Journeys through Widowhood
Grief
To start with a confession...until Richard began approaching his death, I had a slew of wrong ideas about grief and mourning. For starters, I thought they were the same thing, marked by floods of sobbing at predictable times or in predictable circumstances.
These false notions probably came from observing my grandmothers grieve, in a time when women were permitted an emotional range much narrower than is true today.
But, I have learned that grief is one thing. Mourning is another.
Grief, I've learned, is the sadness felt inside after a loss. It's a feeling that just happens, unbidden, and immune to your control. Mourning, on the other hand, is the outward expression of your grief. To some extent, we choose how and when to mourn (sometimes subject to religious or cultural norms).
Grief I
Many people are somewhat familiar with the work of Elizabeth Kubler-Ross, a pioneering psychiatrist in the field of death and dying. She identified five stages of grief -- denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance -- among terminally ill patients. Her work was groundbreaking in how the medical field cared for the dying.
But, her work had nothing to do with the grief of survivors. Unfortunately, many survivors think they are somehow grieving the wrong way because their feelings don't follow the patterns she identified among the dying.
In other words, it's ok to grieve your own way. Of course, you're going to grieve your own way. That's as it should be.
Grief II
I grieved for Richard before his death and expected acute pain after he died. But the penerating sorrow after his death didn't happen for around four months. My feelings in the first days and weeks of widowhood took me by complete surprise.
At around 90 days, I journaled:
"The classic stages of grief don't fit me at all, at least not so far. At least I don't think do.
If not stages, I am experiencing feelings that repeat themselves. Some happen in parallel and some in series.
Relief. Relief that Richard has endured every thing he was called on to endure, and with admirable grace. Relief that I was able to take care of him, no matter how hard it was. We kept him at home, under my care, until his death. We did it. And I'm proud of that.
Euphoria. The condolences come pouring in. The term "memorial service" takes on a new meaning -- a last act of service to him. I wanted it to be perfect, and felt like it was pretty close. And I felt like I was at my finest. The feel good hormones were there in spades.
Baby steps. Starting the rest of your life sounds momentous, but is really just doing a lot of often little things. The list of little things to be done is exhaustive. Call the banks, transfer money, transfer utilities to my name, cancel his long term care insurance, clean his closet, decide whether to replace your estrogen ring, move some furniture, get a gate to hide the garbage bins, reorganize the kitchen, cancel prescriptions. Fill out a form and list your marital status as widowed. Get a notary.
It's endless.
Of course, these little things often represent a big loss. Who knew it would be so hard to trash a toothbrush? I've since figured out that these aren't little things at all. Each one is another goodbye, another symbol of change and loss.
Damnit. Damnit, I wish there'd been more time. Forty-three years wasn't enough. There was more to say, to do. Damnit, damnit, damnit.
To hell and back. We went through hell. Largely on our own. It was awful on so many levels. Looking at the big picture of physical and cognitive decline, rather than the relentless day-to-day of it, I am amazed that our marriage survived it. The "to hell and back" episodes have a lot in common with the "damnit episodes."
Pensive, wistful, reflective. Being quietly mindful of my situation, what is, what was, and what can no longer be. And wondering what will be.
Grief III
My intense grief held off for about four months: through those first days and weeks that I expected to be so difficult: picking up his ashes, emptying closets, and two memorial services. Compared to anticipatory grief, this was easy.
And then I went solo camping to a music festival we'd attended several times. Grief slammed into me.
Here are two pieces I wrote about that festival.
At My Campsite. I'm at my campsite waiting for the music festival to begin. The campground is crowded. But people are quiet, speaking softly as they do their camp chores, being careful not to rattle the breakfast pans.
I'm reading a book and watching people wander about. "Good morning," I say quietly to a couple who walk past. "Good morning," they reply with a smile.
Richard and I were big campers. We've camped at this very music festival several times. In the rain, in the heat, once in the snow and sleet. Once with a broken leg.
Across the little pine needle covered road, a pair of older women camp. One of the women has added blue highlights to her gray hair. She and her partner are seasoned campers--it's easy to see--and have no need to speak as they tidy their site.
A couple strolls by, perhaps on their traditional morning walk. They do not hold hands, but are walking closely together. He murmurs something to her, and they stop to exchange a smile before moving on.
A family comes by: young parents, an older woman who is probably a grandmother, and wiggly red-haired twins not long beyond diapers. Were they the children crying in the night?
Of course, I'm camping solo now. I've never felt so lonely.
Dear Richard. I'm at the music festival and miss the time we had at our first festival something fierce.
Do you remember that time? When it was so cold that the rain turned to snow? When BOTH camp chairs broke? When we met Doug and Nancy in that incredible "small world" situation? When you broke your leg? Remember how we laughed through it all? Of course, you'd remember all of that.
Weren't we amazing then? We'd been (mostly) retired for a few years, and we had jumped in with gusto. Your prospects of recovering from esophageal cancer at least for a while were -- unbelievably -- promising. We were about to move to California, a new beginning. Our marriage was in a very happy stretch.
You could still play music, tell jokes, joyfully meet new people, charm your wife, take care of yourself, fix a broken camp chair, and so much more.
Today's festival doesn't begin to match that first one. In fact, the festival is a decent metaphor for how life has changed. I'm trying to remember that first festival and how much we loved it.
G'night, sweetie man.
Grief IV
"Everybody grieves differently." After a loss, the bereaved hear, read, and hope this almost constantly. It makes perfect sense: Since everyone loves differently, how could they not grieve differently?
When intense grief found me after four months, I was surprised -- surprised that it happened after so much anticipatory grief and surprised at how many different kind of grief there are.
The notion of sadness -- even profound sadness -- doesn't begin the capture the parade of emotions that grief brings. As of today, I've experienced all these kinds of grief below.
