Permission to Be “Ok” and “Not Ok” Moving Forward

A few weeks ago, when I had my overwhelming week, I felt so mentally drained. My thoughts were literally engaging in a mental tug of war. In my last blog post about giving myself permission to grow and live fully again, I spoke about the concept of post-traumatic growth, finding meaning in my life in the face of loss, and shedding some of the resistance to truly moving forward in my life. I’ve been doing a lot of self-work this year, figuring out how to integrate grief into my life now so that I can help myself and, ultimately, help others while still honoring the loss and the gaping hole that exists, eternally.  Part of this work is realizing that it’s not about “getting better.” It’s about learning that all the thoughts and feelings are valid, and sometimes they co-exist. It’s not about “always looking for the positive” or silver linings. The glass is NOT always half full. It’s ok to be not ok, and, it’s ok to be ok. In the early days of grief, I didn’t want to be ok. More often than not, I wasn’t ok. But I went back to work, and smiled, met up with friends and even laughed. Occassionally, I was embarrassed by this. I worried that it was wrong for me to do that. I “should” burrow myself away. Honestly, that would have been ok too. Through this experience, I became more curious. Is it possible to feel two opposing emotions at the same time?

I didn’t have a lot of mental energy to focus on these questions in early grief, but as the days wore on I really started delving deeper into it. And, it’s my belief, that we ALL experience this to some degree. We have opposing thoughts and feelings because we are always creating stories and meanings around the circumstances in our lives. Can we give ourselves permission to make space to be ok and not ok?

I have permission to be hopeful for the future and upset at life for directing me down this path.

I look back at some of the pieces I’ve pulled together over this past year to create meaning in my journey forward. From A Matter of Hope to blogging about my grief to my coaching certification. All of these pieces, these pivotal, meaningful aspects of my life, came into fruition or were quickly accelerated because I lost Matt. I’m proud of myself for using this platform to be an agent of change and an agent of hope. And I’m still angry. I still feel robbed. I will never be “over it.” I say this often, and I’ll repeat again, I’d give it all back in a heartbeat to not experience any of this. But, at the same time, I am hopeful that through my experience, through our experience, I will help ignite changes in conversation around CCA and rare cancers, empower fellow grievers and young widows, and create true impact. Coming to terms with it being “ok,” accepting that I can grasp onto hope even in the face of tremendous loss, has not come easy. Allowing myself the opportunity to look forward to the future,  while acknowledging my anger for the reasons that propelled me in this direction, is the only way for me, personally, to move with my grief. 

I have permission to enjoy watching Bryson grow up and be angry I’m witnessing it all without my husband.

Looking back on Bryson’s first year of life is hard. I could try and sugar coat it with false representations, but I’d be lying to you. Sure, there were small moments of laughing and smiling, but cancer always loomed in the background. It’s hard knowing how hard it is. I don’t simply grieve for myself. I grieve for Bryson, who has to rely on our stories, pictures and videos to know his dad; I grieve for Matt who was robbed of the opportunity to be here on earth, enjoying all of the things a father should be a part of. I often catch myself laughing, enjoying so many “Bryson moments” and then a surge of sadness, anger, or just numbness comes into play. Matt should be here for this. And as much as I know that “shoulding” on myself doesn’t help anything, my brain still migrates to these thoughts. So how do I make space to genuinely enjoy watching my son grow up AND allow for these thoughts and feelings? I wish I knew the exact answer. For me, the first step is acknowledging that it’s ok. I can enjoy these moments and still have pangs of sadness, knowing Matt isn’t here to experience dadhood alongside me. It doesn’t make me a bad mother; it doesn’t make me a mom who isn’t present. It makes me human; a human who has experienced a tragic, untimely loss and knows how to feel. When I acknowledged that, a lot of the suffering around it dissipated. This is the part where I enjoy watching this human I half created develop into a vibrant, wonderful little person; and this is the part where I miss my other half who I wish, so badly, were here enjoying it with me. 

I can believe Matt is always with me, while hurting because he was taken away from me. 

When Matt was first diagnosed, I’d pray every night  while nursing Bryson, that God would make him the exception. He would be the 1%. I offered up everything in exchange for that, knowing in my heart, that’s not how this works. When Matt died, I questioned my faith a lot. How could I not? This didn’t make sense. Bad people, really terrible people, live until their 100. And my Matt had to die at 35? It didn’t make sense to me. I’d talk to Matt a lot, and still do. I always come back to asking myself “does it serve me to believe he’s with me? “ And it does. The truth is, none of us know the truth (though I’ve spoken to a couple mediums, so maybe they’re the exception); but I choose to believe that Matt’s spirit is still out there, watching over me, watching over Bryson and all of our friends and family, and having a freaking blast wherever he may be, in the way only Matt truly perfected. But it doesn’t take away from the fact that he isn’t physically here, walking through this life with me, as we promised to each other. He isn’t here to make me laugh when I’m frustrated by this whole mom thing; he isn’t here to help navigate through this pandemic; he isn’t here to rub my back when I have an anxiety attack or feed Charlie when I accidentally forget to before work. And that hurts. It’s always going to hurt; and that’s ok. It’s supposed to hurt. At the same time, I laugh at what I assume would be his response to my mom frustrations, “talk” to him when I’m making pandemic-related decisions, feel his calm when I’m anxious, and…give Chuck a little extra food at night if I forget. Just because Matt is gone, doesn’t mean our relationship is over. He is so much a part of me and part of my every day; but it’s also ok to honor the pain around him not being here and to miss him every damn day. It’s ok to cry when “Your Song” comes on Spotify and tear up in the grocery store when I see his favorite Fudgecicles. And it’s ok to laugh and smile when we all share the best Matt stories that always bring us back to him.

I can be happy and sad as the world keeps spinning.

Almost exactly 2 months after Matt died, I went out (for the last time before quarantine) to an event that our friends celebrated together every year. My friends got me a ticket and I was excited to do something that felt remotely “normal.” I had a great night, but it was still hard. I was still in a grief fog, trying to navigate in life without Matt. Then, the pandemic hit and we were all propelled into this strange, grief-stricken, upside down state. As we slowly approach normalcy *hopefully,* I realize that so many of those little parts of life I didn’t experience this past year will happen again: weddings, celebrations, travel, vacations, etc. I had a slow roll into it all. I am ecstatic for the world to open up again; I am ecstatic for us to get this virus under control because far too many people have joined this awful club with me.  I’m sad Matt isn’t here to say hello to the world again with me. I am a celebration-lover. All of them. An extrovert by nature, I channel so much of my energy being around others. And yet, I’m sad that so many of these happy things that are happening do not include Matt. Babies being born; friends getting married; trips being planned. So many wonderful, beautiful things happening that I am so over the moon, happy about, and yet, I wish Matt were here witnessing it all with me; revelling in it all with me. And that’s ok. Life isn’t black and white; thoughts, feelings, and circumstances are complicated. I can be super happy, and a little sad. I can be super sad, and still laugh. What a ride.

Grief is complicated, messy, and rooted in love. I’ve had a lot of people reach out to me after writing my “dating again” post. I will be delving deeper into this and exploring my thoughts around a future Chapter 2. One thing I know for sure, whomever that person may be, he will be confident enough, compassionate enough, to understand that my grief is part of who I am. My love for Matt, with Matt, is part of who I am. I come with happiness, sadness, holes, scars, and patches all rolled up into one beautiful mess. A mess who understands life is short; it would be a damn shame to not fully live.

Until next time,

Xtina