When Does the Pain Go Away?

Next month will mark the 3^rd anniversary of the death of my beloved wife, Susan. She left us early on the morning after Thanksgiving, after suffering with cancer for nearly three years. The world lost an incredible person: artist, healer, mother, wife, teacher and overall source of light. I lost my closest friend, lover and life partner.

People deal with loss in different ways. Some avoid and deny. Some try to duck the process by drinking or other self-medicating tricks. Some try to replace the person they lost. Some fall apart. Some deal with it stoically.  There is no ‘best way’, no silver bullet, and it is best that we try not to judge someone going through this process.  Until you have felt this pain, endured the loss of someone dearly beloved, you have no idea whatsoever how it feels, and for every person who has lost a spouse, a parent, a child, or a dear friend, bereavement is a unique process.

For me, there was first a period of numbness, lasting probably 4-6 months, where I really did not feel anything. There followed then a period of fairly intense pain. During all this time, I sought the help of a grief group, finding others whose situation mirrored mine. It was extremely helpful, because in my case I met 5 other wonderful people whose losses were deeply and intensely felt. We bonded. We are still friends. But even within this august group, we each deal with our pain somewhat differently.

Now, nearly three years out, I still miss Susan deeply and constantly. It has been said that the pain of loss is in direct proportion to the depth of love one has felt for the person no longer here. If that is the case, I can well understand why I feel the way I do. It does not go away. You don’t get over it. The loss is always there, staring you in the face, and your job is to cope with it as best you can. I deal every day with the notion that my best day in this life will never be 10% as good as my WORST DAY when Susan was here.

That all said, there is joy to be had. There is fulfillment to be had. There is altruism to be given. Do not isolate yourself. Try to limit the time you spend feeling sorry for yourself. Let the tears come when they do. Eventually the good memories of your time with your loved one will be more frequent than the sad ones. And most importantly, try not to identify yourself by the loss. It is something that has happened, not something that should define you.

For me the loss will always be there. But so will the incredible memories of companionship, laughter, tears, closeness and shared experience. 

MPC/10-29-2017  

Anniversary

Today would have been Susan and my 19^th wedding anniversary and our 23^rd anniversary of being sweethearts. I am right in the middle of my ‘season of bad anniversaries’, a time of sadness and remembrance for me.

And while there is now some distance between myself and the pain of losing Susan, I still struggle mightily with the whole concept of the value of my life, specifically its value to myself.

I struggle with the idea that my best day in this current life will NEVER be anywhere near as good as my worst day when Susan was alive, and it is difficult for me to believe, even after nearly three years, that this will ever change.

Of the 46 years or thereabouts of my adult life, I was in committed relationships for 38 of those years. Not all those situations were ideal, but at least I had a sense in those situations of what my purpose was. I was a ‘husband’. In my relationship with Susan I was also a stepdad. I identified myself as those things. To me there was no higher calling. I can still identify, of course, as ‘stepdad’, which is an incredible honor. But the kids are mature and wise adults, with families of their own, having built wonderful lives for themselves, and their need for my input and/or support is by no means a daily necessity.

While the grieving part of my life has more or less settled down to periodic episodes, the ‘reinvention’ part is a complex and bewildering process, for which I have not a clue. Each day can often feel like a futile exercise in pacing the cage, waiting for the end. And to be truthful, there are moments when the end is an awfully enticing concept.

In spite of the fact that I have many wonderful friends and family members without whose friendship and support, life would be pretty intolerable, there is still a massive hole in my life created by the loss of my partner, my beloved Susan, and that is a hole unlikely to ever be healed. Life with her was uniformly fun, full of love, laughter, kindness and the occasional adventure. And it was not just me who lost when she died, the world lost a brilliantly talented artist, therapist, punster, mom and source of light. And while it is true to some extent that some distance has grown up between me and the pain of losing Susan, there are moments, (writing this being one of them) that the pain takes on a palpable, physical dimension, very difficult to bear.

So, as you can see, the process of self-reinvention seems daunting almost to the point of impossibility at this point in time.

That all said, I know my beloved would want to keep at trying to figure it all out, she would not expect me to fold up like a cheap suit.  I have really never yielded to fear, or to despair, and I am not about to start now. So, I will keep marching along, and trying to figure out the ‘reinvention’.

To my dear beloved, wherever she may be: be at peace my love, know on this special day that you are loved, know that you made a tremendous difference to so many.  You never got a chance to hear this wonderful song that sort of sums up my feelings: Paper Aeroplane by Kasey Chambers

I’m just an old man,

My hair is thinning,

My head is spinning,

I cry myself to sleep at night.

