Zombie

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.

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...

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?

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.

How can anything ever be "fine" again?

My email to him is in black, with his response in green...

Abouna, my apologies for pressing the "send" button yesterday. I really didn't need to do that.

There is no need to apologize. If you’re still doing it two years from now we can talk about it.

I'm really "fine" for the most part. As long as I can just look at the task right in front of me, I'm okay. I can do all the day-to-day things, because that's what I do. It's when I start looking ahead that I start to fall apart. I can't bear to see all those tomorrows stretched out in front of me and not see Nick in any of them. That's when I start weeping all over again. Or when I realize that I will never again hear Stephen joyfully shout, "Daddy! Daddy!" and run to the top of the stairs to greet him at the end of the day. What a terrible loss!

Try your best to live in and for the moment. Give some thought to how many things you may have lost sleep over concerning your future with Nick. The virtue of hope is about what God may have beyond our present imagining.

And I can't begin to tell you how incredibly hard it was to be in church on Sunday: to see the men in black in the choir, and not see Nick; to hear the voices singing and not hear his; to see the deacon serving, and it not be him, and it's never going to be him. How can I be in that space and not think about him and not miss him and not ache and break all over again?

Did I say I was fine? I'm not, but you know that. I guess part of what's so unreal is that the day-to-day stuff is.All the material pieces of my life are set ... [snip] ... All these little pieces --- which aren't so little --- are in place, AND I have a tremendous community supporting me. So looking at the big picture, everything is "fine," the boys and I will be "fine."

Please reread that paragraph and think of the alternatives. I often observed that financial security somewhat lightens the grief process. Small consolation but not insignificant.

But there's just this one problem... this one huge gaping hole torn in the fabric of my existence.... how can anything possibly ever be "fine" again?

HOPE.

It will be; I know it. I just can't imagine it, I can't picture it.

HOPE is beyond what we can imagine. If I can imagine it then it is an expectation and not hope.

Because I can't picture my life without Nick in it. Because he IS in it. Always and forever unto ages of ages. Amen.

YES.

I begin to understand the scripture read at our wedding --- love is stronger than death --- and I wonder why the West has that ridiculous line in the wedding vow, "until death do us part." Because he is every bit as much a part of me now as he ever was. And that's when I can take a deep breath and know that I really will be alright. Some day. And always and forever.

YES and NO. Yes, Nick will always be part of your life but, in fact, death does PART us from one another and that is why the hurt is there.

You and Nick fulfilled all three promises you made on the day of your wedding.

• You came freely and without reservation.
• You loved and love one another for the rest of your lives.
• You accepted children and are raising them in the Gospel way.

You did not do two and three in the way you expected almost twelve years ago.

Enough for today’s homily.

Late-night sobbing

Fr. Andrew presided at our wedding; he was our spiritual director for 12 years and continues to be mine; he baptized our first son; he preached at Nick's ordination to the diaconate; he never expected to be preaching at Nick's funeral. I am adding some of our correspondence to this blog, because those emails were my journal before I found the YWBB.


August 22, 2004

Fr. Andrew,

It seems so wrong not to be in touch with you. I have to write to you even though I have nothing to say. Rather, there are no words for what I have to say.

I trust you understand.

I understand completely and have been thinking of you today.

I've been thinking that by now the house is probably empty of vistor-helpers and the new pain is setting in.

Do not hesitate to do just what you did here.

I too am at a loss for words but keep you in thought and prayer.

Abouna Andrew

August 23, 2004

Okay.

It's late at night, and I've been sobbing for 20 minutes and I hear everyone's voices telling me to call them anytime, "really I mean it, day or night." But why call when I have nothing to say and crying into the phone really doesn't cut it? And whom should I call? My family would feel bad because they're so far away and can't help me. And local friends would volunteer or even insist on coming over, and then what? The tears are exhausted and there's nothing left but apologies for calling at this ridiculous hour.

I guess that's the good thing about email... I know I'm not waking you up just to tell you I'm miserable.

Terrible news

I sent this email to a few friends; brief and to the point, but it's all I was capable of doing at the time. I had kept a core list of intimates informed of what was going on early in the previous week. My good friend PMAS took over when Nick entered the coma.

I can hardly believe I am writing this note.

Nick was diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor last Sunday, August 1st. He died last night, August 8th, shortly after 9 pm.

I thought you would want to know... I covet your prayers for our two beautiful boys.