Anticipatory Grief. I began grieving for Richard at least six months before his death. I knew he would die relatively soon, a knowledge that made me very sad. Clearly, greater sorrow was ahead. His physical and cognitive decline broke my heart. As his need for help grew to helplessness, my sadness at his predicament grew.
At the same time, I was awed at Richard's reserves of strength. And of my own.
So... does anticipatory grief "count" as grief? I absolutely believe that it does.
Emptiness. Emptiness is the type of grief I experience the most often. It makes me feel not quite attached to the world, like I'm somehow floating above myself and my surroundings. The emptiness leads me to sit and stare at nothing.In an unexpected way, the emptiness is pleasant: a welcome respite from other, more painful forms of grief.
Grief without Mourning. The bereaved can grieve with no outward signs. You don't have to mourn to grieve. This dry-eyed, silent, invisible grief is for me the hardest. It's just there.
Sometimes I feel like my relative lack of public mourning is mistaken for a lack of grief. Just not so.
I Don't Know What to Call It. Sometimes, a very strong sense of peace, of acceptance, of strange contentment overcomes me. The sense is very ephemeral: it arrives, stays a brief while, and then departs.
This only began happening after Richard's death, so at first I considered it a form of grieving. Now, I wonder if it isn't a hint of healing to come. Or both.
Mood Swings. I don't remember the specifics of mood swings of adolescence and menopause. I do remember that my moods were quite volatile during infertility treatments. (Of course, all of those mood swings were strongly linked to hormonal changes.)
The mood swings of grief are somewhat more subtle and predictable. It's only a tiny bit of time between enjoying the happy company of friends to deep loneliness. Loneliness turns to sorrow. Sorrow to impatience. Impatience to peace. And peace back to sorrow. Endlessly.
The most striking feature is how quickly these swings happen. There is an odd comfort in knowing that any mood will soon be gone, its place filled by another emotion.
Motivation. I don't have much.
Typically, I am quite disposed to meeting my objectives, whatever they happen to be. Now, I often have a stunning lack of motivation to do anything. It's not unusual for me to spend hours just messing with my phone, frittering my time away on puzzles, the news feeds, googling arcane information, checking email. It's mindless. It's paralyzing.
Am I avoiding thinking or maybe feeling? Or...is the lack of motivation simply another form of emptiness?
Memories. I don't even know where to start. Except to say that the memories become sweeter, less painful, as time passes.
Triggers from Out of Nowhere. Every few days, something from out of nowhere will trigger grief. When I least expect it. Often, I actually need to mourn and welcome the triggers.
Richard loved clouds and even carried a little cloud identification book with him in the car. The atmpspheric and geographic conditions leading to a particular cloud fascinated and delighted him. Unusual clouds now make my eyes dampen while I smile. Hawks do the same thing.
Not surprisingly, remembering much loved classical pieces or shared songs is hard. Sometimes even new songs trigger grief.
The ocean is where we would go to find peace and perspective. Now I go there to mourn -- and peace and perspective are still there.
Richard had a very quick and spontaneous wit, a side effect of his intellect. Even though he loved terrible puns, I loved his sense of humor. Memories of his jokes makes me acutely miss him.
Widow's Fire. Well, I certainly did not expect THIS! I have it, and I hate it.
Widow's Fire is the strong desire for sex after bereavement. It sounds like a joke, but is a real (unfunny) phenomenon. Mental health professionals could have some dandy arguments about whether this is grieving or mourning (or something else entirely). I think it's grieving, and here's why.
When Richard died, I encountered "loss of consortium," in its broadest sense, in a big way. Comfort, companionship, moral support, affection, partnership of all forms: gone.
Of the many forms of consortium, the most primal is touch. I lost touch. And began experiencing what has been called "skin hunger" or "touch starvation."
There's a hormone called oxytocin, that is released during sexual activity, breastfeeding, and labor. It's one of the "happy hormones" that helps regulate social behaviors, trust, empathy, and bonding.
So, widows lose the source of oxytocin when we lose touch.
For those of us who were caregivers, the loss of caregiving -- and the touch, empathy, and bonding that goes with it -- might play a role as well. Do you suppose caregiving for an adult partner mimics the hormonal response of caregiving for an infant? Do you suppose caregiving releases oxytocin?
It seems to me that a loss of touch could lead to an oxytocin deficit. Is Widow's Fire how the body grieves for the loss of touch?
Regret. Regret, I've learned, is sadness or disappointment over missed opportunities. Man, does regret ever loom large in widowing.
To quote John Greenleaf Whittier...
For all sad words of tongue and pen, the saddest are these, "It might have been."
Most of my regrets are far too personal to share -- even anonymously. But I will say this: I regret not addressing Richard's growing dementia.
The acute dementia was not constant, but it was terrifying. Richard's dementia began with mild confusion, but progressed to delusion and paranoia. He hallucinated. He often didn't know where he was or who I was. He heard things and was sure that someone else was in the house with us. The "other Pam," as he called her, seemed to be a combination of women he had loved: his sister Panna, his first wife Nancy, and his daughter Heidi.
His beautiful mind was totally tangled. And I so regret that I didn't recognize that in time to address it. Could I have mitigated even a bit of his mental suffering?
Yes. Regrets are always about what we didn't say or do.
Vulnerability. There's a clear increase in emotional response that -- at least on the surface -- has nothing to do with grief. I feel vulnerable to my own emotions.
For example, poor customer service that was once only mildly annoying now makes me cranky and angry. I normally love my puppy's exuberance, but sometimes my patience doesn't match his energy.
Am I angry at poor customer service? Or at my situation? Am I impatient with my puppy or at things I can't control? I think I know the answer.