And Lordy, lordy, though no one hears me

I know you’re near me

You will always be my wife.

Some days make me

Feel weak and shaky,

Some days fly by me,

Like a paper aeroplane.

I hardly notice

That the world’s gone crazy,

But nothing’s clearer

Than the way you said my name.

I shouldda let go by now,

I shouldda let go by now,

But I kept your brownies,

And your golden honey,

I smelled your flowers,

And I saved your money

I held your blanket

Close for hours,

And I painted my heart blue

But I did it all for you.

I’m just an old man,

My hair is thinning,

My head is spinning,

I cry myself to sleep at night.

And Lordy, lordy, though no one hears me

I know you’re near me

You will always be my wife.

Paper Aeroplane by Kasey Chambers.

MPC 09-24-17

You've survived all sorts of horrible stuff, so what now?

        It's been a while since I wrote a blog post. It has been an adventure-filled several months, mostly devoted to downsizing and moving out of the 'family home', into an apartment.  As part of the process, I had over 40 cubic yards of personal possessions hauled away to be donated and/or recycled to some good use.

        So all of that craziness is over, what now? I must admit that I am struggling a bit with that. I still have my work, but these days that is pretty part time. When companies have been using your software for 30 years, they don't need much support, except when the printer stops working or Windows does one of those wonderful updates that crashes everyone's systems.

        After my beloved Susan passed away, I went through a long period of basically writing off the rest of my life. "Pacing the Cage" as so beautifully put in a song by Bruce Cockburn. I think many who are grieving the loss of a life partner go through something similar. And I must say that the current political climate and all it's theatrical excess does not do much to add to the joys of life.

        Politics and its vicissitudes aside, I have learned a thing or two that now I think I need to put to better use. I have learned the value of humility, gratitude and kindness.  We humans are wired to take note of the negative things that happen to us, but in general we notice the positive things less. We notice the red lights, but not the green ones. And it is surprising to experience what happens when we start to notice the green lights, lock them in and feel grateful for them.

        I have had people say "How is it that someone who's had so much happen to them has such a good attitude?". It's a fair question. I've lost my whole immediate family, including my beloved wife, mother, father and sibs. My heart has turned on me no less than 3 separate times. But I have also had the very best kind of true love for 20 years of this life, helped in the upbringing of 3 incredible step-kids, have wonderful friends, incredible customers, and some pretty good fortune.  I am grateful for the blessings I have had throughout this life, and looking back, would not change a thing.

        So what's next? I think the best strategy is to meet all people with a welcoming attitude, never judge people by anything other than their behavior; be grateful for something each day, be kind at every possible opportunity, and be open to what may come my way.

        Yes, I miss my sweetheart.  Yes, there are moments when it hurts, and hurts badly. But every moment of doubt and depression passes, and is ultimately replaced by a moment of something else, most often better.

        So I will keep sharing my observations with you from time to time, in the hope that something I say may be of use to someone else. All we have in life is our story and the connections we have with others.  All else is "stuff" that can be hauled away...

08-22-2017
MPC    

A Holiday AHA Moment

           

           One of the tenets by which I live is that we never should stop learning, and especially we should not stop learning about ourselves. Self-awareness, while often an uncomfortable process, is essential to growth and to emotional well-being.

In my last post, I related how my dear friend metaphorically whacked me upside the head, and set me to thinking on a new path.  This week, while trying to decorate the house and do a bit of holiday baking, as well as making sure all the gifts for the kids, grandkids and others were on their merry way, I started thinking about the whole idea of isolation versus solitude.

                Most of you probably have had to endure at least some of my carping about “numbing isolation".  I carried that supposed cross around for quite some time.  Well guess what?  Unless I was mysteriously sentenced to prison without my knowledge, if it has been isolation that I was really feeling, I have chosen to isolate myself.  Well, Duh! Not only that, come to find out there is a great deal of difference between isolation and solitude.

                Over this past weekend, I baked cookies, made out holiday cards, and basically enjoyed myself the entire time. I felt calm, confident, and looked forward to passing out the goodies.  Wow.  I began to understand that there can be joy in solitude, that what I was experiencing was solitude as opposed to isolation.  I finally understood that if I was feeling isolated, I could pick up the phone, send an email or otherwise contact one of the many, many friends and family with which I am blessed.

