What surprises me most about grief is how functional I feel. People have been dying since the first person died, so I keep telling myself, “This is normal. People are meant to move on.” I’ve known a lot of people who have lost loved ones, and they seem so normal, so functional. I wonder why I don’t feel more sad. More angry. I feel like if I have to land on a step of grief, shock is the closest I can name.
But it’s not like the shock of opening the front door, with the children crowding round, when the police knocked that night. Hearing his name, that there had been an accident, that I should rush to hospital as soon as I could. Seeing his bloody face. Meeting the surgeons who said they would TRY to get him through the night. I felt wrapped in a blanket of slow-down. Over and over…I’d feel that shock, a gift in times of trauma. But I think I must have used it up like too much serotonin. The numbness that used to cary me through has lost it’s edge. The game is over, the momentum is gone.
It’s like a drug that doesn’t exactly stop working…but you stop recognizing it. It get’s watered down over time. It helps for a bit, protects you from processing too much reality at once. But then you wonder after time: is this numbness grief? Or is it just that I’ve become hardened with too much of it, like a washed up addict. I need something else to help me now. Something to make me FEEL.
Is this still shock? Is it denial? Or is it a different thing? Is this the new me, and I just need to get used to it?
I need another word for this non-ness, this cushion between my brain and my heart.
So I started this grief writing group. Kind of intense so far as yesterday the private Facebook group opened up for all of us. We didn’t have any prompts sent to us yet, but we were allowed to share little introductions of how we got there. I joined late but stayed up till 1:30 reading them. I felt. I felt so sad for all these beautiful people just trying to express the pain of their devastating loss…which helped me at least feel sad. Sadness is an emotion that still feels disconnected when it comes, but is better than having a zillion other emotions instead of the one that feels most appropriate to the season. So that’s good, I think. Sometimes it takes OTHER things washing over me to release what feels right—a song, a piece of artwork, a quiet moment in a strange church, someone else’s pain. Even then, it’s comes as a surprise: the big, sad things that don’t make me sad…and the gentle sudden-ness of things that do.
Sometimes I get Facebook memories that show up out of the blue. I really like them. They help me feel connected a bit. They help me to remember details I’ve already forgotten. They often do make me sad. But at least I can feel it for a minute. That seems appropriate.
This came up today from two years ago, with the following caption: Look! His trach has been capped! And a new haircut makes him look more like himself. The dark look on his face is because he was mad at me for not taking him with me.
All this brings me to sharing what I wrote for my stream of consciousness assignment in my grief writing group tonight. Funny it ended up being more about him than myself. Or maybe not so funny after all.
I don’t have a name. I don’t know what to do. I am not the person I used to be.
I wake up in a new room. Have I been here before? It’s strangely familiar…but I know it’s not home. I want to go upstairs. Or maybe it is home? Maybe someone will take me upstairs later. Maybe my wife will come and tell them I don’t belong here.
Surely someone will take me home later. Someone IS coming. They say my name: Vernon. I remember now…yes, that is my name. Vernon Paul Adams. I’m not sure how old I am, but I know I’m from England. Bournemouth. I can remember my street. My parents will know the rest. Maybe they’ll take me home later when they come. My dad always picks me up when I ask him.
Where’s my bag? Must keep it by me. Surely my important things are in my bag. My computer. My work. Mustn’t lose the bag when someone finally comes to take me home. I’m in California? Good, I always wanted to live in California. Don’t move my bag! I have to get back to work.
Someone is changing my pants. Oh my lord, I’m in a diaper. It’s terribly embarassing, but I feel better already so I won’t complain this time. This lady seems nice, I think I know her. Is it my mother? No,probably not really— she doesn’t look like her, and she speaks with a Mexican accent. She makes jokes as if she’s known me for a long time. I don’t like it. I yell and she scolds me. She knows my name. She asks me what her name is. I call her Mum, and she seems fine with that. Maybe if she calls my dad, he’ll take me home.
A man calls over from the other bed. “How are you doing Vernon. It’s a dialysis day. They are getting you ready. The ambulance will be here soon.” He knows my name too. What’s his? Now I remember. It’s Paul. Or Patrick? I ask him: “What’s your name again?” He says it’s Joe. Still doesn’t ring a bell, but his voice is kind, sounds like a smoker. He keeps talking, seems to know a lot about me.
I can’t see him. I can’t open my eyes. It’s too bright, must squeeze out the light so I can think. I don’t want anyone to lose my bag. I have to get back to work. I yell out so they hear me, in case they don’t understand: “I need my shoes. Make sure I have my stuff. I have to go upstairs. Don’t forget my bag. My wife will collect me soon. Don’t forget my shoes.”
My body hurts. My legs hurt. This room is green and boring. It’s surely a dream. Maybe I spent the night in a hospital? I’m sure someone will explain soon.”
