Sadness versus Grief & Epilogue

It hit me recently that I have had little to share of my own story here in over a year. Oh, don't get me wrong. It's not that there haven't been things going on. However, in terms of anything specifically related to this journey through Hell that is grief, there has not been as much, or at least not much new. Two more anniversaries of her suicide have gone by, one relatively benign (if such a word can ever fit) and the last harsher than experienced for several years. It seems that's par for the course. I doubt that day will ever completely pass me by without the sting of it taking my attention, if even for a moment.

I've come to accept that this journey leaves it's marks. Whether it's from the price of entry or what goes on during the trek, it leaves its traces and scars. No one I've met and talked to on this road has come through completely unscathed and unaffected. It does have benefits, again if that word can ever be used without a twitch or twinge. Greater compassion for others, greater understanding of what truly matters in life, less concern about things that don't matter, increased self-awareness...all of these seem to come, to one extent or another. But there are also prices exacted for them, some of which seem to be ongoing. At this point, I can't say for sure. It has been just over six years; I don't know how it will look or be by 10 or 15 or 20.

I do know, though, that it is no longer the central, dominating point in my life. I know that not every waking moment is, if not defined by the grief and loss, somehow touched or tainted by it. I don't recall a day that has gone by where some thought of her hasn't come to mind. However, they no longer consistently have the power to take my breath away, to drop me to my knees, or even to stagger me. Again, don't get me wrong. Those things do still happen. They have become more occasional, though. Much more the exception to the rule. More often these days, when they do affect me like that, it is more of a brief stagger than a near-collapse. I imagine it to be like someone with an old wound from a bygone injury, who sometimes feels the twinge in a knee or feels an arm briefly go weaker. Reminders but not catastrophes.

I had thought this might only be an epilogue to the story I started telling here, but it seems there is one last idea that wants to make itself known, and it's tied to the idea of there being a coda to at least this part of my story. Life has moved on, and not all the ways in which it has done so have been painful or bad. I've found new accomplishments and the ability to find joy and satisfaction again, both in new things and in returning to some I'd feared permanently contaminated by her memories and loss. Perhaps one of the greatest has been having the capacity to see a future returned to me. Before then, looking ahead showed me only a series of grayscaled images of me, standing in front of a house with a car in the driveway and a cat in the window. As they'd progress, perhaps the details would change, a new car, a different house, a different cat. And me just getting older until my time would just...run out.

That's not the case anymore. I can now see a future. The images have color and vibrancy to them, and they call to me. I find I've had a return of the capacity for hope that I'd started to believe had been burned out of me by the sadness and confusion and fear. It's still a new thing. I'm still having to learn how to balance it out in my experience again, not being too driven or carried away by excitement. At the same time, also not getting overwhelmed by the occasional fear something might not work out and those seemingly fragile hopes might be dashed. But that doesn't seem like dealing with grief and loss anymore. Instead, it seems like it's re-learning how to live, revisiting lessons from my teenage years. As uncomfortable as that can be, I'm OK with it. Coming alive is a good thing.

Just as important, I've found the capacity to love again. That's a long story, one for another place and another time. What is relevant is that it's returned. As of just over a week ago, I got engaged. Yes, there is some fear of things ending as they did, or at least as badly as they had, before. But now there is also the hope that they may go well. Along with that, there is the feeling that the chance is worth taking. One complication is that she lives in another state. It's a situation we're working to resolve, though it won't happen as fast as either of us would like. For now, we're having to content ourselves with visits when and how we can. She just left four days ago from such a visit, which was when our engagement was formalized between us. Seeing her off at the airport was, as I'd expected, painful. Adjusting to her not being here again has also been hard.

It's brought what I'd first been tempted to call the final lesson. Realistically, though, I'm not sure of its finality, so perhaps it's better to say the latest lesson: sadness is not the same as grieving. The first time she left, it was nearly devastating. Even though the visit had gone well and all was good between us, I found myself reacting as if she had disappeared from my life for good. The water glass and coffee cup she had used went unwashed on my countertop for weeks. I couldn't bring myself to undo those reminders that she had been here, that we had shared some cherished time. There were other indicators, too, all of which told me I was desperately clinging to those memories, and much of that from the fear that was all there would be. Irrational, I know, but nonetheless undeniable.

This time around, though, I can see that coming up, and I have the sense of sadness. I also can see how it differs from grieving a loss. Yes, it still hurts that she isn't here. I suspect that will be the case for at least several more days. But I can bring myself the reminder that she isn't gone, not in any permanent sense. I have reminders enough, not the least of which are two pictures of our hands together with her engagement ring clearly prominent. I know she loves me and wants me in her life as much as I love and want her. I know I will see her again, and that the day will come when such departures are much more the exception rather than the consistent state of affairs. I'm learning how to be sad again, and not fall back into grieving what part of me still fears is a tremendous loss. Much like learning to have and manage hope again, it's another lesson to re-learn. It's another that I take on willingly, and even gratefully.

For now, it seems the story I have to tell here has come to its close. Mine hasn't; it still goes on. But the purpose for this blog seems to have run its course.  I may put up more; I may not.  Regardless, I'll leave this here for others to find as they may need it. I know the stories of others helped me make it through. Knowing that someone else had had to trudge these paths, to push through each of the circles and layers of Hell, and had been able to come out on the other side gave me hope. I'd offer it out to those who sadly must follow, that it might be a similar source of hope and encouragement. As frightening and painful as it can be, this kind of Hell has no power of its own to hold us fast. It only gets that when we stop pushing through ourselves. Each step might be only a fraction of a millimeter, but each fraction brings us closer to the final egress. There are times to fold and cry, times to stop and rage, times to pause and question the apparent capriciousness and cruelty of creation. If we can continue on, though, we will make it out. In Dante's original work, it meant making it down through all the circles of Hell, finally past the lake of ice in which Lucifer was forever frozen, to find the ultimate way out and onward. It can be done. It requires only willingness and persistence.

To those that follow, know my heart is with you. For what it might be worth, know you have my blessing, my encouragement and my love. This Hell cannot stop or bind you. You can make it all the way down, and ultimately out. Others have made it. I am no saint, and if a man like me can make it through, then rest assured you can as well. Know we are on the other side, cheering you on. Despite its power to frighten and confuse and sadden and enrage you, Hell ultimately has no hold on you. Your heart and spirit are your own.

You can get through. You can get out.

PSA for DGI's #1--Looking OK Does Not Always Mean Someone Is OK

One of the things that multiple widows and widowers I've talked to have mentioned is that there have been many experiences with well-meaning but apparently clueless people (heretofore known as DGI's, or those that “Don't Get It”) who early on have commented on how well they're handling things, how well they're doing. That they seem to be taking the news so well, that they're seeming to be calm and level-headed. It's usually intended to be a compliment. Based on what they were seeing, it's understandable. The person they're looking at who has gotten news of a world-shattering experience isn't seen to be crying or wailing or gnashing their teeth. No rending of clothing, wearing of sack cloth, dusting their heads with ashes. They're seen as being able to handle life. They're doing jobs, taking care of the kids (if any), keeping up the house, and not obviously freaking out. They don't seem to be acting like people in movies or on TV who frequently will be more obviously distressed. And so the DGI is impressed and wants to pay a compliment.

