For me, it has
been the Loss of Identity. Having spent the past 5+ years of our almost 14 year
marriage taking care of my Sean, as his physical illness consumed him entirely, I
was his primary caregiver. Yet after his death, I struggle with knowing what my purpose is and if I matter to anyone.
What I have encountered most in the loss of that
identity was the loss of my circle for care, communication, and recognition of
the stress and sacrifices I dealt with that came with being a caregiver for my Sean and still taking care of myself.
What does my Secondary Loss look and feel like? It was the loss of everyone
involved in Sean's care, who had relied upon me to update them nearly on a daily
basis of the details of his daily progress, in great detail. Most of our conversations were about our lives-Sean and Me-and the ups-and-downs,
good days and not-so-good days that Sean and I faced together, in between
treatments and visits to the doctor or hospital.
The praise and kindness they
heaped on me about my love, dedication to my marriage and strength for my
husband, while Sean still lived, has become a complete void. The secondary loss of those communications,
those people on our 'team', who now have no care for me or how I
am doing, has left its own scars.
I don't want to be a Drama Queen, but after speaking to other Widows, I know I am not exaggerating when I say-I was abandoned. It took less than two weeks after his death
for even the most involved people-the Dialysis team and the Home Health care-to
go absolutely silent with no follow up for my needs or struggles.
It hurts to
think how invisible I became, how unimportant I am now to those who relied on me
so much just over 4 months ago. The echo I suffer through
from Sean's loss is deeper since all those attachments have removed themselves
from me, as quickly as the tearing off of a bandage-without a care for my pain, which lingers every day. I am blessed with a few truly good, and loving friends,
who have reached out and supported me, in many ways, consistently, since Sean's death. I love them very much, but I'm too aware that they have lives of their own that I don't want to make my grief a frequent guest.
Where I have received the
most support, surprisingly, has been from strangers. A woman whose number I got thrown at me in desperation through a VA social worker was the only one who helped guide me with passing along medical tools that Sean no longer needed and I wanted someone else to have instead of struggling without. She, too, was a Widow, and was kind, fierce, and supportive. I joined a GriefShare group (more on that
experience in the future) only one week after Sean died because I knew I would
need help to get through this.
To be in a room full of Widows/Widowers who 'get it', to be
SEEN and HEARD, to see people NOD in agreement and WEEP with you, has been
healing beyond measure. And yet, that is only once a week. The rest of the world
moved on, while I have been stuck wondering where the color and sound went in my life. What happened
to everyone who looked up when I came in and said, 'Hello-How are you doing
today?' Those who knew me as Sean's wife, no longer look for or speak with me as
Sean's Widow. To them, I am as much a memory as Sean is, despite the fact that
I. AM. STILL. HERE.
It's a new world and I am wandering, trying to find my tribe. I have 58+ years of experience on this planet and I'm self-sufficient. Yet I feel like I spend most days walking through shops, towns, events like I am the proverbial ghost. If I don't make the effort to say hello or strike up
a small conversation, connection and existence does not find me.
I am invisible to those who used to
be so much a part of my days and the silence in my life-caused by the loss of my
beloved Sean-is painful because it was NOT me who shut the door to THEM. They
turned away and barely offered a perfunctory, 'So sorry for your loss' before they ghosted ME. Shouldn't
there be be more? Shouldn't there be someone in these agencies to make sure the
Widows left behind feel acknowledged and not invisible?
