Facing the Rising Sun

I haven’t posted much in the last couple of weeks since the one-month anniversary of Roy’s death. The days are filled with emotions that are up and down. I do not even think “up” accurately describes the not so down moments, but occasionally thoughts of him are eclipsed by moments of on the job present issues or noticing in a fleeting second something not connected to our forty-three year relationship. Mostly, however, memories of Roy are connected to just about everything in my life. At some point everyday tears flow. I reorganized the kitchen cabinets to fit the eating lifestyle of my singlehood. I discarded many of his food items that were half-used or beyond their shelf life. We collected different type of snack items. He loved crackers, chips and salted nuts, which he often ate with cheese. I cannot eat dairy products and do not like salted nuts. Throwing these items out was in some strange way the beginning of saying goodbye. In the end the kitchen cabinets looked neat and organized; the presence of him gone brought on a long crying spell. The items that I hated are now becoming treasured keepsakes. I cannot bring myself to throw out the box of Lucky Charms that he requested as his last breakfast.

His life was not in “order.” I have come to realize that no one’s life is in order if they are in the middle of living. There are bills hanging out there, a car with an empty gas tank, a garage full of half finished projects and a pile of projects waiting to begin. Our household responsibilities were domains pretty much split in the traditional gender roles of the 1950’s. We defined them as “inside the house” and “outside the house”. The vehicles were located “outside the house” in his domain. He was horrible at keeping the vehicles on a maintenance schedule. As I try to absorb the “outside the house” domain tasks I find that I am purchasing new tires, and paying the price of an engine rebuild because the oil was not changed in one of our cars. Finding out how bad he was at neglecting the vehicles caused my first angry outburst at him for dying. The cost of the repair will take a big painful bite out of my finances. Yelling into thin air with no reciprocate vibrations feels more painful and triggers tears of grief. He was a genius in many ways, and just ordinary too.

A bereavement counselor is helping me come to grips with the suddenness of Roy’s death. I have had reoccurring visions of the last moments before he died. He died peacefully, but watching him take those last couple of breathes play over and over in my mind. Did he open his eyes in the last second? Which direction did his head roll? He looked like he was sleeping… The counselor has assured me this is normal as one processes traumatic events. I cannot imagine losing my spouse in a sudden accident. I had a month from the time of his diagnosis until his death and I have hellish nightmares!

The trauma has caused me not to be able to remember much in the short term. I continue to have problems tracking conversations and making a decision that involves more than one or two considerations; I am hopeless at problem solving, and I cannot take on anyone else’s problems at the moment. This part of grieving is so difficult to explain to people, because I look like I am fully functioning from the outside. My day begins with a stream of self-talk. I will myself to sit up in bed, rotate my feet to the edge and swing my legs over.

“Place your feet on the floor, slide off the edge of the bed, make your way to the bathroom, turn on the shower…”

Each day I make a commitment to get out of bed and complete at least one task beyond getting coffee and breakfast. If I manage to make one of the many necessary phone calls, pay a bill, or balance the banking account, just one task helps to move me along the glass bridge, and I notice an “up” moment.