George with baby Buster.
Our dog Buster has become an old man in three months.
Prior to George’s death he was in good shape, moving a little slower, but fine. He could climb steps, jump on furniture, whatever he wanted to do.
Since it happened, he stands at the bottom of the stairs each night, rocking like r2d2, whining for help. He is a wreck! He has trouble with the stairs up to the bed. We had to get him some stairs so that he can get in the bed. But he stands at the bottom of the three step contraption, rocking and whining.
He’s stiff, too. He can’t take the cold. He is listless and seems a bit confused. He follows me from room to room, watching me carefully. He lays in bed pushed up against me, wanting me to pet him and when I stop he looks up and whines.
This is all night long.
We’re working it out.
His decline isn’t the only one in the house. I’m aching and stiff, just worn out by any activity more than walking across the room. So shopping for Christmas presents and groceries is exhausting. I feel like something has leeched out of me, some kind of energy that I had and now I’ve lost. Even Sara is moving slow.
My brain is foggy, too. I have slight aphasia (word substitution), and what my friend Cathy Hendrix calls “vocabular amnesia.” Its as if I had a mild stroke. I search for words, sometimes twice in a sentence, or I talk smoothly and substitute words like “long” for “heat.” I always know when I have said the wrong word and correct myself, but still.
So I was feeling very anxious about all of this. Then I started reading “The Year of Magical Thinking,” by Joan Didion about her writer husband John Dunne’s sudden death from massive cardiac arrest. He died while they were having a conversation, as she was fixing dinner.
She is a great writer, and it is a powerful book. In it she discusses the common belief that grief is not an emotional event that requires any special attention. Rather, it is something to “get through” or “get over.” She opines that this is not true. She sees it as more of a syndrome with certain symptoms and stages. Physical symptoms like lack of balance, weakness and stiffness. Mental symptoms like memory loss and trouble thinking. Speech problems.
Also, she says that researchers have found that people who are recently widowed should not be left alone for extended periods of time, and not at all in the first month or so after the death. They should not drive. They often cannot eat. They should not be allowed to make big decisions.
She also explains studies that have found that grief comes in waves. I can attest that the wave theory is true. It’s an up and down life after your spouse dies. As to the other things she mentions, I have them all.
The Year of Magical Thinking
She calls her book “The Year of Magical Thinking,” mainly because against everything she knows, she kept believing that her husband was still alive for the first year after his death. I totally relate to this. I was there when George died. I saw it. I felt it. I had told the doctors to stop support. And yet, I have the persistent feeling that he is not dead.
I still expect him to come home any minute. When the phone rings, I check the number to see if it is him. A couple of times Quest Diagnostics has called, and I had a leap of hope. This is not something I can rationally control. I check my email and scan the new messages, looking for his email address. I am starting to look through his things to get rid of, but I keep thinking, “He’s gonna be so mad if I get rid of this,” or “He will kill me if I sell this.” I can’t help it. I do it without thinking, then suddenly catch myself.
Then there’re night night noises. He always came home at night. Late.
The other night I was laying in bed, fighting insomnia as usual, and I heard running steps. Buster and Lily were in the bed with me, pressed against either side of me. So it wasn’t them. Buster would have barked if the sound was unfamiliar. So I figured it wasn’t an intruder. Sara was in Tuscaloosa. I laid there thinking, “He’s home.” A minute later, Simon, our rabbit, bounced into the room. He’d gotten out of his cage and was adventuring around the house. He hopped up the stairs to the bed and joined us. Good grief. Way to scare the wits out of me, Simon. He just twitched his ears at me.
Then there’s the bed. I won’t change the sheets. I know its irrational, and its been a long, long time for sheets, but I can’t bring myself to do it because they smell like him.
Another weird thing is happening, what I call the “cloning hope syndrome.” I keep wondering if we can grow another George. Something has to have his DNA. Maybe the hair in his brush? His toothbrush, that would have DNA. Or maybe some of his ashes? We could grow him back, right? Yes its freaky, but its not something I can control.
Finally there is the “What am I going to do?” thing. After he died, it was all I said. I would turn to Lorna, or Sara, or my mom and say, “What am I going to do?”
I still say it often, and I think it all the time. All the time. It refers to different things. Sometimes its immediate, as in, “What am I going to do about the trash?” sometimes its more far reaching, as in “What am I going to do for the rest of my life?” Most times its “What am I going to do without George, without a husband, a partner?” Things are starting to get worked out, but still I ask, “What am I going to do?”
George’s cousin Anthony told a childhood story about borrowing his grandmother’s bike so he and George and his brother could ride it. It was a tandem bike, and dear to her. They got on and George put his foot into the pedal, which had a strap around it. The pedal broke. George turned immediately to Anthony, the youngest, and said, “You busted it.” Anthony blanched. Anthony’s brother Andre agreed. “You busted it,” he said. Anthony stood there, scared to death, sure his grandmother was going to kill him. They rode around, Anthony on the middle handlebars, and occasionally George would whip his head around and peer at Anthony. “You busted it!” he would growl.
They continued until they got home, and then told their grandmother George had broken the pedal. Anthony sighed a sigh of relief.
You busted it!
For the rest of his life, George would occasionally whip his head around at Anthony, or someone else, and say, “You busted it!” and they always broke into gales of laughter.
