The Reality of Grief

I recently posted my Sunday update calling for questions from you all. And then I realized, WTF am I doing? I could hear Matt saying “Christina, write what you want to write. No need to censor it or try to appease everyone else.” The truth is, I knew what I wanted to write, but I worry that writing about the reality of grief is “too dark” for people. Most of my readers are family, friends, old classmates, and people I’m connected to outside the grief world (nope, still not a famous blogger over here). Reading about grief is not uplifting and it is definitely not for the person looking for a feel-good post or a “how to decorate your living room” post. There’s nothing wrong with that content; I thoroughly enjoy it. But I need to stay true, without sugarcoating reality or guiding my content with pieces that aren’t important to me.

I took a break from the blog in January. After an emotionally draining December, I chose to focus my free, non-mom time on getting myself back into a wellness routine, organizing MoHope2021 things, and doing some deep grief work. There are a lot of moving pieces right now; a lot of soul-searching, introspection, listening, and learning. Figuring out who I am in this life without Matt has been one of the hardest, most time-intensive, ever-changing practices I’ve experienced. With the dawn of a new year, I took the (typical) opportunity to take a life inventory. Learning how to live without my person, the man I promised my life to and would have given my life for, has been messy, confusing, intense, nauseating, and…required. If you read my “Reflections” post, you get it. So, how have I gone about it? I’ve invested in learning about grief; not just my own, but of others. While I can’t say that any one experience is the same, identifying trends or just being able to say “same” is glorifying. Inspired by those authentically sharing their experience, this is my experience with the total life explosion of initial grief and where it leaves me today.

So, if you’re looking for a feel-good story, full of sunshine and butterflies, this is probably not for you. If you’re looking for the reality of a universal experience WITH a dash of actionable, tangible, hope, then you’re in the right spot. So, here’s the thing…

Grief is Isolating and Lonely

No matter how connected you are to family, a partner, or a supportive group of friends, grief can STILL feel isolating and lonely. No one is experiencing your loss; no one is haunted by the memories that hurt to remember, perplexed by the daily absence of someone so integral to your existence, and angered by the future that was so unjustly taken away from you. And it’s no one’s fault; it just…is. 

It feels like you’re on an island and no matter how long the airplanes circle around you and the spotlights shine down, the search party doesn’t see you. And sometimes, you don’t want to be found. I am not ignorant to how lucky I am for my family and friends. Watching your child or your sister experience something so astronomically traumatic, knowing there is absolutely nothing you can say or do about it, is unsettling at the very least. Steadfastly standing by your daughter-in-law or sister-in-law, supporting her through all of the paperwork, hard calls, holidays, and everything else that comes along with gut-wrenching loss, all while dealing with your own intense grief, is extraordinary. It is not the norm. Loyally supporting your friend, and reaching out to her regularly, even if it’s inconvenient, hard, or awkward, is not for the weak of heart. And yet, even with my amazing support system, I still felt lonely. I’ve done a lot of work over the past few months, opening myself up to other young widows, engaging in conversation, and being open to learning that I am, in fact, not alone even if my experience is solely my own. That was a hard step for me; I wasn’t prepared for that for most of last year. But it has been an integral step in beginning to understand where I go from here. 

No One Enjoys Talking About Grief

No one likes talking about grief. As humans, we are programmed to seek pleasure and avoid pain. No one wants to talk about the hard, the sad, and the painful. No one wants to feel it! When I restarted this blog, and even when I write now, my brain sounds the sirens. “No one wants to read this stuff, Christina!” “What if this comes back to bite you?” And yet, I know, that my grief, my intense love, and the subsequent intense loss of Matt, are a part of who I am. I would do myself, and all the other grievers out there, a disservice if I not only ignored that but pretended like I was living anything other than my truth.

I get why my posts are not that fun to read all the time. I often hear, “Oh Christina, I can’t imagine…” The thing is, you probably can. You don’t want to. I wouldn’t. I recently started reading the book, It’s Ok that You’re Not Ok by Megan Devine (more about that in a future blog post). In the book, she writes “Evidence of someone else’s nightmare is proof that we could be next. That’s seriously uncomfortable evidence….Empathy is a limbic system connection with the other person’s pain (or joy). Being close to someone else’s pain makes us feel pain. Our brains know we’re connected.”  It’s a part of being human and the human experience. This truth makes it even more complicated to share my grief. I don’t want to upset, scare, or hurt anyone. I’m not trying to plant seeds of what could happen to you or someone you love. The universal fact is, that loss will exist as long as love exists; it’s something we will all experience and sign up for when we agree to love. Knowing that you aren’t alone; knowing that it’s OK to be not OK; knowing that the mental, emotional, social, and physical ramifications that come from a tragic loss aren’t abnormal, was something I sought out feverishly in early grief. I still do.

“Widow Brain” is actually a real thing

Honestly between Matt’s diagnosis, new momhood, and year one of widowhood, I don’t know how my brain functioned enough to maintain my job, organize a fundraiser, write a blog, figure out how to not fail at being a mother, and keep my dog alive. It all feels so not in sync with the actual state of my brain: indecision, a short attention span, forgetfulness, exhaustion. I fumbled over words like never before; my brain felt like it was in a haze. Sometimes, it was sharp and focused on a task at hand and other times, I needed to reread a contract 7 times to fully understand what I was reading. 

