In early February, I started meeting with a grief counselor provided by Sutter Hospice. I’ve met with her twice (and will meet with her again tomorrow); I’m finding that meeting with someone face-to-face seems to be much more helpful than the virtual therapy I tried last fall. Being able to look someone in the eyes - and read their body language - is much more helpful than watching someone on a computer screen, especially when the WiFi is wonky! That said, the weeks since our last session have been difficult for me emotionally. Tonight - only two days into the work week - I feel entirely drained.
Over the last month, I’ve tried to strike a balance between giving myself a break for being tired and making sure that I keep up on household chores. I’ve never been a great housekeeper (and to be honest, Sami wasn’t either), but I’ve tried to do the things that I know would astonish Sami - I’ve made my bed every day, I’ve kept up with laundry and dishes, I’ve tried to maintain the yard. I’ve even vacuumed the house on a weekly basis! But I’ve also tried to cut myself some slack - the house is dusty, and the windows need washing! The garage is a disaster.
I am so fortunate to work for an organization (the University of California) that fully embraces the Family Medical Leave Act (FMLA) - what a blessing to be able to be with Sami through multiple surgeries, multiple hospital stays, and (ultimately) through the process of her death. But I’ve realized over these last several weeks that while I took advantage of my FMLA leave to care for her, I failed to use my leave to grieve. After Sami passed in August, I went right back to work.
To be fair, I know that I grieved throughout Sami’s illness - anticipatory loss is a term I learned last year. We knew that a brain tumor was serious, and we learned that glioblastoma was ultimately incurable. I experienced sadness, anxiety, and anger throughout the seven months between Sami’s first symptoms and her ultimate passing. But I’ve realized over these last several weeks that once she died, I never really paused to reflect on (and mourn over) what her death meant to me. I simply kept going.
I suppose all caregivers experience some regret. Recently, one of the things I’ve realized I regret is that Sami and I didn’t revisit some of the places that were so important to us as a couple (like the ocean - I was always a mountain person, while she loved the sea). We all hoped that the three weeks we spent in San Francisco in June were an investment in getting to spend more time doing the things we loved once Sami felt better. I wonder, now, if we should have just done those things in the moment. She never (really) felt better.
Last week, I learned of a book by C.S. Lewis called A Grief Observed, about the loss of his wife. I loved the Chronicles of Narnia, but I’ve never read his nonfiction work. I listened to the audio book enough to know that I’ll need to read the book (partly because I couldn’t totally follow the British accent of the narrator), but several ideas stood out to me.
First, Lewis talks about the utter physical exhaustion he experienced after his wife passed. I think I’ve denied my own exhaustion. I simply kept going (on adrenaline?) after Sami died - organizing extension workshops and settling her affairs. Perhaps this explains why I’m so drained tonight! Second, Lewis wrote that the bargain we make when we marry someone is that one of us will be left behind (I’m reminded of Jason Isbel’s song If we were Vampires). These are lessons we can only learn after the fact, I think.
The month of March 2024 has been difficult. I’ve realized that I need to mourn for Sami’s loss (still). I’ve realized that being in large crowds wears me out more than it used to - and that recovering from being in a crowd takes longer (maybe I really am an introvert?!). Maybe my social battery is more easily drained at the moment? I’ve begun to understand that when others don’t share my need to talk about my loss, they are not being insensitive - they simply have not experienced what I’ve experienced. I’m beginning to recognize that the act of writing - AND the act of sharing my writing - is therapeutic for me (thank you, readers). As the title of Lewis’s book suggests, everyone’s grief is different. And hopefully, I’ve begun to accept that I’m still in a place where I need to be sad - to sit with my grief.
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