Quantifying, qualifying grief . . .

I find it a funny phenomenon, this tendency people have, to quantify and qualify grief, as though it's a parcel with three dimensions that we can grasp, contain, measure. . . maybe it's our desperate way of trying to hurry through the hard stuff, the uncomfortable stuff, give some kind of trail markers, guideposts, measurement to the unknown to try to make the journey a little easier, quicker, get it the hell behind us sooner. . . well, it ain't working for this girl, I can tell you that much . . .

Had someone tell me that she heard it takes about three years to get "through" the mourning process. . . which means that May of 2014, I should have my shit together again and all this will be behind me. Have had many people tell me to not do anything drastic for at least a year—don't sell the house, don't chop your hair off, don't make any major purchases—so here I sit, stagnant, wallowing, with a mop of hair that looks so ratty it's in a pony tail 24/7, not knowing which way to turn, what to do first. So, instead, I rearrange my furniture, swap out a few rooms and get some serious deep cleaning done in the process, helped Penny and Jim strip the deck. . .

Couple weeks back, very shortly after Bob had passed, a neighbor stopped me on the road and after expressing condolences, chirped to me, "Well, I hope things start to look up for you now!" As though it was such a relief to have my beloved Bob die, to free me from the burden. . . caring for Bob was never a burden to me, that's the thing about the long, sad, horrific Krazy Karnival Ryde we were on. It was hard, it was terrifying, immeasurably sad, hair-pullingly stressful at times, but never, ever a burden. It was an honor that defies description, to be at his side along that long, scary journey.

I once read about "caregiver's remorse" or something like that. . . I was a lot of things during the course of this path in life, but can honestly say I was never remorseful, never resentful at "my" situation; any time I'd feel the least bit sorry for myself, all I'd have to do is look at Bob or think of all he was going through—snuffed out that pity party in an instant . . . oh, believe me, I was no Florence Nightingale and likely won't get any extra points on the fast lane to heaven, but I told Bob over and over, that I would do my best to take care of him and would do it forever, if only he wouldn't leave me, if he wouldn't be taken from me . . . just the other day, after confessing that I had had a tough couple of days (they come in waves, often right after having a pretty okay day, knock me right off my feet and pummel me, over and over, with memories, emotions, wave upon unrelenting wave . . .), had someone say to me, "Well, things should be getting a little easier for you now, right?" Had to remind her that it's only been three weeks since my beloved husband of 15 years has passed . . .

No, nothing is easier. Right now, everything is getting harder and harder, as the days and weeks go by. Maybe it was because I was in a fog, on auto pilot those first few weeks, maybe it's because Bob's official death certificate just arrived in the mail a few days ago, and I know have it in writing that he is officially, legally gone. Maybe it's because I've had countless phone calls and appointments the past few weeks, with "grown up types" whose job, in part is to officially, legally wipe Bob from my life—off our mortgage, from our IRAs, off credit cards, bank accounts . . . So according to everyone, either I get at least another three years to feel lost and heartbroken, or by now I should be pretty much over this and well on my way to Puppies-and-Rainbowsville . . .

Someone told my sister, "Well, at least they didn't have children. . ." I was thinking the other day, I wish now that we had had children . . . maybe that would give me some sort focus, a reason to get my shit together, those ducks in a row, impetus to get up in the morning . . . A co-worker told Bob's sister that at least she had these last few months to say good bye to Bob, because her own brother was killed instantly in a car accident . . . I could easily make the argument that at least they got it over with quickly, and can now start picking up the pieces and get on with their lives. Our ugly drama was dragged out for 19 months, and those last 4 months in hospice were not a gift. They were horrific, so hard on Bob, in endless, unspeakable ways, a death sentence . . . they weren't precious, a "gift" or anything of the sort. I would bet everything I own that Bob would have agreed that dying sooner would have been a welcomed respite. . .

Someone else gushed to me, at Bob's Celebration of Life service: "Just think of this as a new adventure, Jen! As a wonderful new opportunity to reinvent your life! Doesn't that sound exciting!?" Thank god I was wringing the snot right out of the wad of Kleenex I had in my hands, or I would have bitch-slapped her into the next century. (Sorry, mom, that one was warranted . . .) Instead, I said, "No, it would be an adventure if I'd had some say in it. I kinda liked our life the way it was, even when Bob was sick, because he was with me, he was my life . . . "

And don't read this wrong. Even in the depths of this most intense sadness that I have ever, likely will ever experience in my life, I'm still plugging along, somehow getting through each day, being productive, even. I walk the dogs. I pay the bills. Mow the lawn. Getting some projects done around the joint—painting, moving some furniture around, freshening up the place a bit. Bought a new computer the other day, and will be brining my old one down to Penny and Jim's and get them set up in the right century (I think their old computer still runs on DOS and uses something called "floppy disks" . . . j/k, P&J!) Might even go get a few more plants for the deck this weekend, weather permitting. I have family out to Wrenwood now and then. I even talk on the phone, though not much, still with just a few select people, still am not up for talking to or meeting with the masses, yet.

