The moments, the hours...

      It's been a while since I blogged.  The decision I made to stop therapy and blogging weekly have been helpful and life has been a bit more tolerable.   The holidays were hard, I think they will be for a long time.   I can't think of the words to describe the difficulties of the first year.   It was impossibly hard, still feels that way most days, but slowly things have softened.   

      While death is something that happens to everyone, it's such a difficult subject to talk about that we simply often don't.  After his cancer diagnosis, we tried at various times to talk with each other about the most difficult thing we would face, but we always got stuck.     Talking about it also felt like we were giving up hope, and hope was what was getting us through.   My sweetheart, the person who I could talk to about EVERYTHING, who knows me better than anyone, and even we struggled to talk about it.   How are you supposed to ask the one you love more than anything, how to move on without them?   I also regret that we very rarely talked about his experience and feelings of facing death.   I'm certain he had to have been scared and worried, because he worried about everything.   But I think he kept it to himself as another selfless act to protect me.  I know that there were several experiences where he walked the line with death, and I wish we had taken more time to talk about them.   

      While it's easy to wish I was better prepared, I don't know what would have helped.   Even now, after living with grief for more than a year, I still struggle to know what helps.   What seems to help one day doesn't help the next.   Days that I often anticipate being fine, I'm a tearful mess.   Some days are tolerable.   Grief for me has been unpredictable, confusing and exhausting.   A common way of describing grief is that it comes in waves, which I find to be quiet accurate.   Not just that the waves are unpredictable often overwhelming, but I feel that it sucks you out into a large vast ocean, where you must struggle to stay afloat as you try and work your way back to shore.   Some days the sea is calm, some days you have the luxury of a life raft, but many days the storm rages and you are simply trying to stay afloat. 

       I came across this quote that I loved and have reflected on often.   It's never easy to lose someone you love.  I've lost some important people in my life and they were difficult, they changed me.   But nothing compares to the devastation of the loss of a spouse.    For me it has been an entirely different experience compared to previous losses.   

      Grief is different and very unique to the individual, as is how we handle it.   I'm sure that losing someone  you've been married to for a year, is different than our 22, and different for those blessed with 30, 40, 50 or more.  There are different pains and feelings when a relationship was strained or in our case incredibly close and very much in love.   While we knew for 5 years that it was a possibility, I was blindsided with when and how it occurred.  He had recently beaten sepsis, a cold seemed a mere blip on the radar.  

        As I think of how different my life is without him, and all of the things that I've lost, one I miss profoundly is love.   We told each other numerous times throughout the day how much we loved each other.   Often on a typical day when I would sit in another room working we would often call out to each other "I love you."   If I ever got up to stretch my legs, it usually also involved a quick hug or kiss.   But we also didn't just say it, we showed it in our own ways.   It was pure and it was noticeable to those around us.   Leaving behind a gaping hole in its wake.   I still love him, always will.   But it feels like going from real life to a pretend tea party.   I've gone from a life overflowing with love to an empty cup with a gaping hole.   I know that others love me, but they loved me before.   Their efforts to fill my cup are appreciated, but the gaping hole remains.  I'm working on fixing it, but it's a difficult process.   

     Looking back on the past year I'm grateful for the people who have been in the right place at the right time.  The people (often unexpected) who have become a lifeline at a time when I needed them.   I sometimes think that perhaps Chris pulled some strings to make things happen. Sometimes it's someone coming to visit, sometimes it's a simple text that says "Never ever ever forget that I love ❤️ you."   or my sweet mother acknowledging that my grief is painful.   

     As I struggled to get through the first year, it was all about surviving.  But along the way I also tried to identify and acknowledge the difficult days, times or experiences.   I've tried to reflect upon what what helped and what hurt?   No surprise, all of the days (often holidays or anniversaries) I thought were going to be hard were.   I agonized for weeks trying to come up with what would help them or how I would spend them   It most often it was just surviving the day, by acknowledging it but not celebrating it.    What I wasn't prepared for was how well meaning others would often add a pressure to do or feel something they felt would be appropriate.    I'm certain that I had given it much more thought than them, and so along with all the stress of difficult days was also dealing with anger at people who were trying to help .   Being told that I should be doing things differently or wrong just aggravated me.   No one needs a backseat driver when grieving.   As well, when something horrible in life happens, the pressure to make something positive out of it is just extra weight and pressure that makes things more difficult.   

     It's now been almost 500 days since... that day.  Life is different.   Some things are better, some things are worse.   The one thing that hasn't changed is how much I love him.   My hobby of making quotes into images has helped me fill my time and given me a purpose, it's finally starting to grow and it's exciting to watch.   I've been able to feel like I'm connecting with others and making a difference to others (even in just a very minor way).   

     As well, this week I was able to do something that I feel is an important part of my healing.   I returned to the cancer center where we spent so much time.   As Chris would call it, "the Mothership."  It is something I have wanted to do for a long time.  It occupied my thoughts often as I lay in bed awake at night.   Trying to put into words my gratitude for all they do is something that often filled my evenings and weekends.   

        It was incredibly difficult, but I'm so very grateful I went.  I was able to connect with several people who have become like family.    His doctor greeted me with a hug and gave me the cherished gift of his time.   He was incredibly kind, thoughtful and gracious.  He appreciated my humble offerings of gratitude.   He was sincerely concerned about me and how I was doing.   He shared with me things that he has been doing to honor Chris's memory, I am touched with the impact that it will hopefully make on others battling myeloma.  What a beautiful way to make beautiful a tragedy.   He and the team that have worked so hard to build the multiple myeloma clinic are some of the finest people I've ever met.   

 

    I also was able to visit with Amber, the nurse we bonded with early on when his chemo leaked.  Which necessitated Chris going home in a hospital gown with me carrying a haz mat bag with his clothing.    I was able to meet with Kelley his pharmacist who spent countless hours researching dosages and interactions to make sure to find the right dosage so as not to "melt" him with chemo.  I was also even able to meet with Michael the physical therapist who we bonded with in the ICU.   I wasn't sure if he would remember me, but he greeted me and called me "Nurse Michelle".  It was comforting to hear they not only remember, but still talk of him us.  

     Going to Huntsman was something I needed to do as part of my healing journey and I'm grateful for my friend Jen who went with me.  I couldn't have done it alone.   Seeing Huntsman through her eyes, experiencing it from the first time, was also humbling.   It truly is a special place, and such a blessing to have it here on our backyard.  

  

    However instead of feeling that it was done.   I came away with a bit more to do.   I've heard that the real "grief work" often comes in the second year, and that's why some people say that the second year is harder.   But the "homework" I have is a strong desire to speak up and advocate to make things better for others.   Not assigned, but something my heart felt inspired to do.   I don't know what, if anything will come of it.   But hopefully like the visit this week, it will help with healing.   

     The future still feels hard and dark and uncertain.   So for now I'll just keep taking things a day at a time.   Grateful for the little ways in which things have changed.