Saturday, April 14, 2012

You Know Me Well. Better Than Anyone Else.

The title of this post was taken from the song Everything That I Want by Matthew Puckett.

What do I say? What is there to say? Here we are one year later, technically I think he passed away between 8 and 9 am so it really hasn't been a year yet. Yes, I have gone through every agonizing moment up until now. Yesterday every time I looked at the clock I thought about where I was that time last year. One year ago today my alarm was set for 5:30 am. and I started getting the kids up at 6:30. At 7:30....well that's the last time I would see Mike alive, he was sleeping peacefully. His "I Love You" from the night before would be the last thing I would hear him say. 
      One year later here we are. I don't even know what to say. I don't know what else to say, but I found a beautifully written blog post by Kelleylynn, and I found it here. She sums up things so well, and does it with humor. 

When you wake up one morning and your husband is randomly dead, there is a long period of time where you feel as if you may have lost your mind. There is a “fog”, a cloud of vagueness and “what’s happening?” that covers you and protects you from the unbelievable reality that is your life now. This fog keeps you in a constant state of “Huh?”, and you tend to forget things over and over, repeat yourself, not recall entire conversations or even weeks of things you did or said, and just generally behave much like someone with memory loss or no brain cells. This must be how it feels for Kim Kardashian every single day. Empty.
Today is exactly 10 months since my husband died, and I am still in that fog. It has lifted a bit, and on some days, the sun peeks out for a few minutes or an hour, but the fog always returns. It is always there, lurking. This is one of the many huge misconceptions that most people have about grief and losing someone. People who haven’t been through this are starting to say things like “I hope things are easier for you now”, or “I hope you are finding some peace now that some time has passed”, or my favorite one that an older person said to me the other day: “So, are you better yet?” For most people who cannot grasp this life and cannot understand, there is an acceptable amount of time they will allow you to not be normal before they begin judging you or making assumptions based on nothing. What they assume is that because 10 months have gone by, I must be getting better, whatever the hell that means. What they don’t realize or will never understand is that when you lose your soulmate, your life, your love – in an instant – your heart and brain and mind and soul take a few months off. Your soul cannot deal with the shock, so it goes into the cloud for awhile. It hibernates. It usually starts to return and deal with the tremendous, unspeakable loss maybe 6 or 7 months later, just as most people are no longer asking you how you are anymore. Just as most people have stopped calling and texting and checking up on you. Just when you need people the most, the people start to scatter. Just when you finally begin to feel the real, frightening emotions of what this is, the world around you continues spnning. How dare it? There have been plenty of people in my life who have been nothing short of amazing and wonderful and caring over the past 10 months. But this piece isn’t about those people. It is about the other ones. And it is about trying to figure out who is crazier – me, or them?
The first few months, people are all around you with love, and they offer to do things for you like pick up groceries or do your laundry. You come home and you have 47 private Facebook messages, 24 texts, and multiple voicemails that you can’t possibly comprehend or sit through. Maybe you listen to them, perhaps you glance at one or two of the nice things people have written. Anything you do read goes right out of your head. Nothing sticks. You remember nothing. Your grief fog makes it difficult to accomplish much of anything. You are like a robot, just getting through each day on autopilot. You cry and you scream, but the real, raw, scary emotions don’t happen until much, much later. You keep yourself busy. Your friends keep you busy. People tell you that you are never really alone.
Fast-forward to today. 10 months later. I went through and finally read some of the lovely messages that various people left me days and weeks after Don’s death. People I barely know leaving me their phone numbers and saying “Call me anytime!” People telling stories of someone they lost, in an effort to relate or find common ground. People offering their help and letting me know that they will always be around for me. I haven’t heard from 90% of these people ever again. After that initial “reach-out”, that was it. Most of the phone numbers I’ve been given are people I would never in a million years call up at 4am sobbing uncontrollably. Can you imagine? “You said call anytime!!! I really need you right now, random Facebook friend! Wait – what was your name again?” A harsh reality of losing your husband is that everybody else moves on, but you don’t get to. They get to say “You have my number!”, feel heroic about their good deed, then climb into bed and say goodnight to their husband. They all get to go home to their families and the lives they have built together. I get to come home to our apartment filled with stuff that gives me anxiety, fear, and sorrow. I get to sit here in silence and wonder: What the hell do I do now?
When you lose your marriage and your love and it’s not through divorce, people treat you differently. All of your other relationships change. It’s not fair and it really sucks, but it’s what happens. Some people treat you as if you have a disease; as if you are death itself, and your loss is contagious. They no longer look you in the eye when you talk to them, or they avoid you completely. This has happened to me on several occasions when I went out to different parties or gatherings. If I didn’t mention Don’s name, people would look at me like I’m an alien and I have no heart. If I did mention his name, people start acting like THEY are an alien; moving their heads all around, coughing, clearing their throats. Some people get extremely awkward and uncomfortable when I talk about him. I don’t understand what that is. Am I supposed to act like he never existed? Is that what is expected of me? Sometimes I don’t know how people and their crazy-ass weirdness with death want me to act, so it’s just easier to stay the hell home.
I have had a handful of very close friends just disappear. Some pulled their disappearing act immediately after Don’s death – others waited until after the funeral and those first initial weeks before never speaking to me again. They have left my life because my husband died. What the hell is that anyway? I didn’t kill him. Why are you running away from me? Do you think that if you hang out with me, your loved one might die too? Believe me, I wish I had that kind of power. If I did, it wouldn’t be my husband who was dead right now.