It’s pretty funny until you’re the person who feels “busted,” like I do. And all I have to say to George is, “You busted it.”
If he was here he’d laugh.
But he’s not. I’m pretty sure…
Unless he’s on the way home?
But he couldn’t be, could he?
I forget.
To buy “The Year of Magical Thinking” go to the very bottom of this page and click on the book carousel, where you can find other books on grief after the death of a loved one.
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{ 5 comments }
depression is a physical thing with mental consequences as well. throw in a little post-traumatic stress on top of that, and you sound like someone doing pretty well under the circumstances. there will be times you will not think clearly. i chased after a woman in a grocery store some years ago who looked enough like a recently deceased friend that i could suddenly believe her death and funeral had been a dream. this happens. all the more reason to make sure that you have some sources of clear thinking at your disposal. after hurricane katrina we were all half-crazed for quite awhile–and since everyone was affected it was worse. no buffer, you know? no objective help with problem-solving, limited emotional resources…it is not the same thing as your loss but i certainly remember some of the symptoms you describe…
You guys certainly had quite a reason to feel depression and grief. I had a mild case of it, and I was up here. My whole family was affected by Katrina. My parents were going to ride out the storm in a hotel, and only decided to leave when Lily, then three I guess, got on the phone and said, “Run away from the storm, Grandma.”
My sister worked at the VA and it flooded. Her condo building was looted. Her neighbors were threatened. She came out of Katrina without a job.
My parents house was severely damaged and had over $20,000 just in damage to trees.
My sister Laura’s house had eight feet of water and wasn’t livable for over a year.
My family stayed with me for three months, then went home and fixed their houses and moved up here, except for Laura who couldn’t leave her job.
I’ve been to New Orleans twice since Katrina and felt vaguely sick the whole time. Sad, depressed and wistful. I think everyone who went through that tragedy is amazing for getting through and moving on, especially those who chose to stay in the city and forge on. I think about it all the time. I admire you guys so much. I love New Orleans, and New Orleanians.
Thanks for the comments, Bets. xoxo
One word….TIME.
Hugs to you and Lily,
Joy
Dear Lisa,
After Casey, my son, died I had what I now call a complete system overhall of my wireing. My brain is forever changed. The “vocaubular amnesia” as Cathy calls it is somewhat semi-perminant, for me. I have large chunks of time that as I look back fifteen years later, I just don’t remember. Whether this is a blessing or a curse, I just don’t know, but it is what it is. I was by myself for two years after my son died and it was not pleasant at all, I worked a lot but when I was home it was horrible. I had TV’s on in every room all the time. I had to have noise in the house. I was used to a teenage boy who was very noisy and always had friends over, then there was nothing, no noise, this horrible lack of sound drove me crazy.
That was then and this is now….fifteen years later and I am married with a twelve year old daughter and if you would have told me this fifteen years ago I would have told you that you were crazy. God is good. Some how I got from then to now. I don’t know how except one minute at a time. Which lead to one day at a time, which lead to one year at a time.
I still have problems with depression. I still have problems with “vocabulary amnesia”. I still can’t stand the quite. I am forever changed. I refer to it as a short circuit in the wiring…..and like your friend said, post traumatic stress disorder. This type of trauma, losing a loved one, a husband, a child, is the worst type of trauma a human being can suffer and it is a pysical and mental change in our being forever. The author you have been reading is very wise and I am going to get this book and read it.
Going through your loss with you is helping me by reflecting on my loss and realizing the physical and mental changes that still affect me today, but also the many many blessings that the Lord has heaped on me. I am also able to reflect on the many times that Our Father was the one that set the alarm, got out of bed, and faced another day. It wasn’t me that is for sure. I was not able. Thank you Lord.
Thank you Lisa for allowing me to share your grief, for sharing your grief is helping me to heal even more, even now. Thank you!
Sincerely,
Sharon Mullally
Dear Sharon,
Your words and humbling and make me hope that writing in public instead of in a notebook might be of some good to someone. When I my divorce from my first husband was pending, I was so distraught. He fairly suddenly decided he didn’t want to be married to me and wanted to pursue other things. We’d been together 14 years. It was (before this happened) the worst thing that ever happened to me. It is awful to dumped. There’s no other way to put it. It makes you question everything about yourself, and it was the first (and only) time in my life I’d encountered such betrayal from a loved one.
Of course, that breakup was well timed, because George divined my pain and showed up to save the day. And he really did save me. He sort of shoveled me up off the floor and propped me up and made me look natural, if you know what I mean. I was in shock. He took care of me, loved me, made me whole and secure again. If you had told me even a year before all this happened that it was in my future I would have thought you were crazy. Maybe I was the crazy one in my misguided security.
Anyway, George did show up, he did help me rebuild my life, and it became his life too and that was wonderful for both of us. Now that he’s gone I am wondering, “What am I going to do?” But I know I will do something, and I will be happy again someday. I like to be happy, and George wanted me to be happy. So I will be, one day. Just can’t imagine what form that happiness will take without him. So I absolutely know what you mean, and I understand your aversion to quiet, and your depression, and your pain. I hope you heal more every day, and I hope the same for myself. Thanks so much for your note.
Lisa
PS I have a link to the Joan Didion book at the very bottom of the page. You can order it and other books about grief from Amazon.
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