The problem is, sometimes it just doesn't fit. The DGI doesn't seem to understand that one phase of grief does involve tears and anger and yelling and distress. That is certainly an indicator that someone's hurting and having a hard time coping. But there's a phase that's worse than that. Shock is a much more concerning state for someone to be in. One of the best illustrations of that came from the television show M*A*S*H*, about an army mobile hospital during the Korean war. In one episode, a general who sustained a minor wound is complaining to the colonel in charge of the camp, asking how long the men have to scream before they get help. The colonel responds by calmly and tiredly telling him that it's the ones who can't scream who need to be seen to first.

Shock is what happens when the body is hit and hurt so badly that, instead of focusing energy on screaming out warnings and alarms, the concern is strong enough that it starts shutting down nonessential things. That's why people who are in shock will seem calm, despite having been badly hurt. It's why they'll pass out, when the body shifts blood flow away from the extremities and pushes it toward the internal organs to help keep them alive. If they can stabilize enough to start screaming, that actually means they're doing better, not worse.

The same holds with emotional functioning. When the “usual” or “normal” kinds of bad things happen, people get angry or yell or cry or otherwise act up. However, when something a lot worse happens, then some of t he internal parts of the person shut down. They just don't have it in them to even be able to cry or scream or yell. If you take a minute and look into their eyes, you can see that parts of them are just...shut off. They're standing and walking and talking, but other parts of them are just...not doing anything at the time. The fact that they're not screaming and crying doesn't mean they're doing OK. For folks who are in that state, it means the exact opposite. And they know that something's very wrong, even if it's not mainly because it hurts. It's because things are numb and off-line, roughly what I'd imagine it would be like to have an accident and suddenly realize you can't feel your legs anymore.

At that time, being told how you seem to be doing so well doesn't help. It makes it painfully clear that people just don't understand how bad they're doing, how badly hurt they are. Instead of being reassuring, it tends to end up being alienating...even more than feeling that broken. So, the tip for today is, don't gush about how well someone seems to be doing. Instead, just ask how they are, and then be willing to take the response at face validity. It's more likely to be of help....trust me.

A Glimmer of Light

A couple of days ago I had a moment that, in and of itself, wasn't anything big. At the same time, the profundity of it was earth-shaking. I think if I hadn't still been sick and depleted and low on energy I would've been thrown for a serious loop. At least I had enough presence of mind to recognize it for what it was, the first real glimmer of light on this long journey.

As I've often told people before, I really, REALLY hate being sick. One of the main reasons for it is that it seems all of the negative, unpleasant, uncomfortable emotions get amped up by an order of magnitude. I don't just get a little irritated, I suddenly have to reign in volcanic fury. I don't get a little disappointed, I get soul-crushingly depressed. I don't just get a tad anxious, but instead have to try to keep a grip on terror that wants to run wild. Irritatingly enough, it never seems like any of the positive emotions get that kind of enhancement, which is wildly unfair as far as I'm concerned. Anyway, dealing with being sick and changes at work and general stress from around this time of year was less than fun toward the end of last week. One thing that's often helped settle things out during those times is going for a walk-'n'-talk with God, where I'll walk for a couple miles, usually have a few smokes, and have a chat with the Deity-of-my-(VERY)-Limited-Understanding. Thankfully, the weather wasn't too cold last Thursday night, so I was able to head out after work to spend a bit of time with that.

As usual, it seemed to be working. Getting to walk around and vent (quietly) to the Divine seemed to be helping take a lot of the intensity out of those emotions. It made it easier to think straight, or at least straighter than I had been for most of the day. It took a lot of the sting and burn out of the caustic jambalaya of feelings that had been roiling for most of the day inside of me. In and of itself, that wasn't a big surprise. I'd found that'd worked well before, and worked well consistently. It was the main reason I was willing to head out into the dark and cold for awhile. No, the surprising part came toward the end of the walk.

For a couple of minutes, as I was nearing the end of the loop I usually follow through my neighborhood, I found myself in a bit of a daydream, as it were. I found myself imagining what it might be like to work somewhere else. For the first time, when the idea of having some challenges with a new job came to mind, I wasn't reacting with panic and recoil, but instead finding myself thinking of some ways I might be able to get those worked out. I could see myself meeting new colleagues and co-workers and getting to know them and getting along.

FOR THE FIRST TIME IN NEARLY FIVE YEARS, I COULD IMAGINE A FUTURE WITH SOME OPTIMISM AND HOPE.

It only lasted a couple of minutes, ending shortly before I got back home. There was no intense closure to it, no abrupt departure. It faded like a mildly pleasant dream during a midafternoon nap. I wasn't left with a radically altered perception of life and the cosmos. At the same time, I knew something had happened that was deeply meaningful, even if it was small and relatively quiet. A part of myself that had been inactive for a long time had briefly sparked to life. It had breathed a quiet whisper into my psyche. Thankfully, I knew better than to try to make it happen again at that moment. It was enough to know that it had happened once. And that, if it happened once, it could and likely would happen again.

I know it's not the end of the journey. I know there's more yet to come, more to face in time. There's more work yet to be done. But this is an indicator that it's been paying off. It's a tiny thing in and of itself, and yet it speaks of huge change behind the scenes. And, at the same time, it's just a bit terrifying that it's taken nearly five years to have a couple of minutes of optimism and hope for the future again. Because THAT speaks of just how catastrophically me darlin' wife's suicide had hit me. I know that others from the outside'd seen more of the devastation than I did at first; there wasn't enough of me to be able to perceive it at the time. And it's always hard to grasp the dimensions of a labyrinth while trying to work your way out of it. But that moment provides just a bit of perspective on how horrific that damage was, and what it's taken to come just this far.

But it's still a glimmer of light, bright and pure and true. It happened once. I trust it'll happen again.

Whimsical

Yesterday was her birthday, the fifth one since her time in this world ended. She would've been 50. Like many other events over the last couple years, I found myself at a loss for just what I should be doing for it. After all, the general assumption would be something somber and serious and tinged with sadness over her no longer being here. And that felt...wrong. I know it's what might be expected, walking through the dark alone, lost in thoughts of what no longer was and could never be again. And, like I said, that just seemed...wrong. What was difficult was that I didn't know what might feel right. Which is more than a little bit frustrating. Those cultural conventions are supposed to give us the ideas of what we should be doing, the “right” steps to be taking. And they yet again seemed to be failing.

So I had to fall back on something I've learned to do in the last few years: be open to inspiration. Let me be clear on this. Just because I've learned to do it doesn't mean it's the first thing to come to mind or that I'm comfortable doing so. But it's served pretty well thus far, and was pretty much all I had left, short of doing nothing and then likely afterward feeling like I'd somehow fallen short. So I just tried to leave myself open to whatever idea might come and then not to think too much about it (which always gets in the way of inspiration coming along, at least for me). Running some errands seemed like a good way to provide a distraction for my conscious mind, to get it out of the way. Kinda like giving a little kid a toy to play with outside when you're trying to cook or clean up in the house.

