The Thick, Heavy Fog

   In the Widowhood effect blog I shared recently the author said:  

"No one warned me about the cognitive impairment that comes with grief. Tears, heartache, depression – these are expected, but the sustained diminishment of my thinking skills astonishes me.... I find myself unable to access the most rudimentary information. I no longer instinctively know the year with certainty."

    This too is something I had not anticipated, and have struggled with.   From what I've been able to learn, it's a coping mechanism where the brain is trying to protect from further trauma and can last from months to even years.  While its great that my body is trying to protect me, it sure does make things difficult.   Considering the endless challenging emotions, situations and tasks to overcome, needing to complete them while in a "fog" makes them even more difficult.        

     

     I've really bombarded and expected a lot of my brain for the past ten years. Trying to understand all of the challenging medical terminology, working a full time job, keeping everything for a household running.   Heck just keeping track and making sure he didn't run out of a medication was a no small challenge.   I'm so very grateful for all it was able to do.   But I feel as if it reached it's limit and has gone on strike.   Returning to work a month after he passed was insanely hard and extremely overwhelming.   My brain was not ready.  It has now been about three months and slowly, little bit by little bit things have improved.   I often still struggle to get through the day and through the week, but I'm accomplishing things at work, often some very deep thinking problems.      

     

     However, trying to make sure to be mindful of me, I've recognized that I need to do my best to give my brain a break.    While I some evenings or weekends I've felt like I want to "do something", my brain usually protests and says not tonight.  It refuses to even think of what "doing something" could be and I've tried to recognize and respect that my brain has reached it's limit.   So usually after making something to eat, I find something to watch on TV.  Usually not paying much attention and being super annoyed by commercials.   Then I write in my journal, telling my sweetheart about my day.   Then off to bed, tossing and turning quite a bit before finally falling asleep.   

     I've doing better at surviving the week at work, only to get to the dreaded weekend.   With way too much time to fill.   I dread the weekends, and it bothers me immensely.  This is not normal, weekends  are awesome.    Ugg!  As well, the hobbies and past times I once enjoyed, such as video games were typically always shared with my sweetheart.   So while I have hope that one day they will be fun again, right now they are a painful reminder that he's not here.   

     In order to survive a life with cancer I had really stepped up my efforts to make Sunday truly a day of rest.   Most of the time this meant sleeping in and simply being with my sweetheart.   I avoided doing laundry or cleaning, and often would take a nap.   On rare occasions, I would enjoy one of my favorite pastimes reading a good book.    Now I have plenty of time to read, but lack the brain power or desire to do so.   The young widow in the blog described it well.                

     "I couldn't read novels for many months after Spencer died. My interest in the fantasies of someone else's imagination plummeted to nil. This, to me, indicated that I was truly broken. I felt some comfort when I read an interview with the poet Edward Hirsch. Hirsch, who lost his son in 2011 to a drug-related accident, said he couldn't read in the aftermath of his son's death. "To be left with myself and being unable to read meant I was unrecognizable to myself," he said."

     The way they both describe it... "I was truly broken" and "unrecognizable to myself" really resonates with me.  I've worked in a bookstore for more than half of my life and had a love of reading instilled in me as a young child.   It was a rare treasure to read a sweet romance and be reminded of my thoughtful husband and our amazing story.   I believe that one day my ability and love of reading will return, but for now the lack of brain power or desire to do something that I once treasured feels like yet another profound loss.   

     As I sit here and write this however, I'm struck with a profound sense of gratitude.   I may not have the brain power to read, but I at least have been blessed with the strength to write.   It seems counterintuitive and that writing would also take brain power that I don't have, but somehow it doesn't.  While some days I may lack the emotional fortitude to write, the days when I do I often feel better.    It's a great opportunity for me pause, reflect, acknowledge and express the changes that have happened and are happening.   Tears typically stream down my cheeks, but they at least feel productive instead of just sad.  I'm grateful that along the difficult journey of the past years that I've gained a different hobby without even planning on it.   I've been given the gift of writing to help me through my pain.