                Because of this experience, combined with the “slap upside the head”, I am starting to realize that the notion of a fresh start is for real: that I can do this. I can make it happen, and so I shall.  As always, I have all you wonderful friends and family to thank for helping me through the forest of my grief and loss.  And while I know that I will still occasionally bump into one of those metaphorical trees while I am not paying attention,  for the most part, I can proceed with my life and make of it what I will.

                To all of you, I wish to a happy Hanukah, a Merry Christmas, a happy Kwanzaa, and a happy, healthy and lush New Year. 

MPC/12-19-2016

A Slap Upside the Head (in a Good Way!)

                I was having supper with a friend of mine the other night, who happens to be a member of my old grief group from last year. We have dinner together once a month or so. His grief story is remarkably like mine, but he has been more proactive in dealing with his loss.

                In the course of the conversation, after listening to me being dark (as I have a tendency to be), he posed the question, “Why can’t your life be as good as, or better than it was before?”.  I must confess that his question knocked me for a loop.  Since Susan passed away I have always held the notion that my best day since her death would never be 10% as good as my worst day when she was with us.  Why? Having latched on to my friend’s question, I was forced to start considering why I have felt this way for over 2 years.

                I watched my mother live in misery and grief from the age of 36 until her death at 73 after my father, her husband died in 1961, leaving her a widow with 3 kids.  After that I lost my brother, sister and mother, my whole family.  In addition, I was raised and educated, as I have said many times, to believe that my life was about service to others. In addition, I was taught that thinking of myself and my own needs was somehow selfish. It somehow never occurred to me, even during years of therapy, that if I did not consider my own needs, who would?

                 Thus, I have refused to think about what I might want out of the rest of this life. Too painful, too selfish, I told myself. But I realize now that this is simply an evasion.  There are clearly things I’d like to do. There are things I’d like to accomplish, and places I’d like to visit.  After my conversation with my friend, I laid awake all night thinking about the concept that life could be as good, as happy and fulfilling as it was before. I was forced to take inventory. I have friends and family who are wonderful. I have kids and grandkids who are wonderful and kind. I have reasonably good health. I have resources, and I have meaningful work.  There is really very little on the negative side of the ledger.  I have loaded the negative side up in the past with false things, invented things, all swirling around the loss of my beloved wife. But as my friend pointedly asked me the other night, “Would she really want you to be miserable like this for the rest of your life?”.  Wow.  Never looked at it that way. I would guess that she would not.

                My friend pointed out that he did not wish to be defined by his wife’s death.  “It is not what defines me, it is something that happened to me”.  I had not thought of it that way.  But he is right (again!).

                Yes, I miss her. Yes, she was the center of my life. But she is gone, and I am not. As a wonderful song from singer-songwriter Michael Johnson says, “That’s that. I can scream I can shout, I can cry my eyes out, but she’s not coming back. That’s that.”.

                So, I have started a list. Item number one is a “fresh start”.   What does that mean? It means unburdening myself of the past and many, if not most of its artifacts. I have set aside those things which help me remember my time with Susan fondly and happily.  The rest is going away to be replaced by new furniture, new dishes and other of life’s accoutrements. I will move to a new (old) city (Cleveland), and tick off items from a ‘bucket’ list of things I want to do, see, accomplish and experience.

                I cannot thank my dear friend enough for his metaphorical slap in the face, (thanks! I needed that!). And while it is easy sometimes to slip back into the old and trusty habit of being miserable and dark, (somehow this is comfortable and familiar?), I will now have the question of the hour looming in the forefront of my mind, “Why can’t your life be as good or better…?”.  It will serve as a constant motivator, and reminder of what life is about.

MPC 12-2-2016  

Coming Apart

Coming Apart

                It has been nearly two years since my beloved Susan left this life. Since that time, I have tried extremely hard to follow all the advice, adhere to the conventional wisdom, not make any major decisions while grieving, and so forth. My friends and family have been wonderful in trying to provide company and support.

                But I miss her. I miss her terribly. And as the anniversary of her death approaches, I find that it feels to me like I am coming apart. My memories of those last weeks of her life are so crystal clear and vivid that it is like being there. The irrational guilt that I feel because of her disease and death is a relatively constant companion.

                Throughout this year there have been literally thousands of occasions where I had some tidbit, some quip, some fear, some joke, some deep feeling that I wanted to share with her (and indeed did in the metaphysical sense). The day Gwen Ifill’s death was announced, for example, I felt gob smacked. Another wonderful woman struck down by a gynecological cancer that we seem powerless to cure. I am certain Susan and I would have talked through that situation, as we had so many things that affected our lives. Without her incredible mind and temperament with which to interact, everything that happens feels like a shard of glass sticking in my flesh, unresolved and throbbing in a distasteful dissonance..