And it hit me while I was driving around. She'd had a whimsical side to her. I still have some cartoon sketches she'd done a couple times. One was from when we'd gone out for karaoke. She wasn't one for singing, but she liked hearing me sing, and I always saw her face light up when I'd sing one of a couple specific songs directly to her. This sketch was of our pets forming a band: cat and rat and ferret and snake. There was definitely that innocent, playful side to her, that showed up in a lot of ways. I think it was a good counterbalance to some of my darkness, and I think it was one reason why I sometimes felt so protective of her. That included a couple times of putting myself in harm's way to protect her, but those are stories for another time. The recollection of that aspect of her felt right. So I hit a local crafts store and picked some things up. I got a tube of some plastic animal figurines. I'd thought of just finding a cat and rat, as those would likely be common. I thought a ferret would be good, too, but also exotic enough of a pet to likely not be there. Much to my surprise, one “tube” of animals had all three of those, plus a lizard, a bird and a fish. That rounded out all the animals she'd kept as pets over the years. And then I'd also picked up a coloring book and some colored pencils.

On her birthday, by the candle I lit, the plastic animals were arranged. And I spent about an hour sitting on the couch watching a movie she'd liked that'd made her laugh and coloring in the book. It felt like the right thing to do...and it was. If nothing else, if she'd been here, I think those were things she would have loved getting as presents, and that works.

More's been coming up for me since. See, I hadn't thought of that aspect of her personality in years. I don't think I'd forgotten it. I just think it was something I wasn't ready to remember. Because it opens up my own enjoyment of whimsical things like that...and the vulnerability that comes with that kind of innocent enjoyment. I don't think I was ready to deal with that before. I think things had been too raw, too scary. And now they're not, or at least not so much. I spent some time sitting with that tonight, and was good with it for maybe half an hour before I found myself closing up again. I guess that's OK for now. Being able to connect with that part of myself again, and to remember that part of her, is the important step at this point. I guess it just goes to show that healing does happen, even if we don't see it going on. Sometimes it will just surprise us from out of nowhere. And maybe it says something for me that, even though this felt somewhat strange, I was able to sit with and appreciate what it means.

In Inferno and Escape from Hell, there are references to the attributes of saints developed by those who have gotten free and wandered through Hell to try to help others through. In the second book, the main character at one point is surprised to find he has one of those gifts, the gift of tongues. There's never any mention of what he specifically did to earn it or how it came to him. He was just doing what he felt was right, trying to get free and to free others. And it just came. Much like the gift of the whimsical came to me on her birthday.

Does It Ever Get Better???

Being part of several widows & widowers groups, I think I can say honestly & accurately that this is the question I've heard come up the most often: does it ever get better? It comes up in different forms, sometimes worded just like that, sometimes asking if it keeps going like this forever, sometimes hidden in questioning what we did to deserve this. It's even often implied underneath statements of not feeling like life's worth living now or not being sure how much more we can take. There's that question that follows and haunts and taunts us. Does it ever get better?

I don't know that I can answer that with solid authority. I'm coming up on 4.5 years out, not as long as some other folks I've gotten to meet have made it. But I have lasted this long. And I've seen others who've come along, too. So, while I can't answer this question with regard to what can happen over the span of decades, I can speak for a period of almost five years.

The simple answer to that question of whether it ever gets better is: Yes. The problem with that, as with almost all simple answers to complex questions, is that while it's true it's also very inaccurate in its limitation. “Better” is a relative thing. It implies a comparison to some other thing or state of being. And it doesn't specify in what way or ways things are better. What's important to me might be relatively meaningless to someone else...and vice versa. And how much of a change does it have to be to qualify as “better?” Sure, from a purely mathematical standpoint, ANY improvement qualifies for “better.” However, when it comes down to how things feel, then it takes more than that. There's a minimum threshold (again, varying for each of us) that has to be met to notice the difference, for it to be meaningful. And, when we're still reeling from the loss, there's yet another complicating factor. At that point, about all we can compare is how life felt before the death/loss, usually focusing on the good aspects, to what life's become. We don't have the capacity at that point to see what it could become, and so usually the idea of “better” is framed in terms of closer to what it used to be.

So what do I mean by “better?” It's hard to come up with a specific definition for it. The easiest place to start is to give some examples, and then go from there. There came a day when I drove past the hotel where she'd gone to end her life and I didn't feel the urge to scream and claw my face off while driving off a cliff. And then, after that, there was the first time I drove by there and didn't realize I was doing so 'til I was past it. There was the first time I had a good memory of her come up and for the first 10 or 15 seconds it didn't hurt or make me want to howl. Later, there was the first time one of those good memories was only tinged with sadness, where that didn't become the overwhelming emotion that came along with it. There was the first night when I fell asleep and didn't realize 'til the next morning that I hadn't been thinking about how much I missed her being there. The first time I felt like I could make it through a whole day. Or the first time I felt like I could probably make it through one of the Big Days (birthdays, anniversaries, holidays, etc).

You might've noticed a theme here, of being somewhat surprised by changes. Well, that's the way it's seemed to go, for me and others I know. See, I think what happens is that we grow and heal in tiny increments every day. The problem is, when they're so small, we don't pick up on them. It's not 'til we've suddenly got a new capacity back or a notable improvement that it suddenly seems like we've healed. I think the truth is that we've been healing all along, it was just happening below the level of our awareness.

However, there's another piece to it, too. I know in the first year, it was more than just things hurting. There was a sense of being not only empty but also shattered. It came up with feeling like something should've been hitting me harder or meaning more, but it wasn't. That there was supposed to be an associated additional memory or experience, but it's just not there. Like trying to put together a puzzle and realizing that there are pieces missing. And at least one of the ones that's missing is the one that's responsible for how upset we end up feeling over things being missing. Part of what I saw only much later that meant things were getting better was that, in the second year, things hurt and were a lot more upsetting. I thought I was going backward, that I was going crazy, that I was falling apart. I understand now that it was the capacity to have things connect, to feel, that was coming back on-line. It didn't feel better, but it was a sign of things getting better. And this was only one thing that I didn't understand at the time, that I didn't see until later. There've been a LOT of those.

I remember being only a few months out from me darlin' wife's suicide and hearing the same from other folks. At the time, I didn't see how it was possible. I didn't think they were lying to me, but I couldn't fathom how it'd relate to me, to my situation. Sure, that was what'd happened for THEM, but that didn't mean it'd happen for me, too. And besides, how much was it maybe that they'd just learned to bury and hide it really well? That it felt better 'cause they weren't looking at it anymore, but it was still there? Or maybe I was just too broken to be able to do and have what they'd done and gotten. I didn't know. I just knew that I couldn't see it. And yet I could relate about so many other things they talked about. While I couldn't understand or believe, they gave me a critical element: hope. Maybe I could someday get somewhere near where they were, too.

So, does it get better? Yes, it does. When you're lost in the middle of it, no one can tell you how or when it'll happen. No one can give you an understanding of that journey. A large piece of it is just going through until you see it for yourself. When people tell you it can get better, there'll be plenty of times when it'll be hard to believe that. That's OK. If you can take it as something to give even a glimmer of hope, that can be enough.

How Have Things Changed??

This started from a post I saw from a fellow suicide widow in a support group on the 'Net. She's going back to school and posted the following: “Alrighty folks, I'm writing an essay on the effects of suicide. In your opinion, how has suicide effected your life? Financially, emotionally, long term effects? I know how it has effected me, but I wanted to hear from other survivors.” At first, I just had a couple of words come to mind. Then more than a quick response would really allow. As I've thought more about it, more kept coming to mind, and it occurred to me that it's a good question to deal with in a post.

