Going Through the Motions

During my grief support group meeting last night, we spent some time discussing how we respond when people ask, "How are you doing?" We all seemed to be resorting to a "canned" response, which goes something like this: "I'm doing okay. I have good days and bad days." Our counselor then asked, "What is a good day?" And that stumped us all. That's a difficult question to answer, and I suspect it is a very individual thing.

It's easy to identify the bad days. In the beginning, it was pretty much every day. The good days? That takes some thought. I have spent a good deal of time thinking about it today, and I think, for me at least, a good day is a day when I don't feel like I'm just "going through the motions"—a day when I can engage in some diversion that takes me out of myself and lets me forget, at least for a little while, what I have lost; a day when I spend more time remembering the happy times and less time thinking about the "if onlys"— if only they had diagnosed him sooner; if only I had suspected cancer in the beginning and taken him to the Moffitt (a research hospital that specializes in diagnosing and treating cancer); if only we'd had more time… I can honestly say that I'm having more good days, thanks primarily to my wonderful circle of friends. I'm not sure they are outnumbering the bad days yet, but I know that will come.

Last week was filled with diversion for me. I attended a medical writers conference in Dallas. I led a networking discussion on freelancing, participated in a panel on writing creative nonfiction, and had lively conversation with friends over dinners and lunches. While I was in that environment I didn't think of myself as "Donna the widow." I was "Donna the medical writer." Of course there were some sad moments when I saw old friends, most of whom I only see once a year. Some of them knew about Art's illness and subsequent death; some knew he had been ill but didn't know he'd died; and some didn't know any of it. There were some awkward moments and a few tears, but, for the most part it was okay.

One moment sticks in my mind. In response to the news of my loss, one person responded with sympathy and then said, "You look good." I can't help but wonder how she expected me to look.

Whose Life Is This?

Last week I took my first trip since Art died. I went North to see our kids—all 4 of them together for the first time since Art's memorial service. It didn't seem right getting on that plane without him, and it didn't seem right being there with our kids without him. It was a "whirlwind" visit and I had a good time, but it was bitter sweet. Much of the time I felt like I was on the outside looking in at someone else's life. It couldn't possibly be my life.

I had been warned that coming back to this empty house would be difficult; and it was. Although I've been back home for several days, I still haven't been able to shake the feeling that this isn't my life. This isn't the way it was supposed to be. I know it's all part of the grieving process and I know it will get better with time, but that doesn't make it any easier right now.

A couple of weeks ago I received an email from someone I'd worked with about 20 years ago. I've seen her two or three times since then and we have communicated via email sporadically. It had been at least a year since I'd heard from her, so she didn't know about Art's illness or his death. Needless to say, she was shocked by the news. "I had always figured you two would just live into old age together," she  wrote." So did I.

Seeking Some Middle Ground

This has not been one of my better days. It started when I decided to finish the book I've been reading for my next  book club meeting. The ending made me cry. It was sad but not tragic—really more poignant than sad. Once the tears started, I decided not to fight them. After all, I was alone and didn't have to put on a happy face for anyone. Later, I went to get the mail and there was a card and note from Art's Aunt Irene. She was the youngest of his 9 aunts and uncles and this was the first I'd heard from her since Art died. I knew she had heard about his illness and death, but I had not heard one word from her since we saw her at a family reunion more than a year ago--before Art got sick. I have to admit that I was a little hurt and angry about that, but when I read her note, all was forgiven. I could sense how sad she was about Art's death and how difficult it was for her to write to me. She wrote: "I have tried for weeks to write to express my love and sympathy, but just kept blocking it out. Perhaps I just could not accept the fact that Art was no longer with us in person. I can still picture him as the handsome young nephew, 'Husky', who was in my wedding."

Of course, reading Aunt Irene's note brought more tears. Art often talked about being in her wedding. It was one of his happy childhood memories. He'd be glad to know that is how she chooses to remember him. I'm grateful to Aunt Irene for finally writing to me. Everyone grieves differently. We each have to find our own way through it.

Two years ago my 28-year old niece died suddenly and tragically. Kim was a true "ray of sunshine" in our family and the grief everyone felt at her loss was almost too much to bear. It was a particularly difficult time for her two young nephews (my great nephews), because Kim had lived with them for several years and had become an integral part of their lives. Ethan, the older of the two, who is now 16 and a talented musician, has found a way to deal with his grief through his music. To honor the second anniversary of Kim's death, he wrote a beautiful song in which he sings of trying to find the middle ground between his tears, and happiness and joy. "Life is not a sitcom or a movie or a book," Ethan sings. " She doesn't come through the door no matter how many times I look."

I've listened to Ethan's song many times since he placed it on his Facebook page and I cry every time. I'm still looking for the middle ground between my tears, and happiness and joy. I know Art isn't coming through the door no matter how many times I look. And that's the hard part.