Heather McLeod

Once upon a time, not so long ago, I was a capable person. I could multi-task the heck out of 14-hour work days, juggling dozens of to-dos with efficiency.

I would go to the hardware store for item X and, while there, also remember to get items Y and Z.

I could form sentences and find all the right words.

I could follow a logical argument, and question the gaps.

I am no longer this person. I hope to have a functioning brain again, someday, but for now I’m learning to live with this constant fog clouding up my synapses.

At first I thought it was lack of sleep, like back in the “baby brain” days after Isaac was born, but I’m clocking 9-10 hours a night. And it’s not life exhaustion, like when I was balancing farm administration work with a full-time job. Isaac and I have it pretty easy these days.

Then I read some grief books, and we talked about physiological grief in my bereavement support group, and I realized that my brain hasn’t stopped working, it’s just preoccupied.

At our most basic level we are animals and, even though I know Brock has died, my brain is having trouble grasping this.

Apparently my brain has put a big pot of “where’s Brock?” on the back-burner of my thinking-stove. It’s trying to reconcile 11+ years of memories where Brock was always nearby, with the present reality of no Brock.

Making the Connection

For months after we lost Brock, I couldn’t get past my memories of those last four days. In some ways, those days were beautiful and perfect. But it was horrible to know that Brock was trapped inside his paralyzed body, unable to communicate. I can still see his eyes, always slightly open and glazed. I kept feeling like he was trying to tell me something.

These memories terrified me: what if that was how I would always remember Brock? What if those final four days overwrote all the happy memories of our decade together? What if, instead of remembering a brilliant, funny, energetic man, I could only hold on to the weak, helpless, dying man he’d become?

So I fought against those memories of the end.

But maybe my brain kept bringing me back to those four days because it needed to understand that Brock had died. It was the connecting memory, between Brock being alive and present, and Brock being dead and gone. I was consciously avoiding thinking about that time, while my brain needed to relive and dissect the experience, in order to reconcile the loss.

The Side Effects

With my brain busy wondering where Brock has gone, I am operating at half capacity. This leads to the brain fog, and also to constant exhaustion. I’m not tired. I just don’t have much energy. All my energy is going into solving this riddle of figuring out why Brock isn’t here.

I find myself saying (usually to cashiers, when I mess up paying for things) that I haven’t had enough tea yet, or that I didn’t get enough sleep. It’s easier to offer those excuses than to say “my brain is confused because my husband died.”

Memory Therapy

One way I can help my brain reconcile itself to Brock’s death is to share memories. It reminds my brain that the past is not the present. But sharing Brock-memories is not always an easy thing to do. It brings the mood down, to remind people of his death. It makes me feel vulnerable. If I cry, that’s healthy for me but makes others feel uncomfortable.

Here’s the flowchart:

Something reminds me of Brock.
I decide whether I’m comfortable enough with the people/situation to cry, should that happen.
Assuming I’m in a safe space, I share the memory.
Moment of awkwardness for all involved. Others wonder what to say next: do they change the subject or respond to the memory? I half-regret sharing and feel very sad about Brock’s death.
They usually change the subject. I don’t cry.

For the record: I’m not better than anyone else when it comes to these situations. I’ve been on the receiving end when someone in mourning shares a memory, and all I want to do is give them a moment of silence and then move on. It feels cruel to dig deeper by asking questions, or to risk saying the wrong thing.

But know it’s a compliment to have someone share a memory with you. They feel safe with you (see flowchart above). They’ve risked feeling vulnerable with you, and knowing they might cry in front of you.

Sharing memories is important to reconciling the loss, and helping your friend’s brain re-focus on the present. You’re helping them by listening.

As for how to respond in a way other than changing the subject, I’ve come up with some ideas. (I have yet to try these responses myself.)

How to Respond When Someone Shares a Memory of a Deceased Person

Share your own memory of the person, if you can.

“Do you want to talk about that more? I can listen.”

And, for bonus points, if you want to help someone you love who is grieving, create a safe, private space for them with no time pressures, and then share your own memory. Open the door and see if they’re ready to walk through it.

A Brock memory: he made amazing French fries. He grew Sieglinde potatoes, deep-fried them in oil and we ate them with mayonnaise. Soooo good.

I’d love to hear your thoughts. Please post a comment below, share this post online or read more posts on this website.

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My bestie Q asked me the other day why I haven’t written on this website for so many months. My reason for the first month was a flare up of tendinitis, then my generally busy life … but the real reason is because I have a widget on my website that tells me that 50+ people subscribe to my blog updates, and knowing I have a readership has made me VERY self-conscious about what I post here. I’ve drafted two posts in the past 5 months, but couldn’t bring myself to click the “Publish” button.

