn’t asked for red chicken (bbq pork, but she’s always called it red chicken and it stuck.) “Where’s the dumplings,” Zoe continued. She hadn’t asked for dumplings. Chinese takeout was Jon’s favorite. Anytime I asked him what he wanted for dinner the answer was always, “Chinese?” I form that in the phrase of a question because that’s how it always sounded. I like cheap Chinese, but I always frowned on the idea of drowning my kids in sodium and msg. He answered my question with an inquisitive suggestion because the answer was almost always no. But when the answer was yes, he was like a little kid who just got told he could have a second helping of ice cream. Two things could always be counted on from Jon’s trips for Chinese takeout: House Special Lo Mein and fried dumplings. There was no need to ask for them, they appeared, as if by magic, without fail.

My heart broke for the two of them as I realized they now had to request such obvious components of an impromptu Chinese dinner. But again, they were unwavered. So I remembered those nights with a smile rather than the tears I had only moments before shed at the thought of Jon and I’s final weekend. I remembered opening our fortune cookies and both of us silently inserting “in bed” after the fortune. We’d laugh and the kids would have no idea why. We once considered letting Lexi in on the joke, but decided to wait a year or two for middle school to finish corrupting her before we added to it.

We did everything as a family. Chores were done as a team. Grocery shopping was a family adventure. Choosing which movie to watch on Netflix was a democratic process. And Jon was the one who started it all. It’s hard to remember that, while the scenario has changed and our family has gotten smaller, that’s still there. It often takes my kids doing what Jon would have done or mentioning his name when something familiar pops into conversation to remind me that his leaving did not break us. It just set us back a little. I don’t want what he left to go away. I want to carry on all of those traditions – the good ones anyway. But I also feel like I need to find some new ones to sprinkle in with them. Because if I don’t, there’s this anchor holding me to what was and stopping me from venturing into what will be. The girls and I can’t live in the past, but moving into the future still seems so painful. Balancing how to integrate then with now and still to come is something I’m still learning. But my girls have proven to be the best teachers.

Monday, August 19, 2013

Even a day from hell has a silver lining



One year ago I was sending my daughters back to school after summer break. My youngest was starting Kindergarten and my oldest her first year of middle school. Needless to say that morning was filled with emotion. I didn’t have Jon with me to drop them off, but he was the first person I called when I realized dropping my youngest daughter off at her first day of Kindergarten was nothing compared to sending my oldest off to this mysterious and pre-pubescent wasteland that is middle school. I found myself in tears that my little baby girl seemed suddenly so grown up.

Jon consoled me in a way no one else could. That sounds endearing, but it went more like this, “stop whining and go to work, you’ll be fine.” Now he sounds mean, but he knew if he said anything even remotely supportive, I’d just cry harder. The harshness of his statement snapped me out of my mommy misery and back into real life.

I could hear him not so gently willing me along today on yet another first day of school.
Today was a calamity of errors. My computer crashed and I lost an hour and a half of work (that was last night, but it affected today.) Two of my girls’ bus stops were in the wrong place. My car broke down on the side of a busy highway and I was in very inappropriate shoes to deal with it. Then, my kids got off the bus and didn’t see their Grandma so they walked a half mile to our neighbor’s house and nobody knew for thirty minutes.

Then I realized that I had also forgotten to give them lunch money. I felt like a shitty mom and I wanted to ram my head through a wall.

For much of the day, even before I thought I didn’t know where my kids were, I floated around in a cloud of anger. Why? What did I do? Why are there killers and rapists and assholes lurking around this world untouched while the universe just continues to rain shit all over my life these past few weeks? And throughout that, all I could think was, I need Jon. I need you today baby, I kept saying in my head. But he didn’t answer. Not literally anyway.

What he did do was pop into my brain from somewhere under a lump in my throat and tell me to get up off my ass and stop feeling sorry for myself. The memory of him last year, talking me through my tears by being firm and forceful, invaded my brain and stopped me dead in the middle of a growing sob.

It’s so easy to be angry; to think that nothing is fair. It’s easy to think about the situation in terms of all that I’ve lost. I can get lost down the path of regret – I wouldn’t have to do this if Jon was here or it would be so much easier with his help. Those are both are very true statements. But lamenting that my life is harder in his absence, though true, doesn’t change the fact that it is what it is. Everyday there is something, often several things, that I have to do that he would have done. Mowing the lawn. Doing the dishes. Putting the laundry in the wash so I had no choice but to dry it and put it away. Cleaning up that broken beer bottle so no one got even the slightest sliver of glass in their foot. Fixing the leaky washing machine and figuring out why the radiator in the car isn’t working. All Jon. Now, all me.

There are so many times I think about these things and the anger wells, because that’s the easy reaction. But there are other times where I swallow whatever darkness is gripping me and just get shit done. In those moments, I am not only whole, I am amazing. Above all, I am the woman that Jon loved.

I remember when we first met and Jon brought his car to my house to work on it in my driveway. I got right in there with him. I knew what parts were what, what they did and where they were located. I knew which tools were which and I even offered a couple of helpful tips as he worked, elbow deep, in grease. As he realized he was dating a girl who knew her way around a car engine, you could almost see him fall in love. He left this world knowing I was capable and strong and that there wasn’t any “Jon” chore I couldn’t handle. So, when I keep it together long enough to realize that and get things accomplished, I feel him smiling down on me; almost congratulating me.

Today was shit. And there will probably be lots of shit days. But no day will ever be as shitty as the day he left us. And the short life we spent together was filled with lessons preparing me for this awfulness. To forget those lessons is to forget him and that is simply just unacceptable. My Jon deserves more.