Facing the Rising Sun

Today, May 17, 2014, marks the one-month anniversary of Roy’s death and the two-month anniversary of his diagnosis. Time is warped; a month feels like years, and a moment lasts forever; my grief has no words. I continue to experience awkward moments and encounters with people; the phone is not my friend. I love reading the cards and messages as I can hold onto the words. Intellectually I know that we are a death denying culture but walking this journey continues to provide me with insights into how deep the denial penetrates our cultural psyche, the truth is our bodies die, and whatever happens before birth and after death is a personal belief. I am the canvas of a painting in progress; good people attempt to add their brush strokes and hues of color to define my painting. I see their unhealed grief and fear.

Everyday new challenges unfold—a credit card company calls taking me through some formal over the phone transfer of primary card holdership. I received a hospital bill with $108,668.15 of miscellaneous charges. Seriously! I am on the phone with the hospital billing department explaining Roy’s death and my need to see an itemization of charges. You would have thought I had asked for the moon. “That will be several pages long,” the person on the other end tries to explain. Roy’s insurance will pay most of it, yes, but I have long suspected a conspiracy between hospitals and insurance companies we consumers being on the losing end. I run into acquaintances that do not know Roy has died. I find myself comforting them at a time when I barely have enough emotional energy to remember how to make a bowl of oatmeal. I am frustrated that I cannot follow a conversation without a great amount of effort or make even a simple decision at times. “What time should I pick you up?” my friend asked me the other day. I cannot figure it out. My rhythm is off, I am sleep deprived.

I like having a close friend or family member in the house. One of my friends has been here most of the week. I tell him I sleep better knowing he is watching out. I do not know for what, but  the noise of another human is comforting. At the same time I am learning to enjoy long periods of silence and stillness.

I attended a bereavement class the other day. No two people grieve the same way the counselor informed us. I find solace in knowing that what I am experiencing is not particularly unique. All 18 of us are experiencing sleep deprivation, awkward moments, auditory hallucinations, and well meaning family and friends saying, “Call me if you need anything!” We laughed and cried at that, one participant summed it up, “I have no clue what I need except for my wife, who is dead. I will never call you!” I make a note to self; I will remember to never suggest to a grieving person again to give me call me if they need anything.

Another counselor explains that medication can slow the grieving process, but at some point if one moves into a deep depression you may need medication support and therapy.

Grief, I learn is both a physical and emotional phenomenon. The counselor confirms that our culture does not handle grief well. We are rushed into returning to “normal” so that others are not uncomfortable with our raw emotions and vulnerability (I will put my social worker hat on the shelf for now and address the connection of capitalism, medication, and cultural annihilation another time). The cultural clues to identify families in deep grief are no longer present. The color black in western culture was worn to signal others that a family had experienced the loss of a close loved one and was in the midst of deep sorrow and spiritual reflection. People would treat the family with respect. Returning to the wearing of colorful clothing meant the family was re-engaging in society. We were given black wristbands with the words grieving written on them to remind ourselves we are engaged in a process that has no ending; I will re-emerge when I am ready. I will replace the black wristband with the rainbow.