Swimming in Circles

June 2015

Mike has been in heaven for almost five years now.  That is so difficult for me to say.  So difficult to accept.  There is this fear, the farther I get away from the day I last said goodbye to Mike, the farther away he is from me.  I don't want "time" between us.  I don't want to lose sight of him. Or memory of him.  Because already my mind tricks me into thinking he was never mine in the first place. That he never loved me. That we ever spent 35 years together, deeply in love. Brought two human beings into this world together.  Loved them as deeply as we did.  Developing uniqueness with our family by making special memories and traditions.  In moments, my mind tries to deny it ever existed.


It feels like when Mike departed, I not only lost him, but family too.  Every one of my relationships have changed.  I can't sort out if it has been me that has changed, them, or both.  I have wondered if I was only accepted before, because Mike held me in such high esteem.  That I was only good because he made me feel that way every day.


I lost what little self esteem I had. I seemed to have lost the ability to gauge relationships anymore.  I failed at conveying what my heart really felt. I reacted to the grief, and they were reacting to their relationships with me.  I made every effort I knew how, to look at all of this, and right what I could. Still there was a gaping hole.  I can't heal from the grief and still be expected to focus on peoples expectations of me.  So, as not to do anything to mess up life further, I find myself trying to hover in place, doing or saying nothing more to make anything worse. I just seem to have disappointed so many people while I have been grieving.


It's a lonely club to belong to.  And it hurts.  Deeply.  I have spent many days and hours with my therapist trying to find level.  I'm told grief is unique for each individual.  For some it may continue to feel just as intense as the day it began.  It isn't always a faith issue.  It is a loss. A different kind of loss than someone else may have had over the same person.  The loss is felt when I get into bed each night and when I wake up. The loss is felt when I try to recall a memory and blankly see that was in another lifetime. The loss is felt when my children act differently around me or don't find me as exciting to be around as they did when Mike was living. There is a loss of respect gone now, because I was vulnerable and fell into depression.  It had invaded my heart and mind, and kept me unstable. 


I made a premature decision to get remarried.  I was so afraid and so lonely after Mike died.  Many forgot that Mike's death happened over two and a half years.  Our conversations were not about our future.  Places we would go together in the future.  Grandchildren we would enjoy together. 


Our conversations were centered on keeping faith.  Looking for the miracle. Adapting to the fear.  Trying to find the courage to get updates and give them.  They were spent changing dressings, emptying bile bags, sitting in waiting rooms, listening to the worse news of our lives. They were lost trying to find something Mike would eat. Watching him break down and struggling. They were all about loss of weight, CT results, lab reports, and fears of hereditary markers for future generations. Worrying about missing work and income. Retelling the grueling news over and over again to those who asked for it directly. Crying together, and many times apart, with me alone,  trying to carry on day to day jobs and responsibilities.  I worried what in the world was I going to do. That was all normal.  


Glenn became a friend who had experienced similar loss.  He offered me his friendship and a place to live so I could keep my dogs when I moved.  He wanted to help me.  I knew I couldn't make this kind of move without marrying him.  He felt our feelings for each other would grow over time.  His insurance would pay for my medications and office visits if I married him.  I declined his offer many times.  But some counsel thought it was an answer to prayer and I entertained it.  I was so confused.  I was desperate filing for disability.  Desperate figuring out what to do with bills.  Fighting for what little life insurance was left.  Fighting for my dignity.  I wanted to take my little life story and crawl under a rock with it.  Then, being so tired and depressed, I let the pressure be taken away from me...in one moment, on January 1, 2011. And my life changed once again.

Issues with family became the focus.  Health issues for both of us developed.  It seemed like we were trying to put out fires all around us.  I was going to either sink or swim.  I tried sinking but that didn't go over so well.  I tried swimming but swam in circles.  I begged God to get me out of this pit.
I decided I couldn't control what other people felt, or what they expected of me.  I had to learn to let things be and do what I could, to stay in the right state of mind.  I set some healthy boundaries inwardly.  And I stopped accepting blame, that wasn't mine.  I may not be the exact same Beverly I was up to 2009, but the core is still here if I'm given a chance. It is their choice. They are setting the parameters.  I continue to lay it all out in front of God and let Him direct my steps from here on out.  One day in heaven, there will be a reunion that no one can deny me of.