                The entire horrendous election cycle would have been far more tolerable had I had Susan here to bear witness with me. I am certain she would have been apoplectic at the result, as was I, but we would have arrived at a coping strategy, would have determined what was next, like so many times that we did just that. With her presence, I would have sailed through my heart problems of this year.

                Since her death, life has taken the same type of zigs and zags that it normally takes. Things go wrong, things break. People get elected of whom some of us do not approve. The economy rises and falls. These things all happened routinely when Susan was alive. The difference is that I knew that as long as we were together, we could get through anything, and indeed we did. Now that she is no longer here, the question that comes most often to mind is, “what is the point of all this?”. 

                Without her here to share this life, with its vicissitudes, I lay awake at night pondering that question, struggling to find an answer that will satisfy. It has yet to come. On most days, the best I can hope for is the ability to muddle through the numbing isolation, satisfying all the various obligations I have, and to go to bed and once again ponder how it could have gone so terribly wrong on that late autumn day two years ago.

                I am extremely grateful to all my family and friends, without whom I might not have lasted this long, and I understand that it is not up to them to heal the wounds of loss I carry, nor is it for them to assuage the horrific lack of confidence with which I currently greet each new day. These struggles are mine to try to resolve.  And it seems to me there are two questions at the heart of this struggle: First, do I really want things to become OK? And I must tell you that I do not know the answer to that question. Sometimes it feels like if I make this OK that I am disrespecting Susan’s memory or forgetting her, which I cannot and will not do.

 The second and more important question is this: How is it possible to be a source of light, when ALL of the light has been ripped away out of my life. As much as I try to meet the world with kindness, equanimity and calm, the effort required to do so is massive, and extremely stressful. I do not know the solution to this puzzle either.  I can only hope that with time, either the answers will become apparent, or in the alternative, become irrelevant.

MPC:11-20-2016

               

  

What Makes Life Tolerable or Even Happy?

                We’re inching up on the second anniversary of my beloved’s death (11-28) and I have discovered some interesting changes in how I view the situation.  Before I get into that, I recently came across another poem she had written to me some years ago:

every night

You love on me

hold me in my bed and tell me

you think I am wonderful,

the best,

or maybe the co-best.

It doesn’t matter if you are tired

or sick

or frightened.

You come to me each night and love on me,

making me happy and stronger

with each passing moon.

You cherish those things dear to me,

the same happy children,

the same destructive pets.

The same joy and humor

that brings laughter

to me, also brings

joy and laughter to you.

I don’t have to explain, you

pick up the song or the punch line.

It’s as if we’ve been practicing these lines

for the last

twenty-five years, and now

we have a place to use them. 

It’s like planting bulbs in the fall;

we are delighted in the spring

by the surprise recognition

of the plans we made coming to flower.  The

practice-loving we’ve rehearsed

has at last

found its mark.

I love you.

Needless to say,  I was deeply moved by finding this poem, and had a moment of tearful remembrance about what a wonderful woman Susan was, and how much I miss her.  But that moment quickly changed into something else. It changed into a very strong sense of gratitude.  I looked up at her picture on my wall and thanked her for her love, her respect, her regard and her partnership. Not everyone gets that. And while it may all have been snatched away somewhat prematurely, I had it. She had it. We honored and cherished one another right up to the end. And for that moment, I felt complete, I felt almost like she was still out there somewhere keeping an eye on me.  It was amazing.

Then I started to think about what keeps me going now that she is gone.  It boils down to two simple things: conversation and music. 

The interaction with other people that I love the most is good conversation.  I talk but mostly try to listen, hear what others have to say, what they think. That is how we learn, how we grow.  I am blessed with my 3 stepkids and their spouses with whom conversation is always a joy. Likewise, I am blessed with many friends, neighbors and family with whom conversation and company is a real blessing.  This sort of companionship, while it does not necessarily approach that of my marriage to Susan, is life-giving, sustaining and helps keep me sane and grounded.

And music. Music fills the hours of isolation with color and texture.  It lights up parts of my brain that nothing else can do with such efficiency. Right now, I am listening to a piece by the composer Ralph Vaughan Williams, a 20^th century British composer.  Hauntingly beautiful.  Emotive.

I do think that if I have enough conversation and enough music, that it will all be OK.

I know this is not something that will work for everyone in my position, but if you can figure out what elements of life will help you along, then you will find the key to going on and surviving the horrible things that can happen in life.

MPC 10-30-2016