There have been a lot of things I could have said over the past month and change, but I’ve been mostly silent. There’s a fine line in front of me. I can see it. It lies between wallowing and standoffishness. I can’t afford either–the former because it will make me crazy, and the latter because I’ll die of loneliness if no one ever wants to hear from me again.
In short, I don’t want to have grief cooties. I don’t want people to avoid me because I talk of nothing but how inflexible my diaphragm is now, how hard it is to breathe, how much even the air hurts me.
At the same time, I’m doing better than I expected. I’m walking and talking and going to Kroger like a normal person. I’m buying bagged salad and eating potato chips instead. I’m American as hell.
I didn’t have a funeral for Steve. He didn’t want one, which is great because I hate them. But there’s a downside: When I encounter people I know a bit but not well, I don’t know what they know. I need to go to the pharmacy where he and I spent thousands of dollars a month over the last few years, but I’ll feel so conspicuous walking through that doorway.
How many times I’ve said, “I don’t know if you’ve heard…” My husband died. My husband died. I can almost type it without feeling that burn in my nose. Almost. But saying it aloud, oh you can hear the wobble.
I’m doing okay. That’s my answer to every how are you or how are you doing or how are you coping or how have you been. I’m doing okay. I say it and each time I sound surprised, as if I’m just discovering that yes, I’m doing okay.
It’s as if they’re asking me how many fingers I have, and each time I say, in shock, “I have ten!” After a while, you’d think I would stop being amazed.
I didn’t lose a storybook dream life. Maybe that’s why I can be doing okay now. Life already had its ups and downs, so even this crushing down isn’t that unusual. That’s what I’ll tell myself, anyway.
I’m doing… okay? I’m doing okay. There is less to fear now. I’m doing okay.
Julie, I have this fear of saying the wrong thing and somehow adding to your grief, but I want to thank you for coming back and being so open. Someday I may be where you are now. If so, I hope I can be as brave and transparent. You’re one of my heroes.
I’m sorry for your loss, Julie. Email me your # if you want to talk on the phone when I get home this weekend.
Grief cooties is a good way to put it. But don’t worry how others expect you to be, because this is yours to feel as you do. It was suggested to me once, to honour how I feel, and that served me well. I’m glad to see you back too.
I, too, am glad you’re back. I like the way you write. It rings true. I think grief is a difficult thing to write about, but it probably will help to do it. I agree that funerals can be depressing, but in some ways they help to bring people together, and as you say, at least they avoid the problem of others not knowing which can be awkward.
It’s all hard. Thanks for sharing where you’re at now. *hugs*
There’s no way out but through. Grief cooties perfectly describes it, as does the wobble. SO HARD. I’m so sorry that it has to be so hard. I don’t know what happened, exactly, how or why he died, but my thoughts are with you.
I don’t like funerals either and don’t want one myself.
Your honesty on this subject, and your ability to articulate it so well, is refreshing.
My husband, who used to work as a personal in home health care worker, has talked about observing the sense of relief that comes with the loss of a mate who had been ill for a long time. I saw this in my aunt after my uncle died a few years ago. Things had been so bad for so long, while she missed him terribly, she was finally able to get up in the morning and not have it be all about him–his meds, his trips to the doctor or the hospital, his anger at being ill and the way he took it out on her. I found out quickly that she wanted from me was to come over and drink coffee and admire her latest carving and let her talk naturally about my uncle when she wanted to.
I wish Ohio was closer to Missouri. I’d be happy to come drink coffee/water/tea with you. We could spray for cooties just to be sure.
I love your writing. I love that it’s honest and open, that it reports the news of the heart and spirit through the vehicle of the body’s news–the inflexible diaphram, the lunches of bagged salad and potato chips, the wobble in the voice, the stunned counting of fingers. Julie, I’ve read Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking and liked it very much, but given a choice between the two of you, I would read your reflections and reports any day.
Gosh, Julie, I just found out about Steve. I am so very, verry sorry for your loss. I know what you’re going through even though a husband is different than a mother, it still hurts just the same. You know what they all say, time heals all wounds? Well, when my mom first passed away I didn’t believe it would ever be possible but 3+ years later I can say it has gotten easier to live with. It just takes time. Yes, it changed me profoundly in many ways but I think I’m a better person for it, more grounded in knowing what order my priorities should be in. So hang in there. It will take time but things will get better. The heck with those cooties, good to see you back.
Julie,
Just saw this – I’m sorry. I’m sending good vibes your way.
Rachel
Hi Julie,
Just wanted to drop in and offer my condolences; so sorry to hear of your loss.
James