My response to a widow who wrote:
... I am a complete zombie. People ask me what do I do all day. Well, hum, I have a 3 yr old and 6 yr old and I am running at maybe 20%. My mind is running at 100 miles per hour, yet it takes every ounce of energy to put away the laundry or make a phone call.
This is the long part and I fear it only gets longer. You read where people don't call as much and feel you should move on. I never thought that would be true. But it is. Everybody else's day-to-day life continues the same.
I feel like I am waiting. Waiting for what? I do not know but it feels like waiting. I walk around the house saying "Make it happen, Make it happen" to try to motivate myself to get started on moving forward. I'm not sure if it is working.
You've nailed it for me (except I have a 2 yr old and a 6 yr old). I'm a week behind you, and I, too feel like I'm waiting for something to change. At about 3 months, I realized that I was waiting for Nick to come home. But I know that's not going to happen, so I'm trying to figure out what it is I'm waiting for this time.
And here's something weird -- I don't know if I can express it well -- I have felt no pain, no elephant sitting on my chest, no searing agony in my heart, no kick to the solar plexus. It seems like my body should be carrying some reflection of the misery of my heart and soul. I hear people talking about their pain, and people tell me that they can't imagine my pain... and all I can think is, "but it doesn't hurt." And it seems like it should. I guess I'm still numb... or maybe God's being merciful because if my body felt the pain that my spirit does I'd need a round-the-clock morphine drip.
Sigh. Take a deep breath and move into the next moment.
Sunday, January 16, 2005
Friday, January 07, 2005
Where my WidowRoad began
Nicholas died of a glioblastoma, one week after it was diagnosed. He started getting really bad headaches in early July 2004; his doctor thought they might be related to the new asthma/allergy drugs he was taking. "Stop taking them and call me in a month." (He was dead in a month, you glassbowl!)
He started having dizzy spells, and the headaches got worse and worse. When he blacked out on Sunday, August 1, I took him straight to the ER. I knew it was not good. The ER doctor said, "Your husband has a brain tumor. I don't know what kind it is, but it's big and it's right in the middle of his brain. I'm sorry."
They did a biopsy on August 4, to confirm their suspicions of a glioblastoma. Nick started having seizures on the way to the recovery room and he never regained consciousness. On Sunday, August 8, just one week after they found the monster, I had to tell the doctors to take away the things that were keeping him alive. Nobody should ever have to do that for someone they love! He just slipped away so peacefully... "Time of death, 9:12 p.m." -- a phrase that haunts my waking nightmares.
I later learned that the glioblastoma multiform is the worst of all the brain tumors, that Nick never had any chance of survival. For him, it was the best thing -- he didn't have to endure the pointless chemo and radiation, he didn't have to know that he was losing his beautiful mind, he didn't have to watch us watch him be devoured by the monster in his brain.
For me, it was unbearable. We purposely didn't talk about "it" before the biopsy -- no use getting worked up about something until we know exactly what we're dealing with. So we never said our goodbyes; we never said all the things you would say to your dearest love if you knew...
He started having dizzy spells, and the headaches got worse and worse. When he blacked out on Sunday, August 1, I took him straight to the ER. I knew it was not good. The ER doctor said, "Your husband has a brain tumor. I don't know what kind it is, but it's big and it's right in the middle of his brain. I'm sorry."
They did a biopsy on August 4, to confirm their suspicions of a glioblastoma. Nick started having seizures on the way to the recovery room and he never regained consciousness. On Sunday, August 8, just one week after they found the monster, I had to tell the doctors to take away the things that were keeping him alive. Nobody should ever have to do that for someone they love! He just slipped away so peacefully... "Time of death, 9:12 p.m." -- a phrase that haunts my waking nightmares.
I later learned that the glioblastoma multiform is the worst of all the brain tumors, that Nick never had any chance of survival. For him, it was the best thing -- he didn't have to endure the pointless chemo and radiation, he didn't have to know that he was losing his beautiful mind, he didn't have to watch us watch him be devoured by the monster in his brain.
For me, it was unbearable. We purposely didn't talk about "it" before the biopsy -- no use getting worked up about something until we know exactly what we're dealing with. So we never said our goodbyes; we never said all the things you would say to your dearest love if you knew...
Thursday, January 06, 2005
Another thing I hate hearing
... is how "strong" I am. How people "admire" me for my "bravery" and my "dignity." How "inspiring" my example is.
I AM NOT STRONG!!! I am doing the things I need to do because my two little boys need me to do them. But I am not strong. I am so small, so tiny in the face of the huge monster that has devoured my life. The beast is huge and ugly and there is nothing I can do to get rid of it. It stands there blocking my way, just daring me to try...
Yes, I get out of bed every day and I get the boys to school and the house is reasonably clean and most of the laundry is folded and I've gotten the finances squared away and and and and ... But this is not strength. It is survival.
Vent vent vent
Can you tell I'm fed up and tired?
I AM NOT STRONG!!! I am doing the things I need to do because my two little boys need me to do them. But I am not strong. I am so small, so tiny in the face of the huge monster that has devoured my life. The beast is huge and ugly and there is nothing I can do to get rid of it. It stands there blocking my way, just daring me to try...
Yes, I get out of bed every day and I get the boys to school and the house is reasonably clean and most of the laundry is folded and I've gotten the finances squared away and and and and ... But this is not strength. It is survival.
Vent vent vent
Can you tell I'm fed up and tired?
Tuesday, January 04, 2005
Five months
In response to a new member's post
Nick died 5 months ago on this Saturday; the last I touched him was burying my face next his in the casket. I didn't care about the oil and ashes covering my face and clothes. I just wanted to be with him. I wanted to go with him. And if I didn't have to stay here for my boys, I probably would have gone with him.
Go home and cry and be there where your love dwells. If you want to be alone, go alone; if you don't want to be alone, take someone with you. Listen to your heart and don't look up. Because as you said, looking into the future is more than you can bear. Take a deep breath, and do the only thing you can: Step gently into the next moment.
Nick died 5 months ago on this Saturday; the last I touched him was burying my face next his in the casket. I didn't care about the oil and ashes covering my face and clothes. I just wanted to be with him. I wanted to go with him. And if I didn't have to stay here for my boys, I probably would have gone with him.
Go home and cry and be there where your love dwells. If you want to be alone, go alone; if you don't want to be alone, take someone with you. Listen to your heart and don't look up. Because as you said, looking into the future is more than you can bear. Take a deep breath, and do the only thing you can: Step gently into the next moment.
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