First off, how about the effects I see as bad/negative:

• After 11 years of marriage and almost 15 years together, I've been having to figure out life on my own. That not only includes things like goals and plans, but also a fair chunk of my own identity.
• Financially I'm in a harder space than I was before. It's always easier when you can split the bills with someone else. She was also the one who kept on top of getting them paid on time, and I'm still struggling with that.
• In terms of emotions, I know it's harder for me to be happy than it was before. I just don't seem to have the same strength or intensity of positive responses to things that I used to.
• Along with that, it's easier for less pleasant emotions to hit hard. Thankfully anger seems to be fading back down to about what it was before, at least overall. However, it's still substantially easier to get sad or anxious these days.
• Physically I don't have the energy that I used to. I've recovered a fair amount, but not back to where I was. And, added to that, I picked up an arrhythmia in my heart since her death, and it's hard to think that didn't have at least some to do with it.
• I have a harder time being as focused and productive at my job. Thankfully it's not so bad I'm in danger of losing my employment, but I also know that I'm not doing as well as I used to there, either.
• I can't say I'm sleeping much worse now, because I wasn't sleeping real great in the last couple years before she took her life. However, I was able to handle running low on sleep better than I can now.
• I know this is more on me, but I picked up smoking again. I'd been quit for several years before she'd died, and was even able to stand outside with her when she'd smoke and be OK. I know it was my choice to pick it up again, but I also know that I very likely wouldn't have without having to go through dealing with not just her death but all the extra crap that comes with suicide.
• There are still a fair number of things I wish I'd have been able to do, or do differently. Those thoughts don't come up as often, but I suspect that they'll never fully go away.

These are, however, counterbalanced by some things that are positive:

• I would likely never have learned as much about cooking, and how much I enjoy it, as I've done in the last four years. At first it was primarily driven by necessity. Now, though, I'm finding there's a great deal I enjoy about it, especially seeing if I can make/do new things.
• I also likely wouldn't have gotten back into hiking the way I did last summer. And one good thing that came from that was getting to see that I can still manage a really tough hike in a pretty short amount of time, even 20 years after the first time I did it. Not bad for a middle-aged desk jockey.
• I wouldn't have made the friends I have through some of the groups that I've been lucky enough to become part of. There are some truly amazing people I've met, several of whom have humbled me more than once by what they've said and done...though never with malice. It's always been leaving me in awe, and wanting to be like them when (if??) I grow up.
• I'd thought I was a pretty good person before. However, in dealing with all of this, I've gotten to see I have depths of character I hadn't dreamed were there. Lord knows I've still got a lot to work on and some more growing up to do, but there are also aspects of me that I'm quite pleased with and proud of. One example was seeing that I could drag myself to the memorial service for a co-worker's wife who'd passed away...five months after me darlin' wife had shuffled off this mortal coil. I hadn't wanted to go. I hadn't planned on going. And yet I showed up and was able to offer a few words of condolence and support. Plus, I didn't start crying until I'd left and gotten out to my car.
• As hard as it is to admit, I'd feel like I'd be lying to not admit that my life's now better for not having to deal with her anxiety and depression and isolation and rage.
• At this point, I think I've got an overall better sense for who she was, both good aspects and bad. However, that's counterbalanced by knowing that my memories of her have gotten a bit faded and fuzzy with the passing of time, and so I'm not sure.
• I firmly believe that us being together bought her a fair chunk of the last 15 years of her life that she might not have otherwise had. She'd told me several times in the last few years I was the main thing that kept her holding on and kept her going. Well, I can now view things as having in part been what gave her a chance to deal with her stuff, and that's a lot right there.

I'm sure there's more to it than that, but those are the first things that had come to mind. I don't want to write out a novel here, or use it as an intensive, in-depth therapy exercise. I do think it's good, though, that it wasn't too difficult to identify a decent number of aspects that're both good and bad. In slogging through the Hell of grief from suicide, it's sometimes way too easy to get lost in what's broken or tarnished or stained or just....wrong. That's part of it, but it's not all. And that's good to KNOW.

Four Years: My Progress and My Choice

February 4^th is the date I.....what is the right word? It's sure as Hell not “celebrate.” That's got too much of an implication of something that's appreciated and enjoyed and brings happiness, which this day doesn't. Perhaps the right word is “honor”....or even “remember”....when me darlin' wife died. I know it's not the actual day she died. They couldn't tell me that, but from what they described (and what I saw for myself) of the condition of her body, it wasn't that day. I have my guess of when it was, but I'll likely not know for sure, at least not in this life. Regardless, that's the day that's set aside. And this time 'round, it was four years ago.

First off, I never thought I'd get this far, either in terms of what I've dealt with or even just seeing this many pages on the calendar turn by. For a long time, my goal was to get to where I felt like I could handle a single day at a time, and that was months in the coming. Even just a single year? Forget it! The fact that it's now been four (and a spare bit o' change) is still somewhat surreal. I guess it'll sink in at some point, hopefully not too close on when I'll be coming up on year five.

I wasn't sure (yet again) what to do on the day this year. The only thought that came at first was part of what I'd done last year, namely buying a couple of flowers and leaving one in front of the hotel room where she died and another at a place that'd been special to us both, where we'd renewed our vows on our 10-year wedding anniversary, where I'd scattered a bit of her ashes. As I sat with it, that idea kept feeling more and more not-right, especially at the hotel. It wasn't so much about getting “caught” as the idea that it'd be passing on at least some confusion and awkwardness to others, if not some of the pain. And yet no other idea was coming. One of the prices to be paid for going with what feels right over having a set tradition and leaving it at that, I suppose.

The day before, when I was out having a smoke, I was mulling just that over, when an idea hit me. I've got a friend who uses the term “God-winks,” and I think that fits a fair number of things. However, this felt more like what I'd heard of as a “God-bomb” in one of Stephen King's books. Bear in mind that, as I write it out here, the whole thing blazed into my mind all at once, information that felt like it was carried on a spear of light. The idea was simply that what'd happened four years ago was tragic and painful and sad, and that a lot of why it'd come about had been due to tragedy and pain and sadness. Doing something to focus on those same feelings again would, in some ways, be remaining in and perpetuating that same dynamic. Instead, perhaps, it would be better to break that chain, to spend some of the time that day praying for healing instead. I can't claim credit for having thought of that. I'm not that smart nor that wise. I'm just grateful I at least had the capacity to listen and not reject it out of hand for not fitting with how I'd been looking at things. And the more I sat with it, the more right it felt.

On the day itself, I left work a couple hours early. After dropping off my work stuff and changing out of work clothes (and feeding the cat, 'cause I had no idea how long I'd be about this), I snagged a pocket-sized notebook and a list of places and headed out. All of the places listed were ones that seemed to have associations with things she'd been able to face down and overcome or places where she'd grown. And, at each, I spent at least a few minutes there, just reflecting on what she had done and what those places had represented for her, ending with jotting a few notes on what came to mind into that notebook. The places themselves don't really matter, at least not to anyone else, and I won't share them all here. Nor will I share all the things that came to mind, as some are very deeply personal still. Some I will share, though.

I stopped by the place where we got married. She'd been married before, and from what she'd told, it had ended badly and painfully. For her to decide to take a chance on marriage again took a great deal of courage and willingness to be vulnerable again. There's no guarantee with taking that step, and it represents both a massive risk of pain as well as an equally massive chance of fulfillment and joy. I get that now, much better than when we wed. Another was the school where she'd gone for her medical assistant training. She'd believed she was smart before, but this was a place where she got to show and see it for sure. She did incredibly well, graduating with a 3.96 GPA, which was far better than I'd ever done at my best (and I told her so repeatedly). A third was a coffee shop she'd gone to for awhile, checking out a local meet-up group. She'd been somewhat leery of reaching out to a community again, and this time around was able to find a group of her own, and some good friends. That took a lot of courage, too, as well as being willing to look at what role she'd played in some not-so-great experiences before in order to avoid repeating them.

