September is kicking my butt, and we’re only 4 days in.
It’s so bad that I’ve switched to drinking chamomile and decaf orange pekoe tea, so as not to pour gasoline (caffeine) on the fire (anxiety).
In September 2017, my life partner Brock got a septic infection that almost killed him, and then I held his hand as he died from his advanced kidney cancer. Last September I co-planned a memorial service, went to that service with our four-year-old son, and then starting packing up our apartment the next day so we could move across the province.
This September I will finally unpack those boxes and re-discover all the mementos from our 11.5 years together. I will arrange them in a beautiful, new house that I built using Brock’s life insurance money.
This month, Isaac and I will wake up in our new home and start our new life without Brock. For the first time in four years, we will have a life we can settle into. We will plan long-term and use the future tense: we haven’t done that since Brock got sick in October 2014.
I’ve read a lot about grief and attended the support groups. I know that anniversaries and significant dates can knock the wind out of a person.
My own birthday in April was surprisingly hard.
But this is ridiculous. I cry at the playground, my brain can’t keep track of all the things I’m supposed to get done each day, and my body is telling me to run away, to fly to Vancouver and help Q and Taylor unpack into their new love shack, or to lock myself into a room and go to sleep. My monkey brain longs for flight, but I have too many responsibilities this month to do what it wants.
Isaac starts kindergarten tomorrow. It’s his birthday this month, and he’s now old enough to notice if I skip the party.
I need to finish tiling the back-splashes in our new house. I’m supposed to learn how to grout and caulk and seal.
And then there will be the big clean up, and then moving all our stuff from the storage locker into our home. Opening up all those memories.
Brock was always good at figuring out where to put the furniture. I don’t know where to put the furniture.
Survival Strategy
Auto-pilot through the to-dos.
Ask for help and delegate when I can.
Lean on friends when I need to be sad.
Give myself fun times and distractions and try to enjoy the little moments.
Take care of myself: have mini dance parties and book a massage.
Here we go.
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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.
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