The Firsts

I posted this three months after Rick passed. I found myself struggling to get through the days simplest of tasks. The ebb and flow of grief, the roller coaster of emotions has been challenging for me. Growing up in my family, emotions were frowned upon, especially crying. I learned at a noticeably early age to push those “bad” feelings down and I was good at it. That being said, my life with Rick was spectacular. He was so patient with me that within a few years we settled into our life together. Raising kids is not for the faint of heart. There were aspects to it we both loved and a few things we disliked. Regardless, it was an amazing adventure together. After each kid graduated, we would high five and say, “Two down…” We were in it together all the way!

 When the kids were school aged, I kept a calendar on the kitchen wall. For 15 years, it held my secrets to the organized chaos that was our household. We traveled with the kids, mostly road trips and camping trips in the summer. I don’t even know how many trips to Disneyland we took! As the kids got older and didn’t need babysitters,  we started doing more as a couple. We were good at parenting together and we enjoyed hanging out just the two of us. For thirty-six years I felt the joy that life had to give. We lived life to the fullest, and I was incredibly grateful for it. We didn’t put things off. “Just do it” so you can look back and have zero regrets. I’m so thankful that’s how we lived! I can’t imagine if we had put off everything until retirement, that would have made regret a part of this grief and that sounds unbearable.

Although the feelings of grief were overwhelming, I was committed to not shortcutting it. I would be congruent in my grief, because that is the best way to honor the man who loved me his whole life. However, sadness and pain were in the forefront, and it was an uncomfortable place for me to sit. I was terrified I would become incapable of being happy again. I was frustrated that I had little control over my tears. Worse, it felt as though healing was moving at a snail’s pace. Whenever I had a good day, I would feel like my heart would burst at the seams with relief. This is where I turn the corner and am healed! I finally beat grief! I would proudly declare, “I totally got this!”

I was wrong.

Every time I think I'm finding my new normal, grief says, “just joking” and knocks the proverbial wind out of me. When I would reveal proudly that I was having more good than bad days, meant I was getting control of life again. Depression was getting a hold on me, and I barely noticed. Suddenly, I was really struggling. I had previously taken a job as a clinical director for a practice with two facilities. I knew sitting around was bad for my mental health and keeping busy would help me through this. It worked great until it didn’t. If I spend too many days pretending to be happy and upbeat, not giving my grief enough attention, that is when it gets a hold on me. It seems worse than if I had faced it right away. In one minute, I'm transported to that horrible night he was ripped from our lives, leaving me trembling and vulnerable. My breath coming in gasps, my heart threatening to explode out of my chest. It is not only horrendous but confusing for me. I’m stunned as I wonder what is happening to me.

What I was slowly coming to understand is grief has an ebb and flow. It is completely normal to feel the ups and downs because grief is not linear. I had no idea. It was so confusing at first. Now I am more cautious about declaring that I am staying on top of the pain. I now say, “today is a great day.” I know I will have more bouts of depression and I have to be okay with it if I’m going to survive. I suppose that is where the true strength comes in. It’s not in how good you are at hiding the grief, it comes in a different form. To experience all aspects of your grief journey,  no matter how inconvenient, is undeniably brave. Honestly, I am writing this for you, as much as for myself.

I'm learning that one cannot fight grief. You may succeed in pushing it down temporarily, but at some point, twenty years from now, it will be seen, heard, and faced. I would rather tend to it now than later. So why am  I stunned when it jumps up out of nowhere? I am trying to find the beauty within this pain, but there isn’t any. I despise this entire process. Every ugly part of it. It's like this constant, unwanted companion lurking in the periphery, watching and waiting to fuck up my day. I know it's there; I feel it every second of every day. I wish I could bitch slap it out of my life, but I am stuck with it for now.

The last few weeks I was having more dark, intrusive thoughts. When I started telling myself that my kids would be OK without me;  surely, they understood that my life was no life without their dad; I realized I could not fix this myself. Even though I have done hard things, this was different. I needed help.

 I saw a psychiatrist.

She was insightful and thoughtful as she validated what was happening was completely normal grief. She gave me a new prescription that would work synergistically with my antidepressant. Imagine my relief when I felt it working almost immediately! I don’t share this to shock you or worry you, but for you to see the complexity of grief. I had absolutely no idea what was ahead of me on that May night when Rick left us. I simply didn’t know because we as a culture either grieve in silence or hide it. Every awful piece of it remains one of life’s great mysteries: How to Survive Grief. It is my hope that when someone finds themselves thrown headfirst into grief, they will think of my journey, and it will help them in some way.

Three weeks into the new meds, the foreboding feelings subsided along with the dark thoughts. As I was feeling better, I braced myself for what was coming next. This last week was brutal, and next week will be just as rough. Once again, I found myself hoping I could push through the hard days one step at a time.

Rick's 55th birthday was November 20th. It was a distressing day filled with bitter tears and a longing to see him so desperately that it made my body ache. I couldn't bring myself to look at his Facebook and see all the birthday wishes or comments from those friends and family who loved him, too.