And guess what? I laugh now and then, too. When reading an e-mail from a friend, when talking to my sister or mom, when stopping to talk to a neighbor (which is still a rare occurrence, still just too hard to do . . . might even check out a grief therapist, though finding a good therapist is harder than finding a good hairdresser, so that's gonna be a work in progress.

Along with the daily routine, there are constant reminders, constant "firsts" to plunge head-first into, events or moments, even, that suck the life right out of me. When Penny and Jim came up to help me with the deck, we went out to eat in Stillwater one night. No body spoke of it during the meal, but we were all heavily conscious of the empty 4th chair across the table from me. There were times I could barely swallow my food, glancing at the chair where Bob should be sitting. When we got back into the car, Penny mentioned it first. . . I don't know when I'll be able to drive to the North Shore again. That was "our" place to go, to get away for a weekend, to take the dogs and go hiking, climb Oberg Mountain, have a beer at Fitger's, lunch at the New Scenic Cafe (which is maybe now called the Old Scenic, since it seems like forever since we've been there . . .) But those are all part of the dealio too, the "firsts. . ." They suck. Hugely. And they're a never-ending barrage . . . but I plug along, in spite of them, despite them. What else can a girl do?

I'm not saying everyone who's lost a loved one does or should do what I do. My words here are not a "Blueprint for Grief." I would never assume or suggest that to anyone. Because I can see how easy it could be to just stay curled up in a ball and cry the day away, instead of plug along. There are those days for me, too. Or take the other path and completely immerse oneself in a job, a hobby, resort to a bad habit/vice, even. I've had a few of those moments, as well (haven't taken up smoking again, gratefully, but I can definitely see how someone could succumb) . . . grief is an unpredictable beast . . . whatever gets you through the night, is all right, all right, in my book. . .

My whole point here is that grief is as unique and varied as there are people grieving. You can never compare anyone's situation to anyone else's. It's not right, it's not fair, it completely disregards the individual experience, takes the necessary focus away from the one who's mourning. Grief, peeps, is not neat and tidy, does not follow a time schedule, doesn't fit into a pretty little package for us to define and describe, predict. It's the most indescribable, unpredictable event one may likely ever experience. Every single situation is different, with endless variables, personal issues and takes on the situation that affect the whole process. One person might seem to "get over it" pretty quickly, while another may be visibly, irreparably damaged forever, the rest somehow fall somewhere within the continuum. And even those "rules" can and will change. Yearly, daily, by the minute, by the second, contingent on each person, each view of life, and the subsequent life events that follow the great loss . . .

I am grieving the loss of my beautiful husband and the life we had before he got sick. I'm grieving the loss of my life and who I was, pre-cancer, I'm wallowing in the "shoulda, woulda, coulda's" even though we had the "blessing" of the past 4 months to talk a lot about so many things, to square things away, to help "prepare" me for my future without Bob. Fun conversations those were, lemme tell you . . . I am grieving the immense, senseless, traumatic suffering Bob endured for 19 months, the horrific things I witnessed him go through in that time (this blog, my words can never do justice to the endless suffering I watched Bob endure. No one, not even I, will ever know just how awful that cancer journey was for him . . .) and every little thing that is wrapped up in those events . . .The way I see it at this point for me, I've got a whole lotta mourning to do. Right at this moment in time, my perspective is that it will take a helluva lot longer than three years, and nowhere close to "getting a little easier by now." In my head, I know things will get "easier," (and by "easier," I don't mean "easier." As my aunt said, I know I'll just get used to, learn to adapt, to living with a gaping hole in my heart.) But right now in time, my heart does not know these things. Heads and hearts operate on two very different systems, never the twain shall meet. . .

One can never, ever tell another how long they should grieve, how they should grieve, what they should or shouldn't do . . . unless you've been there. Even then, it's a tenuous path to tread, and I'd suggest doing it lightly, gently. . . if you dare.