All told, I was out and about with this for four hours. It was a real challenge to stay focused on those instances of healing and growth. The sadness and anger wanted to come up, did boil up hard a couple of times. At least I was able to set them aside for the moment while going through that. The couple places before the last were hardest, where I felt the most turmoil and resistance, but after the last it felt like a huge weight was lifted. I went home and lit a candle for her, and offered all the energy and good intention that revisiting those places—and even more importantly, those memories—had pulled together. I'd hope some would go her way if she's still needing it. I reckon some stayed with me, as that's often how those things seem to go. And the rest, whatever's left over, I offered out to the Creator to share with those as might be in need.

I'm still reeling and recovering. It was an exhausting process. The way my mental autopilot has been making a lot more mistakes lately lets me know just how demanding it was. At the same time, I can also be grateful to have gotten to a point where that's something I can do. There will always be sadness and probably occasional anger or resentment about what she did. But it's good to see that I don't have to be ruled by it. If there was any question left, this proves (at least to me) that the grief and loss can no longer run or define me, not unless I let them.

Is this the final climb down out of Hell? The scramble along the frozen passage at the bottom, where the devil stands trapped in ice? The way to the Great Egress? I don't know. But if it's not, it's put me far closer to it than I've ever been. And that gives me continued hope.

Complicated Grief Study, Part the Second

It's been awhile since my first blog post about the Complicated Grief study I've been part of, which I put together back in early November of last year. At the time, we'd gotten into doing some exposure/systematic desensitization work to help make difficult/uncomfortable tasks more approachable. It's been some time since then, and there's been more that's gone on...and come up.

One of the biggest things was something we started doing a few weeks ago. It's called the “Imaginal Conversation,” where we work with one of the group therapists. It starts out with the group therapist taking the role of the deceased loved one, and we're supposed to talk to them as if they're really there, as if this was a miraculous chance for a last conversation with them. The therapist doesn't really respond, and serves more as a placeholder and someone to focus on, which I'm guessing is in part to help make it more vivid and more real. They might ask about a couple of the things we've brought up that were important, but that'd be about it. When we're done with that, we switch. We then take on the role of the deceased while the therapist switches into our place. And the next part of the task is for us to pretend to be the deceased responding to what we'd just said. Again, the therapist isn't really saying anything, with the possible exception of a brief comment about something that might be important to us. The third and final phase of it is switching back to the original arrangement, where we're again ourselves and the therapist is in the place of the deceased. This is a last chance for us to respond to what we thought the deceased might've said in response to us.

If it feels a little confusing keeping track of the switches and responses, you're in good company.

We got them done over two weeks. The first week, two of the women in the group went through it. I was very glad that I didn't have to, for two reasons. The first and lesser reason was that I had a presentation to do the next morning. I figured going through that exercise would stir up a bunch of things for me, and likely result in sleeping/resting quite poorly. The second reason, the one that was a lot stronger, was that when they first announced what we were going to be working on, my initial response internally was panic, followed quickly by anger bordering on rage. It made it hard to focus on and pay attention to what else was happening in the group. I think I did OK at that and at least offered some support and validation and encouragement to the two who went first. But I was very, very seriously afraid that if they'd gotten me up there on that first night, I'd have erupted in front of the group....and that would NOT have been pretty.

It was my turn the week later. At least by then most of the anger had subsided. The thoughts were still around, but the intensity of the emotion had dropped a lot. I was still exceptionally anxious about it. I recall talking with one of the older women in the group beforehand, with both of us stating we weren't sure we'd be able to handle it. To make a long story short, I went first that night...and I handled it. I had a token/talisman (story for another time) that I held on to and ran my fingers over the whole time. There wasn't the anger I'd been afraid of when I did my turn. Actually, the comment that's stuck with me and still bounces around in my head since then was about how much love and tenderness they saw, both when I was speaking as myself and when I was speaking as me late darlin' wife.

That's been the hardest thing to deal with, to come to grips with. I'm still not sure why. Is it that I'd wanted it so desperately at the end, and it had become so scarce? That I'd blocked that out as a way to get through? That I've been afraid of the vulnerability that goes along with that kind of tenderness and love? That it's been easier to cover that over with anger (either vengeance or cold disdain)? That there's been some guilt for having cared and invested so much in someone who ended up doing something that hurt me so badly? I don't know. I'm still trying to sort it out.

What I can say is that the last week we met, we went through telling the story once more about what happened to them. And this time there was more of the tenderness in how I told the story. How I felt while telling it. What I remembered and what I shared. And that, with the anniversary of her death coming up, I feel the sadness more pervasively but less intensely than I have before.

The only other thing to mention at this point from the group has to do with the Memory Forms we've filled out. The first two were things we recalled about the deceased, good things about them and good times we shared. This latest one, though, is entitled “Some Difficult Times.” It asks about times that were hard and qualities of the deceased that we didn't like. And even of possible ways that life is now easier that they're not here anymore. I'm not sure why that's being done now, at the end. But I'm trusting they know what they're doing. It's worked out well so far.

Two more weeks to go.

Complicated Grief Study, Part The First

Having been asked by several people how it's going and what it's like, I figured it'd be easier to just write up a post than have to have the same conversation or send the same e-mail/message time and time again. Accordingly, this is a description of it, at least thus far. I learned about this months ago, through a NAMI sponsored support group for those who'd lost a loved one due to suicide. They were looking for people who'd lost someone at least six months ago, and were still struggling with it. I called in, went through the screening instruments, and basically got the answer, “Uh-HUH! Complicated grief, all right!” Unfortunately, they'd just started a group of folks through it, so I had to wait for about three months to get the chance to get in. However, from what I was told about it, it's designed to help folks who've been struggling with some of the same kinds of things I have been. I'd said early on that I'd be willing to try just about anything that seemed like it'd have a reasonable chance of helping, and this fit in just fine.

So I waited.

It started up five weeks ago. The first week was a mix of going over some of the basics about the group, like how long it'd run, some of the stuff we'd cover, the idea we'd have homework, confidentiality, etc. The rest of the first meeting was folks introducing themselves and telling the story about who they'd lost and what had happened. The second group was more of the same introductions, as we hadn't finished the first time and there were some folks present the second meeting who weren't there the first time. One thing I got from that is that the friends who'd worried that the groups I've been part of are just focused on reliving the loss over and over were wrong. Just talking about and listening to those losses was really hard. I'd talked about Ariel's story before, but it'd been some time since I'd spent that long on it, and moreso since spending that much time hearing what anyone else had been through. I could see the point to it, but I really hoped that there wouldn't be more of it, at least not that much at one time.

The third meeting didn't seem to offer me much more, either. We went over the grief & emotion tracking logs that they'd given us, as well as talking some about what both “regular” or healthy grief and complicated grief are. Again, I could see the point to going over that. Not as many folks had read up on complicated grief as I had by that point. Heck, I'm pretty sure some hadn't read up on grief in general as much. And I understand why they wanted to go over it for those folks, to have a better idea of what we're working with and what to expect. I was glad that they made the point that the goal wasn't to get this all gone. Instead, it was to get to where we didn't feel stuck in it anymore, and to give us some tools to use to work through some of those things. Still, I was having to hold really hard to the idea that it'd help, that there'd be more to come.