Then it was the dreaded Monday, twenty-six have passed since I last saw him. Monday mornings are particularly hard, but it is easier to get through them. However, I was filled with bitterness at the thought that this would have been his last day at Boeing! He was supposed to retire on his birthday. What a spectacular birthday present he was going to give to himself! I imagined his face lighting up with excitement! We would be celebrating all his hard work that allowed him to retire early! It was this common goal we had since we started our family when we were so young. It was falling into place so perfectly, until-

BOOM! It wasn’t.

All I could do was shake my head in disbelief, bitter tears streaming down my face, I declared defiantly, “You were robbed, Poohy!”

It is one of life's cruel jokes that will play on in my mind forever. (Insert middle finger here.) I managed to make it through to his actual birthday, then for some reason, it was the next day that wrecked me, and I wasn’t prepared for it at all. That day I stayed in bed, called in sick, then proceeded to scream at God for the unfairness that he took this man who worked tirelessly for his family every single day. His reward for all his hard work? Dead at 54. Six short months from retirement.

Reduced to a box of ashes.

Two days later, on Wednesday was six months since our nightmare began. It seems like an eternity since I felt his big hugs, or him kissing my lips, or hearing one of his belly laughs. How can it simultaneously hurt my heart as if it were only yesterday?

Twenty-six Mondays. One hundred eighty-two days. Four-thousand three hundred sixty-eight hours. Wasn’t it a lifetime ago? I ache for him. He’s my first thought upon waking and my last thought as I drift off to sleep. I wish that by some miracle he would walk through the door with his big, crooked grin. Or that I would wake up, rollover and tell him about my horrible nightmare when he died in his shop, and we  cried and begged for him to come back to us. He would cringe and say, “Awww. Babe, I’m not going anywhere. I’m sorry! What a horrible dream.”

The following day was Thanksgiving. It was equally hard. We did our share of crying and sharing memories of him. We still talk about losing him and how it was affecting each of our lives. Unfortunately, our day was not filled with laughter and family shenanigans as it had been Thanksgiving pasts. I didn't care to cook the typical Thanksgiving feast which was our tradition. But the kids made an amazing spread of food, just like their dad would want it. I filled a plate for him too and set it next to me where he would have sat.

For the last thirty Thanksgivings we have written on a white tablecloth why we are thankful. It has been a lovely way to see our family story unfold. None of us could bring ourselves to write on it this year. I suppose we just couldn't bear to. We did, however, enjoy looking at what he wrote through the years with both hollow laughter and bittersweet tears. Every single one was about his endless love for me and our amazing family. He loved us so big and that is why the hole in our lives is the size of a crater. Every day of last week was hard, and each time grief knocked me down, I got up, dusted myself off and kept trying. People tell me how brave I am, but I don’t believe it, yet.

I would like to leave you with some things that I'm thankful for, because a few weeks ago it would be difficult to come up with one. I am thankful for the 41 years I have been with Rick. I'm thankful that he died here with me and not up in Washington. I'm thankful that we grew up together and had so many adventures as a family. I'm thankful that we took that one final trip to Vegas when he didn't want to spend the money. I'm thankful that we went to several Bay Pen competitions instead of spending all our time being responsible and working in our yard. Lastly, I'm so thankful and blessed that he chose me to love for his entire life. Like the saying goes “and I will spend the rest of my life missing him.”

Old friends, thank you for supporting me and showing up when I wasn’t able. If you are a new friend and read this to the end, thank you. Together we can help change our very broken grief culture, one piece at a time. If you feel up for it, send me something about how the holidays have changed for you or ways they impacted you once you lost your loved one. I love you for seeing me in my grief and not being afraid of my brokenness. That is the best anyone can do for now.

In contrast, to give some of you in early grief some hope. This was the third holiday season without Rick. As Thanksgiving rolled around, I realized I wanted to decorate my house for Christmas. Something I hadn’t done since Rick died. Christmas has always been my favorite holiday. I decided that bringing him with me and including his memory in our Christmas traditions would be good for my heart. So, I did. I created a sort of Whoville in my dining room and made a Grinch chair in memory of Rick’s Grinchy side. I made a miniature Christmas house complete with a Grinch wreath above the mantle on the mini fireplace. I set a picture of him on an empty chair. While it was sad to decorate without him, I thought of all the times we gave each other so much shit as I insisted our house be the most lit up house on the block. Our banter back and forth usually made everyone laugh, ourselves included.

One year, I accused him of not bringing up all the Christmas bins. I knew exactly what was missing and how many bins I had. He retorted with, “Woman. How can you know how many bins you have when you have a million?” To which I replied, “That is an exaggeration, Richard. I had forty, and you only brought up thirty-five. Nice try. Now, go get those bins.” And he would stomp away pretending to be annoyed. Or maybe he sincerely was!

As I pulled old decorations out of the bins, I smiled at our funny memories we shared as a couple and as a family while I slowly decorated the house. I missed him terribly, especially when our youngest son, Wade read Twas the Night Before Christmas. The same one that Rick had read the last thirty-five Christmas Eves. Even more special after Wade finished reading it, Rylie, our 13-month-old granddaughter started saying Papa! Then she waved and said clearly, “Hi Papa, hi.” We paused and looked at each other incredulous. Immediately after that the dining room lights started to flicker. I felt his presence, confirmed by Rylie, who had never met him before and for the first Christmas in three years, I finally felt at peace.