Part 3 – Depression, Reflection & Loneliness
After a loved one passes away, some people feel anger and go through a bargaining stage, blaming a higher entity, or promising to be a better person. I experienced a brief depression (to be expected), but reflection and loneliness were more prevalent for me. The loss of my mother years earlier was in no way comparable to losing my husband, my soulmate, my friend of thirty years. The pain of losing D cut to the depths of my soul.
The day after he died, mixed feelings overwhelmed me, the strongest being an emptiness and a visceral pain. Losing him had left a huge hole in my heart.
My life was empty. The joy was gone.
Excerpt from my journal: I picture his face at peace with his eyes half open as when I left him when he was alive. I keep thinking I’ll never see him again. Did I tell him I love him that last morning? I must focus on logistics I need to handle to take my mind off the pain of losing him. I don’t think about our happy times together. My mind can’t go there. I think of our last days, of the morning when I got there.
I felt no anger toward my husband, or the world, or God. I did not think “If only I had…” I did chastise myself for some of my thoughts while he was ill.
He wanted to die. The meds the hospice people prescribed to ease his pain didn’t always work. My soulmate is at peace, hopefully reunited with his dad and stepmom, his music mentor, and with our pets that had crossed the rainbow bridge. He is pain-free. But…I wept many days till tears were exhausted, unable to focus on anything but my loss. I shuffled my feet. My movements were slow and I often forgot what I was going to do.
But I eventually made it through the grief. I did it, and I emerged stronger.
He would have/wouldn’t have wanted me to… Those words and the belief that he is in a better place helped me to cope, as did friends and my extended family.
For many weeks, I cried with deep, gasping sobs for long periods of time. My body rocked back and forth with my arms crossed over my body. The force of my fingers digging into my upper arms left bruises.
The stages of grief vary from person to person, as does the length. Sometimes they’re experienced in a different order or are recurring. But we all need to grieve, to cry, to mourn, before we can move on with our lives in a healthy way. When the initial anguish lessened, knowing that D wanted me to be happy gave me strength and hope.
Life continued as I addressed practical matters that couldn’t wait—notifying people and companies, paying bills, caring for our doxies, shopping… Doing things that required focus partially distracted me from my grief. Though only for short periods of time, these necessities nudged me toward normal living again.
A multitude of things required my attention, had to be figured out. Who do I have to notify? How am I going to tell his mother? Where are the keys to unlock the gate for the gardener? How do I change the watering schedule? When he was ill, he told me what settings to use for the washer and dryer. (Yes, he did the laundry. What can I say…he spoiled me.) When I unclogged a toilet with a snake for the first time, a surge of accomplishment temporarily displaced my sorrow.
There is nothing in my journal about calling his mother or his sister…but I know I did. I remember dreading most telling his mom. She had called several times during the last six weeks of his life, wanting to talk to him but he was either asleep, or didn’t want to speak with her. I felt so bad putting her off but he was adamant, and he wouldn’t say why. I wonder if she sensed that something was wrong.
Self-recrimination caused the waterworks to flow again and again over the ensuing weeks and months. I shouldn’t have felt short-tempered. I shouldn’t have begrudged him the 24-hour sports on TV. It grated on my nerves but, to him, it was comforting background noise, white noise. I didn’t say anything about it but I felt on edge, my patience tried from too little sleep, too much prolonged stress.
At some point after he passed, the lyrics of our song came to mind. He did “give all he had to give to make all my dreams come true.” Tears overflowed again. To this day, almost four years later, I tear up when I hear it and struggle to maintain control.
When I went to the first buffet without my soulmate by my side, seeing couples, especially older people, walking hand-in-hand as we had, hurt my heart. Why don’t I have him with me? We were to grow old together. A film of tears formed. Parking the car, standing in line, seeing apples on the buffet (we used to take some home)—all made me think of the way it was. I missed him so much.
The day after he passed away, I had to go to the Neptune Society office to fill out paperwork related to the death certificate. I managed to complete it with minimal breakdown.
Seven days later, I picked up a tote bag containing the box of his remains and several copies of the death certificate. I went to the Social Security office to alert them and provide a copy but it turned out I didn’t have to. Neptune had notified them. Three times that day I drove in the wrong direction. I am directionally challenged, but that is a lot even for me.
When I entered the house carrying D’s remains, a strange thing happened. A peace descended over me. As if he was here with me. The box is still in the bag and resides on the seat of his Pa Kettle chair. He used to joke about people keeping ashes on the mantle. He often called himself a “lump” in his recliner so it seemed fitting to place him there. He would like that. Last year, I had to put his dog to sleep. Her ashes reside in the same bag as his, on his chair.
I knew he was gone from our lives, but the presence of his physical remains continued to provide a measure of serenity. That didn’t stop the daily tears but over time I cried less and reached the point where I could remember him and our life together.
And smile.
Part 4 – ACCEPTANCE AND RECOVERY has been posted
Glory Wade, Author 