Trials of Tears

Melancholy by Albert Gyorgy

Every day is slightly different in the way I experience my grief for my husband, Sean. 

The only 2 true constants are: 1-the weight over my heart and 2-the tears I shed daily. 

The ache, the constriction makes me forget when the last time was that I took a full, deep breath. Many days, I feel I'm just a zombie, going through the motions of responsibility, feeling almost nothing and simply shallow breathing all day. Usually, when I'm at work I barely notice anything meaningful having occurred at all the whole day, but the weight over my heart never seems to leave me.

More noticeable for me now is how often unbidden tears come. Unstoppable and often unnoticed until my face is wet and I realize I'm somewhere in public and weeping. The first time I went back to the beach to walk where Sean and I used to have 'sunset dinners' and 'sunrise coffees' together was a trial so full of memories that I absolutely expected to lose my shit then and have an exceptionally intense cry. 

However, there have been many times I have had the 'grief ambush', where tears come seemingly without provocation. I have been walking in the grocery store, when suddenly I feel the wetness on my face as I reach down to pick up pork chops. I have been in the car, listening to an audio book when a common phrase instigates weeping. I have left meetings at work, overcome with the need to stifle a sob while hiding in the ladies room. Everything and anything makes me cry.

Seeing a piece of carrot cake. Hearing a dirt bike in the distance. Driving past the Marine Corps base. Seeing an old hot rod. A commercial for a restaurant we at at. A song that was popular when we were kids. The scent of his pomade. The taste of coffee. A funny shirt I think he would like. A color. A sound. A scent. It's everything and anything that triggers tears these days. 

15 years of memories with him are locked inside my mind, body and soul. The grief has to go somewhere and it is leaking out in tears. I don't always know when and actually, most of the time I don't. Some things that I had expected to get upset by, like talking to Sean's old friends, are actually comforting and I don't have difficulty doing that. Other times, it is the moments I have to acknowledge the changes that the grief wallops me and I melt into a puddle. Grocery shopping for only foods I want and not getting his favorites is painful.  Driving past his dialysis center where we spent years going to and from his treatment just stings my eyes. 

Mostly, it's the absolute silence that makes me unravel, even just thinking about it.  He won't be calling out for me and asking for something to eat or drink. He won't be laughing with me over something silly. We won't be searching for a movie or some YouTube videos to watch. 

There it is. Here it comes. Up from the abdomen, squeezing my lungs, choking me until the tears are flowing again. Every day there are tears for Sean. Maybe for a second, a minute or an hour. When does this get easier? Does this ever get easier?  He's just gone less than 2 months and I've already cried a river, but I can't seem to fill that empty space in my heart. 

 

In Mourning with Cats

Moxie, as a kitten, giving kisses to her new Cat-Dad...

It's been a little over a month now since Sean passed away. I feel I'm still in survival mode; just trying to figure out how to live without the ever present thought of my beloved husband being a major consideration in my day-to-day activities. I've started having more lucid moments out of my brain fog. Most of the time I'm more 'numb', which is generally how I feel at work. I can't deal with all the decisions and drama there if I'm raw so, I think I just turn 'off' as much as possible.

                                                    

I have become more aware of my home environment lately. Last week, I donated all of Sean's medical equipment-bed, wheelchair, Hoyer lift, chux, etc-to a very lovely woman who works with veterans. I felt quite emotional once the space was emptied in the bedroom. However, I couldn't be selfish and hang onto those things he used. Knowing what a struggle we went through to get them, I wanted to ease someone else's life by providing them help in their care for a loved one. My apartment is the same, but the energy is different without those reminders associated with his long illness and suffering.                                 

       

Another change I hadn't been fully aware of until recently has been the behaviors of my cats since Sean has been gone. The longest the 'Babies' had gone without seeing him every day was almost 2 years ago when he went to a nursing facility for 3 months. Sean adored these "furbearin' critters" and they eased his anxiety when he was stuck in bed every day. They were his loving companions, more constant and consistent than his nursing caregivers, and they had a routine that followed being with and checking on him after I went off to work each day. They were anxious when Sean went to the hospital, as the chaos of his injury and paramedics in the home was a lot for them to deal with. Ringo would sit outside of the bedroom and howl...waiting for Sean to answer him. Moxie would look for Sean in the bedroom and not seeing him, she would slink off to the closet or other dark corner for comfort

Somehow, I know that the Babies are aware that Sean is gone. I didn't really think about it until recently that we ALL are grieving Sean's loss.  I am the center of their world now and it is different than just another short hospital stay. The Babies are not secure and I feel it with them. Nightly cuddles took on a level of sadness the day the hospital bed went away. Moxie, aka-the Floofy lap cat, still goes to hide in the closet and other closed spaces more often than before.  Ringo, aka-the Clown, comes over for cuddles now every day; he still howls outside the bedroom but runs right to me when I call his name. 

The Babies are sad and they miss their Cat-Dad. They help me stay focused in a day and not lose myself completely to my grief. But I didn't think that *I* am also helping them with theirs. I see the changes in their behaviors. I see how they still look for Sean. I see how they still go in the closet and sniff at his clothing and shoes. I know how I feel and I see that in them. All I can do for them is what I do for myself. Be gentle. Go slow. Pay attention. Let the grief come when it needs to. Cuddle and Play. Speak with love to Sean, wherever he is, and speak about him to the Babies. 

Every single night-the Cuddle Puddle

We have each other now-me and the Babies. Their grief is just as real as mine. Remembering that reminds me that I need to take care of myself-for me and for them. Some days are easier than others. I have just as many moments as Moxie does where I want to lie in a dark space and mourn for hours. I have the same anxiety as Ringo where I just want to call Sean's name in some sort of otherworldly game of Marco-Polo, hoping he'd answer me but knowing he never will again. We are all mourning Sean...and I need to remind them every day they are not alone and I'm with them. It will keep me focused and give me a reason to get up and get on with my days. I don't know how this will change for us, but I know that we are all just grieving Sean, one day at a time.