Grieving

 For the first month, at least, I was numb. Disbelieving. Could not accept that Ken's death was real. I wasn't happy but I didn't feel "sad," really. I didn't feel much at all. 

Suddenly, unexpectedly, I would be stabbed by the thought that he was gone. Sometimes it happened when I saw something and wanted to share it with him, or when I heard a text alert and had a microsecond when I thought it might be him.

Sometimes it just came, suddenly, for no reason that I could discern. 

Most of the time, though, I was just numb. 

I was tired, and I still am tired.  I know that is a symptom of my grief, my loss.

My brain is foggy; my short term memory is far worse than usual. This too is a known symptom of my loss.

Sleep disturbances. Loss of affect. Low motivation. 

Just lately, I am feeling the surges of grief more strongly, more often, more demanding. I did the math:

Ken died 5 weeks ago this past Saturday. On Tuesday, two days ago, it marked 5 weeks since the funeral.

My body remembered, even if I didn't, consciously, at first. Five weeks is about the longest Ken and I were ever apart since we became a couple 43 years ago.

Maybe 3 or 4 times we were separated for about 5 weeks- once or twice when I spent time in Chicagoland with my daughter and her small child(ren) when Ken was still working. Perhaps when I traveled abroad.

I think my body remembered. The loss has started to become real.

There's the business aspect too- changing the name(s) on bank accounts, credit cards, utilities, insurance policies. Changing beneficiaries.

It feels disloyal. It feels like he's being erased.

Part of me can't WAIT to get it OVER with and behind me.

Part of me feels like... well, he's still here, right? He is still somehow present on these links and emails and scraps of paper and contracts.

Silly. Painful. Confusing.

We're having a rough time of it here. I'm in Illinois, with my daughter's family. My daughter has work travel out of state; she didn't want to go. Her anxiety and her grief both wanted to stay here, stay with family. 

I'm here, and her spouse is here, and she left for the the work commitment, more than a week away, more than a week far away. 

We have FaceTime and video messaging. It's not the same. She wants to hold her children, and hug me and share our grief.

Still.

We were making it work.

We are making it work.

Even though the day after she left, her spouse tested positive for Covid and has been isolating, away from me and the children.

Both of the kids have colds. Not Covid: I've tested them both, over howls of protest.

And my grief is rolling in like a storm front that cannot be outrun or dodged, only endured.

In many ways it is healing for me to be with my grandkids. It helps to know that I am helpful, wanted, needed. 

We're more than halfway through my daughter's time away. It's Thursday, and she is back on Monday. Her spouse is feeling better every day, and will test on Saturday, and hopefully test negative and be back with the family.

I am feeling so incredibly lonely and alone and lost and I truly cannot even think about the future. Locally and globally the forces of hatred and fear seem so powerfully on the ascendant, and I have lost my deepest, greatest connection to knowing love, knowing it is true and real and part of me.

I've been thinking, too, about feelings and the words that describe them: I haven't been happy, really, since this happened (when did this happen? September 1, when we went into the hospital? September 9 when he died? September 12 when he was buried?). I have had moments of gladness. I haven't been sad all the time, but always, whether it was front and center or buried and denied, I have been grieving.

Happiness, gladness, joy. These are all different.

Sorrow, grief, sadness. Different. 

I am fearful, too, and more suspicious and paranoid.

I am also more grateful. I am more compassionate, I think. 

I do not know how long any of this will last. 

Time is strange, too. Since the pandemic, I've had trouble with remembering what day it is. Now, time is weirdly distorted.  An hour seems like a minute. An hour seems like an age.