Everything needed to go on my calendar, or it didn’t exist. Sometimes, I’d catch myself totally zoning out in conversations, presentations, and meetings. I was there, physically, but my brain was in so many other places. Sorry if you were on the other end of that. Our brains can only hold so much information. I was processing so much and never really cut myself a break. I got to the point of using all these tasks to try and replace my grief. News Flash: That didn’t work. For me, one year in, I feel like the haze is lifting; I’m seeing things more clearly. I’m learning what serves me and what doesn’t. But I’m still a work in progress.

Fake Reality becomes Reality. Time Does Not Stand Still 

Last year, I felt like I was in a movie. It felt as though everything going on around me wasn’t real. I often dreamt that Matt was still here; I’d roll over in the morning only to find him gone again. It felt like an alternate universe. I was going through the motions, resistant to change, and holding onto everything that used to be as hard as I could. I don’t regret the latter; it helped me get through a very surreal period. For more on that, you can read this blog. 

One year in, and things feel harshly real. Matt is not coming back. We won’t be growing and nurturing our family together,  like we had planned and like our friends are. There is no front porch and picket fence. Health forms, enrollment forms, and paperwork will never be simple. My emergency contact isn’t Matt for the first time in almost 10 years. Nothing will ever be the same. For many, daily life has resumed and there is little to no impact. The world keeps turning, even if it feels like mine stopped. I can easily fall into a pattern of “should be’s” here, but I won’t. 

Suffice it to say, that in year one, life was bizarre, out of order, and totally not real. Now, in year two, the curtain is lifting, and learning to live in this reality is very much a component of my survival. 

There are Physical Ramifications of Grief

I mentioned this in a story last night and wanted to delve a little deeper, especially for those fellow grievers reading this blog. The physical impact of losing Matt was VERY real for me. Stress and anxiety, in and of themselves, take a toll on the body. I didn’t sleep well. I survived on goldfish and random protein bars. My anxiety was through the roof. I remember lying down next to Bryson the first month after Matt died. I had some stomach trouble (gee, really?) and I kept thinking “I can’t die…who would take care of Bryson? I can’t leave him as an orphan in this world?!” This wasn’t the only time those urgent, scary thoughts haunted me.  I forced my primary care physician to do extensive blood work just to make sure nothing was wrong. She agreed because she understood that when you experience something out-of-order, abnormal, and totally far-fetched…NOTHING is off the table. Even as she read through the “perfect” results with me, I still asked questions and looked for issues. 

From stomach aches to heart palpitations to dry skin…everything screamed cancer to me. It’s freaking terrifying. And the first time Bryson got sick, and the phrase “blood work” came up, I nearly had a meltdown. Add a pandemic, and my health anxiety leveled up. All the work I’ve done on anxiety and coping in the past didn’t apply here. The thing is, Bryson is going to get sick. I’m going to get sick. Chuck is going to get sick. Surgeries, screenings, etc will be a part of our lives. Dare I say, bad things are going to happen. Learning how to manage my anxiety now, in a more complicated form, is not optional. It is a requirement to be the human I want to be, the human I deserve to be.

Moving Forward is Constantly Misunderstood.

I often talk about “moving forward” as opposed to “moving on,”; I want to clarify what that means to me. There’s a huge part of grief culture that glamorizes “healing” and “evolution,” often insinuating  “your experience has made you into a better person.” As someone who is simultaneously grieving and invested in post-traumatic growth, even I easily interpret this as  “good thing your partner died, otherwise you’d be less evolved.” I just want to be clear here: I’d give up all of this to have Matt back here; to be living the life we planned together, growing our family. I’d trade in every ounce of “growth” for Bryson to have his dad back here on earth with him, getting to know him on his terms, not mine. But, I know that is not possible anymore. And I’m still here; I deserve to learn, grow, find purpose, and live a full life. Saying that, knowing that I believe that, still stings. Survivors’ guilt, the feelings of why him and not me, still ruminate.   

Moving forward doesn’t mean I don’t deal with pain, sadness, frustration, confusion, and the “negative” emotions that come along with experiencing tremendous loss. 

 Moving forward means that I don’t have to suffer day in and day out with feelings of guilt, “should-be’s” and anger.

 It means accepting I am no longer the person I used to be; that I am forever changed. I’m figuring out who I am now and how I want to show up now, and that is all I’m held to.

 It means I continue to love Matt, fiercely, and honor that losing him is a major part of my being and my life story. And that’s ok. That’s who I am now.

It means acknowledging there is room in my heart to love another person, and that doesn’t mean I’m dishonoring Matt or somehow “replacing” him. I will never replace Matt. Whoever accompanies me through my next chapter will understand my past, respect my heart and the room Matt takes up in it, and stand by my side knowing that I’m not “over it,” but living alongside my love and loss. It is not an easy task, and surely not for someone afraid of “complicated.”  This was hard to write. I don’t talk a lot about finding love again. It’s awkward, and scary, and opens me up to a lot of judgment. But part of learning to live authentically is learning to love myself authentically and stop f*cking caring what everyone else thinks of me and my choices…to put it in Matt terms 🙂

So, that’s where I’m at. I’m going to talk a lot about grief, about hard subjects, and about what it’s like integrating grief into my post-traumatic growth. I’ll give the highs and lows equal attention because they both exist.  I want Bryson to grow up in a culture where crying doesn’t mean you aren’t capable of handling situations as they come your way.  I want him to know it’s ok *and healthy* to cry when you’re hurting, just like it’s ok to laugh and smile when you’re happy. Sometimes, you’re doing both at the same time.

I’ve done a lot of freaking work to get myself into a headspace where the thought of *really* moving forward, the thought of carving out a life of meaning and purpose, the thought of taking chances and learning to love deeply again is possible. And, I’m only just beginning. 

Until next time, 

Xtina