Monday, September 1, 2014

Day 185: The New New Normal

September 1, 2014

In 3 days it will be 6 months since Gareth died. "Anniversary" is not the right word, is it? Anniversaries are reserved for remembering first dates and weddings and things marked with cards that have silver glitter embossed in the lettering.

When someone dies, there is no anniversary to remember that moment. When someone dies suddenly and unexpectedly, the date rolls around each month to remind you of the immense loss.

Each month on the 27th, I'm acutely aware that I am about to get a call that Gareth fell. Each month on the 28th I wait for my phone to ring. Then (as Gareth fell in February, a month with only 28 days) there are now those in between days. Those ghost days. Those days of limbo until he dies. The 29th, which didn't exist last February. The 30th. Just drawing things out. And every other month, the 31st, a slow motion flexing of the fist that's about to strike right in the gut.

Then back to what I know. The 1st. The waiting in the hospital. The 2nd. Sleeping on the benches. The 3rd. Anticipating the arrival of his family.

And then then 4th. Goodbye, my love.


These are not anniversaries.

In 3 days it will be the 6 month point of digging into the heart.
In 3 days it will be the  6 month marker of the longest free fall ever.
In 3 days it will be the 6 month reminder of "before" and "after."

None of this seems right. None of it fits.

My love died on March 4 of this year. My love died nearly 6 months ago. My love's heart stopped beating 185 days ago.

I keep thinking I'm about to get the call. I am waiting for the shock.


The addition of days are not cyclical, however, as my feelings warn me. They are linear, and therefor don't mean re-experiencing at all. They only mean going in a direction that is further and further from sitting in my apartment, in Hadong, enjoying cups of tea and playing cards and thinking that years and years of climbing into love are ahead of us.

How could we have known what was ahead of us?

And here I have the pull- the tug at my gut- to write to those who are grieving. Future grievers, perhaps. Those who haven't yet had the losses as well as those who are in the early, early days.

Here's what I know.

I was driving home from a great day of teaching today, the first day of the fall semester at my university. And making that turn out of the campus onto the main road, I was aware of my mind drifting back and forth from past to present to imagined future back to present again. I was touching down on memories that made me smile and remembrances that stirred my sadness. My mind is like a hummingbird, I thought, and it doesn't care if the nectar is sweet or poisonous.

I tried to calculate what percentage of the time I'm thinking about Gareth- his life, his death, my missing of him. It seems like 85% is about right. I'd say 85% of the time I am thinking of Gareth. Now, that doesn't mean I'm talking about him. I am handing out a syllabus and thinking of him. Or putting my groceries in a bag and thinking of him. Or listening to a friend tell me about her vacation and thinking of him. I am laughing at a joke being told and thinking of him. I am attentively listening to the struggles of someone else and thinking of him.

I've become the world's greatest multi-tasker.

People just out of the early, early stages of grief- those who are re-entering the world around them- are considerably good at existing in dualities. The before and after. Holding pain and joy at the same time. Being present in a situation while also being in a space where presence is not at all possible.

This is me.

85%.

85% of the time my mind is grief-active. This number seems right.

"I'm just looking forward to the time when you're over this, you know?" a friend said recently, with no ill-intent, I'm sure. She just wants me to be...what...normal?

Here's what I know.

This.

This is normal.

Normal is starting a new semester in a much better place than I was last semester. It's having the energy to sit down and plan a lesson and not drift off and wonder what I was even doing to begin with. Normal is no longer going through an entire box of tissues in a 2-day period and bursting blood vessels in my eyes from the sheer force of crying. Normal is a profile pic that doesn't have Gareth in it, but a desktop background that is still of us embracing. Normal is seeing a young couple holding hands this morning and realizing I didn't have to look away. Normal is a dinner date with a friend and hiking with another. It's running with my dog through the park and laughing at her little legs and bad haircut. Normal is a centipede infestation in my apartment and being asked over and over "why aren't you freaking out?" and thinking "Really? Because this is nothing compared to Gareth dying, that's why" but not saying it. Normal is being able to eat food now and enjoying the way it tastes. Normal is reading a book and not having to read the same sentence over and over again because I forgot what I read. Normal is not repeating "I can't do this. I can't do this. I don't think I can do this." over and over and instead actually doing it. Normal is I haven't worn his t-shirt to bed in over 3 months, his pillow is long in the trash, but photos of him still remain on my work desk.

Normal is also instinctively reaching for the phone- still- when something happens that I want to tell him about. Normal is a good, swift cry once or twice a day, lasting anywhere from 2-10 minutes, rarely longer. Normal is dipping back momentarily into guilt or thoughts of "what if," and coming out of these feelings almost as quickly as I tripped into them. Normal is the building up of missing him so much that I'm compelled to post a note on his facebook wall or write him a letter, even though I know he won't read it. Normal is wondering about the state of those grey converse hightops of his that were buried on the hilltop behind his apartment after he died. Normal is repeating "Gareth is not here. Gareth is not here anymore," and still not believing it. Normal is waking up and for a moment thinking I made this whole thing up. Normal is sometimes like the deepest missing you've ever had for someone- (think of that time and that feeling) -the deepest longing to be with them- Normal is that gnawing away at my stomach for periods of time. Normal is reading his words and petting them like I used to, like he would comment on.

This.

This is normal.



This is how I like to imagine myself riding the waves these days.

It's my normal. Anyone who's experienced deep grief carries with them their version of normal. We don't even settle into it, I believe. We are in it. Constantly. We are in our own normal.

And I'm not sure I'd want to be in any other normal than this, barring God-like powers to reverse time and heal wounds and change outcomes completely.

The grief is softening. I was promised it would. I am not cloaked in molded-ice any longer, but I still wear a cloak. This one, it is heavy. It is not visible. But as it softens I am more and more convinced that I can wear it for as long as I need to.

For as long as feels normal.




2 comments:

  1. Oh, Bridget. Multitasking grief with connecting with the world, yes. I have moments of total distraction only through singing in choir. Oh, wait. I lied. Even there are triggers, like the lyrics touch on something. Tonight we sang a song based on a poem that put me right back there. "Sing to me." There were dissonant chords in one phrase and resolution of the chord in another. It feels like the grief is always a dissonant chord: beautiful in that it comes from a place of deep love, but waiting for resolution because the grief is so painfull. I know what's normal is what IS now, and what's normal will be different tomorrow, just as it was different yesterday. Yet right now I still feel that it fucking sucks! There are no timelines. If there were it would be easier, like making it through the 8 weeks it takes to heal a broken bone. And we would know when this "healing" would happen. No. Not even an apt analogy. I think I could take any amount of physical pain compared to this emotional pain. And then it's too exhausting, so I make a pact with a friend that I will do The Positivity Challenge--three positive things that happened today:
    Today I
    1. sang in choir practice
    2. took a walk after dark with a flashlight and the mosquitoes didn't eat me up.
    3. I connected with Bridget in Riding the Waves and I continue to connect with Bridget. (The third is the best.)

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    Replies
    1. Yes, #3 makes me really happy, too, Aunt Mary.

      I love what you wrote about chords: "It feels like the grief is always a dissonant chord: beautiful in that it comes from a place of deep love, but waiting for resolution because the grief is so painful."

      That. Exactly. I hate that you get that. I hate that Jessica is gone.

      I love that we're connected.

      There's that duality again.

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