“Hey buddy, ready to go to dialysis?” I open my eyes. Two attendants are above me, trying to move me. I don’t want to go to dialysis. I don’t know why I have to go. I kind of remember now. Oh, no…that horrible, uncomfortable place…no I don’t want to go there!”
“It will be alright,” one of the young men in uniform says. He seems nice. He’s young. He too, knows my name, as if he’s met me before. He’s so relaxed around me. Theres a pretty girl with him. Maybe I can convince them to take me home. I have a family to get to. I have work to finish. I can’t move my body, but I’m uncomfortable. I’m thirsty. Maybe I can get them to give me a drink…they are young and seem nice. Have I seen them before?
They put me in an ambulance. Ah…this is good. Surely they will take me home.
I’ve had writer’s block. But then, I think I’ve had appropriate-feelings block so i know there is a lot in the way, I’m trying to do the Grief Group workbook, but it feels tedious and boring, even thought I’ve only been in there two of the 14 weeks. I know its healthy, but it is hard for me to feel connected there. It feels surreal to be there…more of a dream than any other parts of my life. I want it to be more of a therapy session probably than actual tips on how to get through times of grief. I don’t want more tips. I want more catharsis. Doesn’t work like that, does it?
The other day I came across an e-course called Write Your Grief. It’s a 30 day program with other writers, trying to do just that: write their grief. I thought about it for a couple of days, not sure if I should join, not sure if I could make such a big commitment to write every day, to be on schedule like this with others—when I still feel so foggy and off. But since it starts in two days, I signed up…and now I’m committed. Every day we are supposed to get a writing prompt from the instructor, a psychologist/widow who calls her work “emotionally intelligent grief support.” There will also be a private Facebook group for all the people taking the course, where we can share our writing with each other (or not.) I hope it helps me through some of the emotional blocks I feel like I’m living with at the moment. At least it should help with the writer’s block.
PS I discovered the course and the instructor via this podcast, which I thought was excellent. I liked her approach very much.
Also some good news: my friend Nikki from England is visiting for a week. She was one of the very first friends we made when we moved to Reading ten years ago. She’s seen the kids change and grow up from early days, and was there for a lot of the big things that happened when we lived there. We even moved into her house when she moved out. Hers was the last place we stayed before our morning trip to the airport to move out here. I even once bought a car from her dad. So she knew Vernon pretty well too. She’s been great for helping my memories click in, helping round out the past which I haven’t spent much time thinking about for years. I was so focused on the moment…leaning in toward the future. And she brought CANDY! (English candy for the win!)
We went whale watching yesterday. It was an overcast morning, we didn’t see any whales, not even dolphins. But we figure the negative ions worked wonders on her jet lag.
But we did see some sea lions and a seagull, so all was not lost. 🙂
“There’s no such thing as writer’s block. That was invented by people in California who couldn’t write.”
― Terry Pratchett
Justine seems to be doing very well at the moment. There is a ‘grief group’ at her school that she attends with a couple of other children who are dealing with loss. She’s asked me not to share the things she talks about there with anyone else, but she doesn’t mind my sharing this video of her telling the story of how our family came to be.
“What we have once enjoyed we can never lose. All that we love deeply becomes a part of us.” Helen Keller
I haven’t the heart to weigh myself at the moment, but I’m sure I’ve put on a few pounds since Vernon left us. Really? More side effects? This is not making me feel great right now. I wore a pair of old exercise pants, that Vernon bought me eons ago, to my class this morning. Not only did they feel tight, but I could tell in the studio mirrors that I look a little more hippy. I think. I can’t remember what I used to look like. Does one look different in a mirror when they are in mourning? Or is it just my eyes? I know I feel lumpy and uncomfortable. There have recently been a few extra ice cream cravings that I may or may not have succumbed to. Cake or Death? I’ll have the cake, please.
I kept looking in the mirror. No, I’ve definitely gained weight, I decided. But my outfit and my ponytail are kind of cute! Vernon would have liked this look…he even bought me the pants. In fact, I realized as my attitude shifted, Vernon always liked me no matter what my body was doing: shifting, aging. At least that’s what he said. I guess I’ll still believe him.
So I smiled at my reflection, got through my class, and when home, I put on a new lipstick and changed into a loud top and (still-ill-fitting) trousers. I put on big earrings and fancy shoes and went to pick up the kids from school, feeling somewhat glamorous for no real reason…except that I remembered Vernon thought I was beautiful no matter what. It’s nice to know his love is still in my heart, and it is still strong enough to boost my self-esteem even after he is gone.
Thanks for being such a great guy, Vernon. Thanks for adoring me, it still builds me up and changes me for the good. I love you, too.
Now, who’s got any cake?
Glamourous: Me as Adam Ant and Vernon as Andy Warhol at a fancy dress party in Reading, England 2007.
A special cover of Vernon's fav song 'Waterloo Sunset' by friend and singer/song-writer Ian McGlynn. All proceeds support Vernon's recovery! Donate what you can and download a beautiful song in return.
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