So that’s ridiculous.

Of course I want people to read what I write. Why else would I have this website? It’s bizarre how easy it is to write about very personal experiences and thoughts anonymously, and yet as soon as my name is attached and I know people are reading these, I clam up.

Explaining this to Q (and then binge-watching season 1 of Queer Eye on Netflix, in which five fabulous gay men help people “find themselves”) has led to me to wonder if I have a fear of intimacy.

Tell us, Wikipedia, what that means:

Fear of intimacy is generally a social phobia and anxiety disorder resulting in difficulty forming close relationships with another person.

Sure, I had social anxiety issues in my twenties (Prozac made that better), but I thought I was done with mental illness. “Phobia” is a pretty strong word.

Still, it’s true that I don’t have a “close relationship” with anyone, even my Non-Sexual Life Partner Q, even with the many amazing women friends in my life or my superhero-supportive family. When I’m struggling with something, I write about it privately or on here. It’s only when I get overwhelmed that I freak out and then retreat into sleep.

One of the best ways to work through grief (as I learned from my bereavement support group) is to tell the stories of the death and loss over and over again. I’ve told Brock and my story a mere four times in the nine months since Brock died:

here, on my website
to my support group for spouses
to my bereavement support group
to my Hospice grief counselor

Interesting how all four of those times were to strangers, rather than face to face with my friends and family.

It’s not their fault. I have amazing people in my life who want to support me, and I’m sure they’d be happy to listen to whatever I needed to say. But for some reason, I just can’t make myself initiate conversations that are personal. I’ve always thought that’s because I’m an introvert, and would rather listen than talk in social situations.

Or maybe I’m just adjusting to life without Brock. We told each other everything, and I never felt the need for another confidante because I had him. So now I don’t have my B-Rock to talk to, and I need to find an emotionally-intimate relationship elsewhere.

Things to Discuss

Here are the things I need to talk about, at some point, with someone:

Brock’s Death

The grief experts say it’s important to tell the stories and share memories over and over and over again, to help my brain understand that he’s gone and reconcile what happened. (More on that in a future blog post.)

Isaac’s Birth

I was completely unprepared to have Isaac, both emotionally and practically. He was delivered at 34.5 weeks because I got pre-eclampsia, and so we weren’t even able to attend the prenatal classes I’d signed us up for. Neither Brock or I had ever been responsible for keeping a baby alive, or even changed a diaper.

There is this specific moment I remember in the hospital, after Isaac had been born and I was recovering from the C-section. All I wanted was to go home, back to our life and the dishes waiting in our sink. I was exhausted from being awake all night and in shock from the numerous injections I’d endured despite my HUGE needle phobia.

Me, numb with shock and exhaustion in the Neo-natal Intensive Care Unit in September 2013.

Then I realized that we couldn’t just go home, because we had a baby now, and the baby had to stay in the hospital until he was bigger, and to be a Responsible Mom I had to stay with him. Here’s a metaphor but it felt literal: I closed the door on my own shock and feelings. I heard it close. And then there was this lovely numbness, which got me through the next four weeks in the hospital, and then the next two years as I struggled to prioritize my baby over my own needs. And then the two years after that, as I became a caregiver both to our son and my sick husband.

So maybe it was that moment when I locked everything up inside, or maybe it was when Brock died and I lost the person who had always listened to me.

So now what?

I like to think that recognizing this “fear of intimacy” is the first step in building better relationships with my old and new friends, but keeping thoughts and feelings inside is a hard habit to break. The door that closed in 2013 was solid: one of those thick steel ones they use for bank vaults and evildoers’ fortresses.

There’s this part in a Queer Eye episode where a socially awkward 18-year-old tries to make small talk with some peers for the first time, and it’s painfully obvious how out of practice he is (“I like your shoes. I like your hair.”). I’m 38 but feel just as self-conscious: how do you initiate personal conversations? When’s the right time to tell the story of your husband dying? This website is a safe place for that: I can dive right in to whatever topic or idea I want to work through. But how does that happen in real life?

Writing on this website is a good first step to breaking down that door. It shakes me up whenever someone mentions something I’ve written here, or leaves a comment. (My immediate first reaction is always panic: “Ak! They know my insides!”). But I write to be read and it makes my heart happy when you comment and interact that way. I love seeing that subscriber count rise, despite the performance anxiety it causes.

We aren’t going to fix me today, but for now: thank you for reading. Thank you for helping me open that door, even just a crack.