Nothing Good About Grief - another piece

Part II: Life as a Widow

There's a Butterfly Trapped in a Spider's Web

The first few weeks after your spouse dies are probably the easiest.

Why?

You are numb. In shock. You are operating on autopilot; your life is in suspended-animation. It is likely that friends and family members are fawning over you to help. Yes, it’s emotional and sad and devastating - particularly the day of whatever service you plan - but as bad as it is, it only gets worse as time marches on.

That’s the whole problem, you see. Things keep going. You are just getting off the funeral merry-go-round but instead of stepping from the slow-moving carousel to steady ground, you are planting both feet on the top of the rapidly-spinning roller coaster of life.

Nothing stops. The lawn guy still mows your lawn, the dopey chick who serves you coffee at Starbucks is still nonsensical and chatty; people still give you the finger while stuck in traffic on 836.

And it’s all wrong.

They should realize that your spouse is gone. They too should miss the great energy that embodied Rich Harris. Everyone should recognize that you are emotionally hobbled and limping around like a mental patient, regardless of how well you hide it.

It’s frustrating as hell.

You want to tell your story to everyone you meet.

I made this mistake two days after he died. I had to get out of my house. Within 24hrs after Rich’s death, my house was filled with well-meaning family members, his and mine. And after the initial tears and hugs and discussion (“so tell me, Lisa, what do YOU think it was that killed him? Was he taking his meds?”) There’s not a lot to do, but sit…and wait. Wait for the service to make it final. For the thing to be done.

So anyway, I couldn’t take it anymore. I had already cleaned the clothes out of his dresser. Why? Symbolic, I suspect. Physical purging = mental purging. So after this phase 1 stage of purging, I decided to go to the mall. Where else do I go when I’m depressed? I drive and I shop.

Of course, everyone was nervous and wanted to join me. Probably thought I might off myself, and although I did consider it very seriously several times (was torn between taking an overdose of his coumadin or just parking my truck on railroad tracks…then I thought of Jacqui and how I couldn’t do that to her), they had nothing to fear. I politely declined and insisted that the time alone would be therapeutic.

And therapeutic it was. I cried the entire time I was in the car. I got to Macy*s, and selected the first two black outfits that I could find: a black pantsuit and a black skirt/jacket (just in case the pantsuit was “too business”...this was the state of my brain). And I proceeded to tell my woeful tale to anyone who would listen - the clerk in the dressing room, the lady waiting in lines, and of course, the cashier heard it too.

Like they really were going to care? What the hell was I thinking? I wish I could tell you how they looked as I yammered on like a robot. I cannot, because I was in such a state, that I don’t even remember looking at them. I think I was looking through them at that point.

You tell your story to just about anyone who is willing to listen. I have a sneaking suspicion that it’s the mind’s way of accepting the death, the loss. You know, if you talk about it aloud enough times, it’s eventually going to sink in that your spouse is really gone - forever - and is never coming back.

As time passes, you begin to read the faces of those listening to your tale. It’s amazing how quickly you get used to the look of absolute horror on someone’s face as you casually explain that yes, your husband was only 42, and yep, he fell flat on his face and died in your kitchen. It’s just a repeat performance for you, you’ve already told the story about 100 times now, but to the listener, it’s more than likely one of the worst things they ever heard, particularly if the listener is a friend or good acquaintance.

It’s hard for them to get a handle on what you are saying because it’s a reminder of their own mortality, and of those they love.

And speaking of looks, shortly after said tragedy, you’ll begin to notice yet another look on those around you. It’s the look of “poor (insert name here)”. It’s a pathetic look, usually with a down turned mouth and slightly furrowed eyebrows. It’s the look of sympathy, the look of “oh man, what do I say to her”, the look of “oh man, I don’t know WHAT to say to her”. And it becomes apparent almost immediately.

This particular look, which I’ll coin “the sympathy look”, will more than likely crop up when you return to work. In my case, I went to work about five days after Rich died.

Most people thought I was crazy.

And maybe I was.

All I knew was that (a) I had to get out of the house and (b) I wanted to get the whole “I’m now back from hell” thing out of the way. I knew that everyone and their brother would come to my office, or walk up to me at the water cooler, and express their sympathies. And I knew that it would get to me each time someone approached. So I figured what the hell. Might as well dive in head first; get it over with, preferably within the first day or so after returning to the office.

So I drove to work. My cell phone was silent. I called his cell phone a few times so I could hear his voice. I listened to his CDs and I cried. And cried. And cried.

The CD that got to me the most, believe it or not, was one of his homemade “mixes”. It had XTC’s “Dear God”, the anthem of every atheist in the 1980’s:

“Dear God, I hope you got the letter and,
I pray you can make it better down here;
We all need a big reduction in the price of beer,
And all the people that you made in your image
See them fighting in the street,
Cause they don’t get enough to eat,
From you…”

And immediately following, the “Heffalump & Woozle” song, from Disney’s Winnie the Pooh:

“A Heffalump or Woozle is very confusel,
The Heffalump or woosel is very sly
Sly - sly - sly
They come in ones and twoosels
But if they so choosels
Before your eyes you'll see them multiply
Ply - ply - ply
Beware. Beware. Be a very wary bear “

Can you see why I loved this man?

An unwavering atheist, who also loved everything and anything Disney. A guy who could teach himself ANYTHING and I mean anything, and then master it. Not just do it, but really master it. He became an expert in everything he did. Always the man of details that was Rich. No one else could ever hold a candle to him. I would now classify him as an old soul. He would’ve laughed if he heard me say that when he was alive; as an atheist, there is no soul.

Back to the story: so I got to my office and immediately noticed that it, too, was frozen in time. My email inbox was still opened (now highlighted in red, with about a bazillion unread emails), the chair still kicked back away from my desk, my desk had all of the papers that I had been looking at on that infamous morning scattered about.

I started to cry again when I looked at my phone. There it sat, something as innocent and innocuous as a frigging telephone, yet guilty as hell for aiding in the delivery of the worst message that I ever received in my life. I wanted to rip it out of the wall but instead just felt the tears well up in my eyes.

My email inbox was no better. All of those unread messages contained notes of sympathy, electronic “thinking of you” and “praying for you” cards.

Ah but the worse was yet to come.

Believe it or not, it wasn’t so bad seeing my co-workers. I received hug after hug, teary-eyed face after teary-eyed face, and managed to keep my shit together. Go me.

The talk with my boss (the General Manager/EVP of our division) went fine. He was in worse shape than me, I think. He had tears in his eyes and gave me such a strong hug that I thought my back was going to break.

So what was the worst thing? Leaving the office at the end of the day.

For the first time in 17 years, no one called to ask when I was leaving, or what I wanted for dinner. No goofy sex talk (“so when you get home, I’m going to lick your eyeball”, etc). Silent phone. Quiet ride home. I cried, and cried and cried until my nose was totally clogged, my throat was sore, and my eyes were stinging from the eye makeup that was getting mixed in with tears.