I am trying like hell to integrate myself back into the world again; to not isolate myself from friends and people and life. But it’s extremely difficult. I no longer fit anywhere. I no longer have anything to add to most discussions. Do you know how many times I have found myself out with friends, in the middle of everyday conversations about habits of their partners or finances or children or dating or buying houses or starting a family or ANYTHING really, and I just have to sit there and shut down? How many times I have gone out with the intention of having a good time or at least escaping for an hour, only to come home early in tears or just numb? The act of simply existing is so damn hard and exhausting. It’s bad enough dealing with the harshness that my husband is gone. Now I also have to handle everyone else and their “CRAZY!” People are nuts. They are nuts, and they get really strange around the topic of death. Gee, I’m so sorry if my very presence makes you uncomfortable for ten minutes. I will try to conjur up some sympathy for your troubles on my trip back home to WIDOWHOOD!  Bottom line; If you want to know who your real friends are, or who can and cannot handle life at it’s darkest - having your husband die is the best way to find out.  
So who is crazier – me, or everyone else? That is still up for debate. That grief fog that I mentioned was starting to clear? Yeah, well, maybe not. In the first few months, when the fog was still very heavy, I was scatterbrained beyond belief. I would leave the house for work 5 times, forgetting something new each time. I would get out to the parking garage, and realize I didnt have my phone. Then I would realize I didnt have the remote for the garage. The third time I made my way across the street seconds later, it was because I had forgotten my phone AGAIN!!! I walked inside, grabbed my phone, and walked back outside. Realizing I didnt have the remote, I went back inside the apartment to get it. When I picked up the remote off our entertainment center, I put down my phone and walked out of the apartment without it. On a completely different day, my toothbrush somehow ended up in the freezer for an entire afternoon. There was another day where I thought I lost one of the cats, and was looking everywhere for him and sobbing, only to realize he was sitting on my bed in plain sight, looking at me like I had finally lost my mind. He was wrong. Yesterday – I finally lost my mind.
It was 6:45am, and I was just about ready to leave for work. The first class I teach is Stand-Up Comedy at 9am, and the morning commute traffic can be insane, so I leave myself at least 2 hours to drive out to Long Island. Before I left the apartment, I double-checked my hands and my shoulder bags to make sure I had everything. Purse, teacher bag filled with paperwork and worksheets, garage remote, cell phone, keys, water bottle, cats are fed, lights are off, TV/computer off …… okay. I think this time I’ve got everything. Time to go.
Please keep in mind while reading the rest of this story that I am someone who has just been through a sudden and traumatic loss, and I don’t sleep much anymore. I probably get an average of 2-4 hours of sleep per night, and most nights it’s closer to the 2. So, perhaps my brain is not functioning properly most of the time. This is important to remember as I continue …
I walk into the elevator, go down to the lobby, and walk outside. It is a really nice day. A bit cooler than usual, somewhat brisk. There is an older man who walks by me with his dog. He looks at me, then he stares at me strangely. I wait to cross the busy street. He looks back at me again as he walks away. I think nothing of it and mutter to myself: “asshole.”
When I cross the street to where the parking garage is, there are about 8 or 9 people standing and waiting at the bus stop there. Most are busy on their phones or not paying attention, but a couple of them start laughing. One woman points at me. I click the remote, walk into the garage, open my car door, and sit down in my car. It is at this point and only at this point that I finally realize why people are looking at me.
I’m not wearing any pants.
Let me repeat that, just in case you thought it was a misprint or some bizarre error. I’m not wearing any pants. No pants. Somehow, impossibly, I had left my apartment, went outside, crossed the damn street, and gotten into my car WITH NO PANTS ON! I had on a bra, a brown shirt, and some lovely cotton underwear that approximately 12 or so people just got a good look at. How exactly does one leave their place of residence without realizing they are not fully dressed, you ask? THAT, my friends, is the grief fog. Here I was, under the impression that I was improving. I thought the fog was starting to lift. And then I looked down and saw no pants. The worst part of this story (or the best part, depending on how sick your sense of humor is), is that I now had to take the same exact journey across that same street, back up that elevator, and into my apartment so that I could GET said pants and then put them on. I don’t think I have ever been so humiliated in my entire life. Actually, I know I haven’t. And as I take that shame walk back across the street, I take my chance at perhaps being run over by cars and buses. Suddenly I’m a marathon runner, a sprinter with no pants. I have never run so fast in my life. This is what they should do to help fat people like me lose weight. Make us stand outside almost naked and the only way we can get to clothing is to RUN and receive the attire. There’s my idea, NBC. Go with it.
After finally putting on my pants, and double and triple-checking myself to make sure nothing else was missing, I left the apartment once again, my head hanging down and defeated. When I got inside my car, I started leafing through the big shoulder bag that I had put a banana in for my breakfast. Most days, I try to put either a piece of fruit or a protein bar of some kind inside a large ziploc bag so I can eat it while driving or when I get to campus before class. So I reached inside the large shoulder bag, pulled out my ziploc, and opened it up. Inside the ziploc was not a banana, but my toothbrush. Later that afternoon, when I got home, I went into the bathroom, and sitting there on top of the bathroom sink … was one lonely, confused banana. Ladies and gentlemen, it is official. Like my husband used to always say to me: “Boo, I think you’ve finally lost it.”
Everyone Else: Crazy
Me: Certifiable

Kelley Lynn is a stand-up comedian, actor, writer, and recent widow. You can see more of her writing pieces about the loss of her husband Don at her blogpage:

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