grief

November 29, 2023

If there is no flight, then we shall fight

I never truly understood the concept of “fight or flight” until recently. And when I say that, I mean within the last two weeks. Prior to two therapy sessions ago, my comprehension of the saying was: either “fought for their life” or “ran away to survive” in life threatening situations; like being held up at gun point or rape. It never occurred to me that these moments could occur at any time. It’s a trauma response.

The last few months I have been at home. It began at first as a way to cope with the panic and anxiety I had that my husband was starting hospice care. Since then I have not left the house. For the most part, I stay at home and care for my spouse.

At the start of October I returned to work doing miscellaneous jobs from home, only leaving for (at most) 2 hours to do an inspection. It started off fine, but it has since become a sort of prison. I can’t escape when I want and I can’t do what I want because I have my husband who needs me. The worst thing that could happen is for something permanent to occur while I’m gone.

It is here where the “psychological response” became vividly clear.

My tendency is to run away from situations. I’ve done it since I was a kid. If I was feeling uncomfortable I would just escape to my room, go on a walk or just drive for hours with no destination. Now that I cannot do that because of circumstances and my own unwillingness to leave for fear of what may happen… I have become angry. I fight, but not in the way one would expect. I don’t pick fights verbally or otherwise. No. I just get cold, quiet, passive aggressive or redirect it into something unrelated. It’s the way I alleviate the feeling.

Lately I have started to “fight” with my husband. I try, as quick as I can, to remind myself of the reality, how I really feel. Most of the time it works. Sometimes… it takes a little bit. I will bring up long since dead fights, grievances or misdeeds to justify my rage. Essentially I’m picking a fight. Fortunately it’s just with the shadows of the past, in my own head. The guilt I feel after these response moments is so heavy.

I have yet (and universe willing) have done so only in my head. I know, without a shred of doubt, I would forever hate myself if I were to ever let my thoughts leave the safety of my mind.

There is no conclusion or real resolution I can impart. Just wanted to share this clarity in the hopes of helping someone else. Maybe another reader has yet to get the basic principle. The one that sounds so simple, but lacks any specifics to its deeper meaning. Well, it’s an oversimplification for me at least.

November 15, 2023

Wallowing in my feels

The word overwhelmed does not accurately describe how I feel. If anything it drastically undercuts the reality of my situation. Every day I wake up and wonder if this morning is going to be the one where I find my husband has died in his sleep. When I see that he hasn’t, I pretend like everything is normal when it is anything but considering I have to do everything for him, on top of caring for myself and keeping everyone sheltered and cared for. Then to top all of that off because the government has decided to keep interest rates so high, I have next to no work. So there is little to no money coming in. What money I received as inheritance is now dwindling away. Leaving me with nothing.

Then come the emotions. I feel trapped in my life and I want freedom but that would mean I wish my husband’s demise. Which only makes me feel guilty and horrible for even having these thoughts cross my mind. I just want to scream.

I would never wish this on anyone. It is truly maddening. At times I feel like I am being punished for something. Like I wronged someone somewhere.

The Christian teachings of my youth say it’s god punishing me for turning my back on him. And all I can think is what kind of “loving” god punishes you for not WORSHIPPING him. Which makes this high power sound like a sociopath.

I feel like I am just an observer in my life. I’m not living. I’m surviving, making it just in the nick of time.

September 26, 2023

The waiting room

Last night it occurred to me that I am back in the ICU waiting room with my mom, delaying my dad’s removal from life support. Except instead of holding off until my cousin and aunt arrive, I’m waiting for someone that will never come. It’s excruciating agony, like a sharp knife being pulled, slowly across my skin.

We were meant to start hospice but postponed the transition because once we do we lose our team of doctors that have been with my husband since he was diagnosed with ALS. In addition, we’re hoping to get a substantial supply of the medication for the disease. Hospice will not cover that drug. For us to pay out of pocket it would be $690/bottle. My husband is handling those details, from his eye-gaze device, so I am unaware of the status. All I know is that Friday is the day we told them we would make the switch.

His condition is worsening. His speech jumbled and incoherent, at times. Where before he would sleep at the drop of a hat, now not even pills will help. He’ll sleep for an hour or two and then be up for rest of the night and into morning. And where previously he would take Xanax once a month, it has now become a twice a day dose.

Every time I go into our room, and he is sleeping, I just stand in the doorway and stare at him. My eyes focusing on his chest and face for signs of movement. If he were to wake up it would be incredibly creepy. It would be for anyone, really. I do it because I am seeing if he is still breathing. That’s typically how someone with his disease passes, in their sleep.

The other night I was talking with my husband through text message (kind of ironic that our relationship started with text messages…) as we lay in bed side-by-side, his breathing mask over his mouth and nose, discussing hospice. Somehow we started talking about him dying in the house and he said he didn’t want it to happen here. I replied, “I don’t think that you habe any control over that. Unless you’re moved into a facility. And that is something that will not happen.”

So, I sit here and wait… never knowing what the next moment will be. Not knowing what to plan. People are asking me to plan things months in advance and… These other stories, plans, desires, are just the incoherent hum of the television in my “white waiting room.” A world exists out there, but it does not for me.

March 17, 2022

My Bouquet of Balloons

It’s amazing how little I don’t know about my own emotions/feelings. It’s as if I hide all of them in these pretty little balloons to trick myself that they’re not there. But the strings are tied tight to my wrist.

Then when something with mildly jagged edges brushes against them they burst. They burst and I’m showered in my feelings and thin bits of rubber.

I explode. No longer can I pretend that those feelings weren’t there.

I want to know if that’s a me thing, or an everyone thing.

Today I was meant to meet a property owner to do an inspection. I called him at 9:05 to see if he was still coming. No answer. Already I could see the writing on the wall. (It’s funny how this same pattern happens specifically with multiple units.) I sat in my car, waiting, building up my rage by ranting to myself about this revision request I had received the other day. (They didn’t like the value I came up with for their rent comparables.)

At 9:25, five minutes before the end of our scheduled time, I tried him again. He answered and gave me this cock and bull story that his secretary was sick so he had to take her home… It was ridiculous. This idiot forgot about the appointment and was putting it on some other B.S. He informed me that the tenants knew I was coming and to just do it.

They tenants didn’t answer. Per usual.

I drove away ranting and raving, furious about this situation. (I loathe appraising multiple units.) My voice obviously carrying outside of the confines of my car because people down the street were literally looking at me. (I am naturally a loud person.)

It wasn’t until I had made it to the office that my real feelings sat on my shoulders. I could feel them pulling me down and now I’m just sad.

I hate the phrase, “you’re going through a lot.” It’s right up there with, “I’m sorry.” Every time I hear it I either roll my eyes, grit my teeth, or visibly cringe. I don’t want to hear it. Mainly because I don’t want to face it. My life is absolute misery. Everywhere I turn my life is literally falling down around me and I’m trying so hard to keep everything up, but no matter what I do these things are going to fall. These balloons are going to pop.

I need healthy ways to cope, but at the same time I’m worried what all of this grief is going to do to my brain. Yet on the flip side, one I refuse to view, is what is this denial going to do to my neural pathways? Everything in our life determines who and what we become. Even the tiniest of choices and reactions.

I want to just hide away today. I’m glad the tenants didn’t answer. I just don’t want to deal.

And to top all of this off… It’s made me a week behind with my year long writing goal.