Things changed in the fourth meeting. That was the one where they introduced what they're calling an exposure treatment. It's an approach I'd heard of before, under the name “systematic desensitization.” They had us list out some grief goals, as well as how much distress just thinking about them brought up. After that, we were to pick one that was a low to moderate level of discomfort to start working on. The process would start with spending 15 minutes a day just thinking about doing that activity or goal, and no more. The idea would be that, over time, our bodies 'n' hearts would stop reacting as strongly to it. Once we got to where there wasn't much distress (three days in a row where just thinking about it would rank about a two on a scale of one to ten), then we'd go on to the next step and repeat. The idea would be to work our way closer and closer to being able to actually deal with that goal itself, without either feeling stuck or overwhelmed by it. It wouldn't mean that it wouldn't hurt or be difficult, but that it'd be manageable.

Macho idiot that I am, I first picked the hardest goal that'd come to mind, sitting down to watch the video of our wedding. I'd watched half of it one time after she died, but haven't been able to approach it since. Thankfully, I pretty quickly realized I was overdoing it, and that I should follow the directions and pick an easier one. The one I picked is being able to look through the pictures of her I had printed out and put into a photo album. And so I've been just thinking about doing that. The first day I did so, the distress ranked about a six out of ten. As of today, it's the second time that it's only ranked about a two. If that keeps up tomorrow, I get to go to the next step. I reckon what's worth trying next is just sitting holding the photo album. Not opening or looking through it, but just holding it. And see how that goes. I like the idea of eventually getting to where I can look at those pictures of her when I want or have good reason to, and not having to wait for a time when it's just suddenly OK or manageable. Her recent birthday would've been a good day for that. Same with our wedding anniversary. Hopefully, I'll be there in time for the four-year mark in February...but that's for down the line.

The only thing I'm running into as a challenge with it so far is that spending the time even just thinking about looking at her pictures that much is leaving me kind of unsettled and wound up. As it's usually toward the end of the evening I've made time for it, that's meant I'm not able to unwind enough to sleep until later than I'd like. I'm sure that extra degree of exhaustion isn't helping matters any. I'm hoping that as the distress continues to abate and the success with this mounts, it'll get easier to let it go when I'm done.

There are other things left to face. I'm curious to see what else they'll present for us and have us do. At least at this point I can see how it can help. I'm just hoping it'll also help with learning how to enjoy life again, too. If I can get those two things from this group/study, it'll all be worth it.

Another @!$!!#! Layer

It's astounding how many different elements there are to working through grief. The closer the person was in your life who died, the more there is to it. Same with other complicating factors, that just add more dimensions and aspects. At first, it seems like the layers come through rather quickly. New things hit often enough that it feels like it's an ongoing process. It gets hard to trust that things are really what they are, because new things have come up, and keep coming up. There's no way to know if or when the next will appear, but it never seems to take long. Hell, sometimes the next comes along before we're even feeling done with the previous one. And then a plate that already felt full feels overloaded. And if it was feeling overloaded, well, we wonder if this'll be the one to make it crack.

And yet, after awhile, enough's been worked through that it seems like it might be the end. The levels don't unfold as quickly anymore. We get some time to work through things. We get periods where there's not stuff coming up, that starts feeling like we've made some progress. We get to enjoy feeling a bit more settled with who we are, with who we've been becoming. We get to have a sense that we're actually handling things OK. There's a sense of confidence and comfort that comes with that. It starts feeling like life might be something we're going to be able to deal with again after all.

And then another fucking layer unfolds on us, and we find ourselves yanked into another go 'round on the rollercoaster.

I'd said before I hope to get to the point that most of what comes to mind when I think of her is the good memories, the good times we shared. Sure, it'd be unrealistic to expect the bad memories would be completely gone. I don't know of any way to erase all of those without erasing EVERYTHING. Besides, if nothing else, the memories of the bad times are good indicators of what isn't worth accepting again. What isn't worth it, no matter how many other things might be good....or might seem to be good. But those can be safely tucked away 'til they're needed, and most of what comes up is the good memories. That was the hope, anyway.

The one thing I hadn't really counted on is that having the good memories come back up could hurt so much. They're such a strong reminder of where there had been good elements and good times. And those are the things I really miss. Not having thought of them much, I hadn't missed them, not as specifically. But when they suddenly come to mind, bursting through like the rays of the sun shoving through the storm clouds that have blanketed the sky....all too often they hurt, too. The warmth of the sun is welcome after the frigid gale and rain, but when your skin's already raw and burned, it hurts, too. And I'd never considered how much work there might be that'd go into reclaiming those good memories, those good elements.

Another fucking layer to unravel. At this point, I'm afraid to wonder if this is the last. I'm afraid to assume it is...because I might be proven wrong...again.

Feathers in the Sand

I'd heard from a fair number of other widows and widowers I've gotten to know of things that come around that're signs from their deceased spouse. It's been a variety of things, from butterflies to dragonflies to electronics acting up and even finding heart-shaped things around them. It'd been something I wished I had happen for quite some time. I hadn't had that experience, of something that would show up that would let me know that she's still around, that she still thinks of me. That I matter to her still.

Until just recently.

I was at a family reunion in northern California. My Dad's side of the family got together for the first time in years. It wasn't all of us, but it was a good-sized majority, With the exception of my brother and three cousins, all of us were there. The aunt who put it all together has a house in a little town on the coast just north of San Francisco. She arranged for a couple other houses to be available for us, too. We were easy walking distance from the beach, maybe 30 yards or so from the front door of the house where I was staying to the start of the sand. And it made it plenty easy to go for walks along the water. Most of them were done with other people, either paired up or small groups. But I did one walk alone. I was needing to clear my head and work through some of my own stuff, because the last time I'd been out there had been with me darlin' wife. And that was pushing some buttons. I didn't want to take any of that out on anyone else, so I headed out on my own for a bit.

I still don't know what clicked. I'd been walking awhile and was feeling the effort, especially of keeping up a good pace in the sand. It wasn't completely dry, but it also wasn't completely wet and packed, either. I still wonder if it took me getting physically tired enough to get at least some of me out of the way enough for something to get through. But at one point I found myself looking down and noticing some of the feathers that were scattered along the beach. There were a fair number of them, fallen from the gulls and the pelicans that were always around. One, in particular, caught my eye. On an impulse, I picked it up and brushed the grains off of it. And then I stuck it back, quill-end first, into the sand so that it stood up, aligned with the wind. Looking at it, the thought hit me that it was the same color of brown as me darlin' wife's hair had been.

And it clicked. It was from her.

For the rest of the time there, I'd make a bit to go down to the beach and, if I saw other feathers that caught my attention like that, I'd stand 'em up in the sand. Each one made me a little sad. Even more, though, they reminded me of her, of what she looked like, of how she'd smile. Of how she liked to be outside. Of how there were a lot of times that she liked spending time together.

The funny post-script came the night after I got back. It'd been raining and windy when I went outside. In the driveway, I found a small feather, just about the same shade of brown. With that kind of weather, it shouldn't have been there. If the wind hadn't blown it halfway across the state, the rain should've washed it into the gutter and down a drain. But there it was. Another nod from her. I have it inside the house now, as I couldn't find any sand to stand it in.

