Because I Can

 

One week from now will mark the second anniversary of my husband’s death. The first year I spent running from Hell. Two days after I watched my husband slip away from this life, I drove to Oregon to pick up my dad to take him to his best friend’s memorial service. Four days after I watched the man I love slip away from this life, I attended that memorial service where I saw people who knew us both, most of whom did not yet know he was gone. I hadn’t had time to process my husband’s death, and then I found myself mourning a man I’d known since I was a kid. A week after I watched my partner slip away from this life, I was sorting our belongings into keep, donate, or dump. With my dad’s help I made trips to the landfill and the Salvation Army. If I see my husband again in the hereafter, I’ll remind him he can NOT talk about my love of shoes or my closet full of clothes. The amount of clothes and shoes that man had was staggering, especially given he wore about 10 percent of them. Six weeks after I watched my love slip away from this life, I was packing our home to move to another state. I barely had time to breathe, let alone grieve.

            I fell into caring for my elderly father, sorting through the paperwork nobody tells you death creates, and setting myself on the task of finding a home for myself and my two pets. I bought a house that came with a lot of projects that served the purpose of running from grief. I painted. I cleared brush. I painted some more. I built a fence. I adopted a dog. I ran away from Hell until I couldn’t.

            Before I could blink, a year had gone by since I watched John slip away from this life. If year one was running from Hell, year two was standing still in the middle of the flames.  Year two came with new challenges. Fresh out of home projects and settled into a schedule of “Dad Duty” days, I was forced to come face to face with the grief from which I’d so skillfully run. I had to do what a wizened therapist told me over and over and over…sit with it, honey. Invite it in. Gawd, I hate it when someone is right.

            I’d sit with it until I couldn’t. But an odd thing was happening. I became comfortable with it, like an new old friend who came to call.

            “C’mon in,” I’d say, “but please don’t stay too long today. I have shit to do.” We’d talk, I’d feel better, and I’d go about getting shit done. The grief changed. It no longer presented itself as rage, anger, anxiety, depression. It became a dark cloud of sadness that never left. I taught myself to be comfortable with it, to understand it wasn’t going anywhere.  Hating the sadness only made it worse. Grief turned to thoughts of, ‘Well, now what do I do with my life? I guess he’s not coming back.’  I quit trying to desperately hold onto the life I had with him. I quit making the same meals we used to love sharing. They simply didn’t taste the same. I quit looking at concert tickets and thinking, Oh, I should go. I realized going alone, or even with a friend, would be more painful than missing it. I’d be missing him, trying to recreate something that would never be again. I had to start caring enough about myself to avoid going there. For the first time in possibly forever, I started asking myself what *I* wanted to eat, where *I* wanted to go. And I listened.

            Year two was the beginning of recreating a life, my life, the single widowed life. I didn’t have a user’s manual and I felt like a pig staring at a wristwatch, clueless.  At about 16 months post-loss, I had inklings of wanting to rejoin the human race again. I started by joining a writing group. The first few meetings, I still needed an anxiety med to get through the social gathering. I’d go home exhausted from the sheer act of interacting with people, strangers. I read things to group I’d written before John died about traveling the cancer road with him. I was met with silence at times, “you’re so brave” at others, laughter sometimes, too. Make no mistake, I wasn’t brave. I was surviving the only way I knew how. Bravery didn’t enter into it.

            The best part, if there can be a best part, of losing your spouse, is that for the first time in my adult life, I was free to *choose* how to spend my time. I didn’t have to be productive to bring in a paycheck. With the exception of Dad Duty, my time was mine to do with as I wished. I didn’t have to call anyone to tell him I felt like driving to Myrtle Creek for a hamburger and no, I wasn’t making dinner. I didn’t have to ask anyone if he minded if I went to the coast for three days. I started asking myself what I wanted for today, tomorrow, five years from now. Half of me died the day John did, but the half that survived had a life to live. Much to my dismay, I was the only one who could figure out what that would look like. I knew that crocheting and watching Netflix weren’t going to be enough for me, now that I’d begun to dig myself out of grief-induced solitary confinement. I said yes to an invitation to coffee after the writer’s group meeting. Because I could. I said yes to a lunch invitation. Because I could. And I did both without anxiety meds. Could it be I wasn’t as damaged as I had begun to believe I was?

            I applied for a volunteer position with an organization I believe in with the entirety of my being. I didn’t hear back from them, and since I’m trying not to force things and to allow things to happen as they are meant to, I decided maybe I wasn’t as ready as I thought I was. The day after I had resigned the idea of it, the Eugene team leader called. She was kind and welcoming and thrilled to have a volunteer in Roseburg. They had none. And I’d timed it perfectly. The twice-yearly six-week volunteer training program was just about to start. Had I missed it, I’d have had to wait until spring for the next one. Between the “Oh shit, I’m doing this” thoughts, were, “I can do this,” and “I’m excited to do this.” After only a couple of weeks of training, I knew I’d met my people.

            I hadn’t yet finished training when I was called to attend a home visit in Roseburg. I could have turned them down, but I decided to jump in with both feet. The client’s name was John. Because, of course it was. What else could it have been? I took it as a sign. After we went to the client’s home, the Eugene team leader called me later that evening to make sure I was okay and to do a “mental health” check as she called it. That simple act of kindness and thoughtfulness from an almost-stranger was manna to this starved soul.

            A week after the training ended, I was assigned my first client. Volunteers always work in pairs, even once the training and mentoring period has ended. But because I’m the sole volunteer in Roseburg, I go alone to the clients’ homes and the Eugene lead volunteer attends via Zoom. Nervous didn’t begin to describe my feelings before the first home visit. I was mostly going for tech support. The 80-something-year-old man didn’t think he’d be able to “work the Zoom,” so I arrived with my laptop and internet hot spot ready to go. As I got up to leave, he shook my hand, placed his other hand on top of mind, and with tears in his eyes, genuinely thanked me for coming. I don’t think my feet hit the ground until I got home.

            After the monthly meeting, which I attended via Zoom rather than driving the 80 miles to Eugene, the team leader called me for another “mental health check.”

            “Not all monthly meetings are that heavy,” she said. “I just wanted to make sure we didn’t scare you off. We are SO happy to have you and we can tell you’re going to be great.”

The low-self-esteem part of me thought, “Yeah, you’re just licking my boots because I’m the only one in Roseburg and you need me.” But these aren’t boot-licking type people, so I had to change the narrative I’ve always told myself. I let myself believe, if only for a minute, that yes, they ARE happy to have me, and yes, I AM going to be good at this.

Two days ago, I was assigned my second client. Wednesday the lead volunteer will come down from Eugene and we’ll do the home visit together in person. The client lives in Myrtle Creek, not far from my new favorite burger joint. Maybe after the home visit, I’ll stop for lunch. I’m learning to live again. Because I can.