I've kept my eyes open since. I'm sure there'll be more. She'll say “Hi” again.

The Last Magical Place

It's been awhile since I posted anything. I've been dealing with a rather nasty bout of depression that's finally starting to lift some. I'd thought it had started kicking in shortly after the 3-year anniversary of her death, back in February. Talking with some friends and family, they've said that it started earlier than that, maybe back around Thanksgiving. Regardless, it'd been making things harder and harder for quite some time. I finally had the sense to get help for it, and it seems like it's paying off. I'd wanted to write before, but this is the first time I've actually felt able to do so. Hopefully it'll be something I can get back to regularly, as I know it'd helped before.

This last weekend I went for a hike. I'd gone to the same area a week before, though not to exactly the same spots. I'd first gone there with me darlin' wife when we celebrated our 10-year anniversary. In addition to renewing our vows, we'd gone to an inn up in one of the local canyons. The dinner was fantastic, the room was nice, and breakfast kept up with dinner. That second day, we went for a hike up at the top of the canyon. We'd headed up to a place called Twin Lakes, and the trail leads to the eastern edge, where a dam holds that side of the lake in place. We then went on around the lake to the western edge, which is against the side of the mountain slope below a saddle between two peaks. It's a kind of isolated spot, and it'd felt magical when we'd been there. We hadn't planned on hiking that far, but it'd really made the day. I hadn't been back to that specific place.

Until this last Saturday, three days ago.

Even then, I hadn't planned to go back there. I'd planned to hike a loop that would take me to the eastern edge of Twin Lakes, to where the trail meets the dam and would take me back down. Due to a rather curious series of events, I ended up with more time than I'd thought I'd have, and it led to following....something. Something inside me wanted to take another trail, to see where it would go, and yet another that split off from it. The end result was coming to the saddle behind the western edge of Twin Lakes overlooking that spot. As I was hiking there, the thought had come up of stopping by that place. I'd felt anxious and uneasy about it, wondering why I'd go. Wondering what I'd find. Wondering if it'd be worse if I found...nothing. And I just didn't want to go.

And yet I ended up down there.

The trail I saw that looked like it led down from the saddle disappeared halfway down the slope. The clearest way down through the scree and undergrowth of plants would lead there. In retrospect, it was stupidly dangerous to go off-trail through that area. I'm lucky I didn't break something on the way down there. But I ended up back at that place. At the edge of the lake. Where it'd felt magical being with her.

And I found...memories. It was the first time in months, more than I can count off-hand, that I was able to remember her with warmth and affection. For months, I'd not wanted to think about her, not if I could help it. And when I did, it was often hung up on how she left or how rough things were for the last few years. How I'd stood by her and done so much to try to help, only to have her do....this. But in that place, I could remember her smile. The warmth I felt seeing it. How much she trusted me. How much she was willing to share of herself. How much she accepted me.

I don't think I stayed there all that long, maybe 20 minutes or so. And then I had to go. It was too much. It was overloading having all that come back all at once. But it hit me on the way out, that it was the last of the places that'd felt magical for us, the last one I hadn't been to yet. That there were no more places to go to, to try to find memories or some sense of her. There's nothing left to look for, to hope for.

To be afraid of.

Life Is Messy

Life. There's all kinds of things to be said about it. It's long. It's short. It's beautiful. It's tragic. It's frightening. It's confusing. It's excruciating. It's a dream. Take your pick. You could spend a lifetime just coming up with different things to say about life. Nearly all of them will be true, at least to some extent. Similarly, they'll also be incomplete or incorrect to an extent. No wonder there's hundreds of years of philosophers' writings out there...and why we keep getting more.

For now, there's one that I want to go with as a place to start: life is messy. I don't mean that it's dirty or disgusting or a breeding ground for disease (though those things are kinda true). I mean that it's complex and surprising and sometimes unpredictable and hard to figure out. We get surprised. All the time. Sometimes what we think is coming comes around. At least as often, it goes in a different, unexpected direction. Sometimes things we think will last forever...don't. And sometimes things we think are done pop back up in some of the most unexpected kinds of ways. Not surprising, this is all an introduction to what I wanted to share.

I'm lucky enough to have several good friends from high school. We graduated 25+ years ago, which means we've now been friends for more than half our lives. One called me up today, a friend I hadn't talked to in a bit and I'd been thinking I should call. She had some sad news to share. The husband of another friend of ours just passed away. He'd been dealing with some heavy health issues for some time. Last I'd heard, about a year ago, he was doing OK. Evidently, that wasn't to last. I think she called me for a couple reasons: to let me know, because I'd be able to relate to where our friend likely is right now, to be able to process it some herself. It makes sense.

It was good timing for a call. See, I've been having a really rough time of things for the last few days. My financial situation's gotten somewhat messed up, thanks to complications with student loans, the loans being handed off to another agency, no-one having contacted me to let me know for the last seven or eight months, being told there's a deadline on getting them paid off. Before me darlin' wife ended her life, I'd have been upset by this but able to handle it OK. Instead, in the last few days I've found myself dealing with anxiety that sometimes verges on panic and makes sleep as elusive as smoke in a breeze. I was glad my friend was willing to talk a bit about that, as she's had to do some work with her loans, could relate, and had some good suggestions. What really helped, though, was having her remind me that, even if this situation is kind of screwed up, it doesn't mean that I am or that my life is. That there's plenty of good stuff I've done, that has meant a lot to a fair number of people. She reminded me about something I'd done for her brother way back in the day. And it reminded me of something else that I mentioned to her. She was kind enough to let me re-tell the story. When I was done, she said I should write it up, and I promised I would. So, here goes...

About five months after me darlin' wife committed suicide, the wife of a co-worker died. I'd gotten to work with Grant indirectly for a couple years. Our offices weren't in the same area, but what we worked on overlapped some, and so we'd end up running into each other fairly often. He'd been one of the most friendly and welcoming and respectful and gentle people I'd met. Those were qualities I really appreciated when I started, and came to respect even more over time. I'd known his wife had been seriously ill for awhile, but her death still seemed sudden. I remember that they'd announced the memorial for her at work, and at first I just knew I couldn't handle it. I figured I'd wish him the best and, if he wanted, be around to talk when he got back to work. As the day kept approaching, I was more and more sure I wasn't going.

The day of the memorial, I remember getting a couple things done and then talking with my boss when he was getting ready to leave for the memorial. Suddenly, the nudge hit me that I should go, too. My first take was that it was a ridiculous idea. I wasn't dressed for..... And then I looked down. And quietly muttered, “Aw shit....” to myself. Because I realized I'd dressed in all black that day. And then I realized I was going to go. For the whole drive out there, about 25 minutes or so, I recall shaking and frantically praying that I'd get there in one piece and at least not break down myself in front of him and his family. They had their own grief to deal with; they didn't need me becoming a spectacle. I just figured I'd show up, offer my condolences real quick, and get the Hell out of Dodge.

I got there in one piece and a bit before the memorial service was sent to start. I walked up to the front row where Grant and his daughters were sitting. He was a big guy, and usually carried a sense of energy and vibrance. This time, though, he was hunched over, like he barely had the energy to be sitting up. There was sadness in his face, but something worse. He wasn't all there. I've heard that look described as a thousand-yard stare, like he was looking at something a LONG ways off. I walked up to him and it took him longer than usual to even notice me (which doesn't happen often to a guy who's pretty close on six and a half feet tall). Suddenly his expression lightened and he came back to himself. His surprise turned into a mix of joy and gratitude as he quietly said “Oh, my God...” before he stood up. He'd known what had happened with my wife. He said he'd never expected me to be there. I told him I was sorry for his loss, that I had some idea of what he was dealing with, and that if there was anything I could do that I'd be willing. He wasn't always a real demonstrative guy, but he gave me a hug. After brief introductions to his daughters and similar condolences, I got the Hell out of Dodge. I'm still proud I made it out to my car that day before I broke down crying.

Well, about six months later, I was going to another memorial service. Grant had died of a brain tumor. He'd collapsed at work about two months after his wife's memorial, and didn't last much longer than that. By then, I felt like I had it a bit more together, and so I knew well beforehand I was going to his memorial. I figured it'd be the same, that I'd show up briefly before it started, offer my condolences, and then head out. I got there a bit early and waited in line with other folks to express condolences to his daughters. When it was my turn, before I could say anything, the first daughter called me by name (remember, I'd only met her the once for a couple minutes at her mother's memorial six months before). Before I could say anything, she said that her father'd gone on and on about me, about how much it'd meant to him that I'd shown up at his wife's memorial. That it had meant so much to him....and by extension to his daughters. And that she was so grateful that I'd come for his memorial service, too.

I hadn't gone to either of them to try to make a big, earth-shattering difference in someone's life. I was focused on just trying to do the decent thing. His reaction, and the reaction of his daughter, both surprised the Hell out of me. It hadn't felt to me like I was doing much. I hadn't even stayed for the whole service. I just knew they were sad and hurting and wanted to let them know they weren't alone. Nothing special. At the time, the only thing I could see that would be in it for me would be knowing that I'd done the decent thing, for a co-worker I respected and later for his family.

Here's where the thing about life being messy coming in. Like I said, when I was talking with my friend, I was kind of a mess. Anxious. Confused. Struggling to keep my head clear and not just run away from the situation or ignore it or go off over it. Feeling like I'd screwed up my life and having a hard time holding off that inner boot that kept bruising my inner ass. My friend didn't tell me that story. She made the comment that reminded me of it. The payoff for me in having just tried to do a little, decent thing was giving me a memory and a story that I'd need to help pick me back up and carry myself through one of my own dark, painful moments.

We really don't know how the things we do will affect others' lives....or our own. But that's the thing about life being messy. Things are connected, often in ways we can't see or predict until they suddenly show up. Sometimes it's those little acts of kindness or compassion or decency that are the ones that mean the world. And sometimes come back around to save our own.

Deserve's Got Nothing to Do with It

One of my favorite movies is still “Unforgiven” with Clint Eastwood, Morgan Freeman, and Gene Hackman. One of the lines that still stands out for me is the title for this entry, “Deserve's got nothing to do with it.” It's what Clint says to Gene Hackman just before shooting him. Hackman's saying he doesn't deserve it (to die), that he's building a house. The implication was that he was just doing what he thought was right. Admittedly, part of that was being an utter bastard, even if it was in the service of trying to keep the peace in his town. At that point, Clint was right. Deserve really didn't have anything to do with it. There was lots of stuff that was deserved that didn't happen. Not everyone who was bad got punished, or at least not as they deserved...however that might be determined. It just ended the way it did.

One of the things that I've found happens to me when I'm really stressed or tired or worn out is that I do find myself wondering what I might've done to deserve this. To have to deal with the aftermath of my wife ending her life. Intellectually, I know it's not the case. When I'm not worn down, those thoughts really don't come up anymore. But, at those times when I am depleted, they come back. Did I do something to her to bring it on? To someone else before we met? Maybe in a previous life? And what the Hell would someone do to actually deserve this?

What's sometimes even harder is when it's not just wondering about what I'm struggling with. Sometimes, I find myself wondering what I did to deserve to be living in this house. It is, after all, more space than I need (which is one reason, among others, I think it'd be a good idea to move). It's certainly more than I could've managed to get if she and I hadn't been together. Or how do I deserve to still be here? I can't think of anything particularly outstandingly good I've done that'd fit for deserving this, either. It just sometimes doesn't seem to make sense.

At times like that, I have to remind myself that, in this situation, deserve really doesn't have anything to do with it. It just is what it is. Maybe when it's my turn to shuffle off this mortal coil, I'll be able to ask whatever Power (or powers) that be what the Hell this was all about...and why.

Until then, it's just a matter of putting one foot in front of the other. Keep breathing. Keep moving. Keep healing. Keep trying to figure out how to actually live this life I have.

What I Knew, What I Know..

When I was in high school, one of my favorite bands was The Scorpions. I liked the hard rock/heavy metal sound. I enjoyed the energy and drive of it. And I liked the mix of music that was about having wild, fun times and the occasional power ballads that were more sentimental. It fit for me. Even with all the anger I had, there was still that part that wanted to believe in love, in the idea of finding someone. Of finding a soulmate, and that if you loved each other enough, then it'd all be all right. It wasn't the promise that love would make everything easy, or that there wouldn't be hard times. But if there was love between you, then it'd work out OK in the end and you'd get to be happy and together. For me, nothing epitomized that more than this song:

 It's about the idea that things haven't gone well. There are problems. There are hurt feelings. There's distance between y'all. There's also still the hope of it working out. And the best that's available to bring as a reason to give things another chance is....love. After all, “still loving you.” That seemed to fit with the idea of marriage being something that's for richer and poorer, for sickness and health, for better for worse, until Death do you part....and maybe not even then. Love is what holds it all together. You just love each other as hard and as strong as you can. End of story.

One of the hardest lessons I had to learn, and I still get reminded of it, is that things are rarely as simple as they seem. Don't get me wrong. I still think love is fantastic. I still think it's amazing. I still think that it makes just about everything possible. However, I don't think it's the end-all, be-all of things working out between two people. I don't think it's what'll hold a relationship together. I don't think that you just can sit there and feel it with all the might you can summon and...things will be happy the way I want. Yeah, it doesn't work that way. You do need to have love, but you need other stuff, too: dedication, tolerance of discomfort, commitment, work, etc.

It's one reason why the last power ballad the Scorpions put out has impressed me so much. The last one, “Lorelei,” is more about having been in love and having had to walk away. Because sometimes love doesn't last. Sometimes relationships don't work out. And it doesn't mean that it hurts any less, or that it doesn't keep hurting over time, even if it's sporadic. And sometimes the harder thing is knowing when to let go...and continuing to not hold on or grasp back at what was:

There were a lot of good things to the time my wife and I shared. I've been able to remember them more clearly in the last couple months. In some ways, it's a blessing. In others, it makes it hurt worse, at least for now. The fact there were good things, that there was love there, isn't undone by her choice to end her life. At the same time, that love wasn't enough. Not on her part, or mine. It's not as simple as love will make it work. If it didn't work, there wasn't love, or not enough. That it was ALL a lie. Maybe some of it was. But not all.

Hell is tricky. It's not just great pits of fire or huge demons roaring hard enough to make the air shake brandishing red-hot giant tridents. The torments aren't just made up of the wailing or weeping or screaming. Part of what makes Hell what it is is that it's sometimes subtle. It's sometimes tricky. Sometimes it's not as simple as it seems.

Sometimes...