A patient recently told me that six months after her mother died she felt as if a fog had suddenly lifted. I have experienced something similar, but I describe it in different ways.
In the first few months I felt as if I had blinders on. I couldn't look around me, I only saw what was right in front of me. Driving with me was an experience, at one point Emily got out of the car and confiscated the keys from me. I only laughed when people asked when I was going to get my own motorcycle, I sure didn't need to be in charge of a bike in this condition. I think I first realized the blinders had been removed sometime in November when I was driving on a familiar road. I drove past an area that once had been wooded, and for the first time noticed that it was cleared. This obviously did not happen overnight, but I was seeing it for the first time.
Another way I have been describing this fog is that I was seeing things in shades of gray. Nothing had any brilliance. The world looked flat and one dimensional, just the way I felt. We were invited to many veteran and patriotic events over the summer so I know that the flag alone should have lent plenty of color, but I didn't see it. I can't tell you when I first saw glimpses of color again, I think it came back gradually. I only recently walked outside and thought, "What a beautiful day." I saw the blue sky and the sparkle off the snow.
I know there will be hard times ahead of me yet, but I'm happy to say that I am getting back to the land of the living and seeing it in full color.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Friday, February 18, 2011
Year of Firsts
I have been trying to figure out why I've been having a terrible couple of weeks. There is no special dates that fall in late January or February, I'm not feeling that the winter has drug on too long and Dave and I have been keeping busy working on the golf benefit. Why then am I in such a panic? It came to me the other day when yet another person talked about getting past all the "Firsts"
That comment scares me. Is something magical going to happen when I finally get passed the first year? Am I suppose to stop thinking of him or feeling blue? Or are others going to be less tolerant of my talking about him or my moods just because I made it though all the firsts? At a seminar for survivors last fall I heard numerous times that many people feel the second year is worse than the first!
I couldn't figure out why the statement bothers me so much until the other day when it occurred to me that I haven't been viewing things in "Firsts', I have been reliving the "Lasts". The last time I spent a holiday with him, the last time we took him to the airport, the last time I hugged him, the last time I talked to him, and worst of all, this time last year he was still alive. I think that is what frightens me, in a few short weeks that will all be gone, no more last year. I look at the date each day and wonder where could a year have gone?
You may think that the lasts are harder to deal with, but I don't think so. The date of the last time I talked to him is coming up. It was a Sunday morning, as usual, he'd ask if he woke us up, and I would lie and tell him no. While he was deployed we would each get on a phone because you never knew how long you would have to chat, ten or fifteen minutes is normal. That commercial of the family all racing to the phone to talk to their son and brother is brutal to watch, it is too close to reality. Anyway, that morning he didn't want to get off the phone, he just wanted to hear our voices. We talked for two hours!! This is a happy memory, it was a gift.
I'm not saying that the "Firsts" haven't been difficult, I just have chosen to focus on the "Lasts". I don't think I would have changed anything about them, I don't really have any regrets. I always ended our conversations with "I love you". Maybe that is why they are easier, good memories are better than thinking about a future without my son.
That comment scares me. Is something magical going to happen when I finally get passed the first year? Am I suppose to stop thinking of him or feeling blue? Or are others going to be less tolerant of my talking about him or my moods just because I made it though all the firsts? At a seminar for survivors last fall I heard numerous times that many people feel the second year is worse than the first!
I couldn't figure out why the statement bothers me so much until the other day when it occurred to me that I haven't been viewing things in "Firsts', I have been reliving the "Lasts". The last time I spent a holiday with him, the last time we took him to the airport, the last time I hugged him, the last time I talked to him, and worst of all, this time last year he was still alive. I think that is what frightens me, in a few short weeks that will all be gone, no more last year. I look at the date each day and wonder where could a year have gone?
You may think that the lasts are harder to deal with, but I don't think so. The date of the last time I talked to him is coming up. It was a Sunday morning, as usual, he'd ask if he woke us up, and I would lie and tell him no. While he was deployed we would each get on a phone because you never knew how long you would have to chat, ten or fifteen minutes is normal. That commercial of the family all racing to the phone to talk to their son and brother is brutal to watch, it is too close to reality. Anyway, that morning he didn't want to get off the phone, he just wanted to hear our voices. We talked for two hours!! This is a happy memory, it was a gift.
I'm not saying that the "Firsts" haven't been difficult, I just have chosen to focus on the "Lasts". I don't think I would have changed anything about them, I don't really have any regrets. I always ended our conversations with "I love you". Maybe that is why they are easier, good memories are better than thinking about a future without my son.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Yoga
Taking care of myself after Curtis' death was not a priority, or something I just didn't think to do. I needed something for myself, so I joined a yoga studio.
Something I learned shortly after starting, besides my apparent lack of strength, is that I had been holding my breath, definitely since Curtis' death, but more probably since he had left for boot camp. When asked to take in a full breath, I would stop after only a few seconds, my lungs were full. Another thing I notice is that my practice will follow my moods. At times I'm solid and in balance, and there are days that I'm unable to concentrate and fall out of posses. But overall, I've come a long way since the beginning, and I feel it has helped me tremendously.
I've been desperate to feel Curtis near me. I have mentioned that I do not dream of him, but I do not feel his presence either. This bothers me so much that it hurts. I have had a particularly tough week with mini panic attacks and a feeling that I am forgetting something, but for the life of me I cannot remember what it is. During my yoga class the other day, I was all over the place. By the end of class I had changed my mantra to "Come to me Curtis" I know it sounds desperate, it sure sounds like it to me!
That afternoon, while home for lunch, I spotted a bald eagle floating lazily above me. It was a bitter cold day, and we were nowhere near open water. Thank you Curtis, I know you are with me.
Something I learned shortly after starting, besides my apparent lack of strength, is that I had been holding my breath, definitely since Curtis' death, but more probably since he had left for boot camp. When asked to take in a full breath, I would stop after only a few seconds, my lungs were full. Another thing I notice is that my practice will follow my moods. At times I'm solid and in balance, and there are days that I'm unable to concentrate and fall out of posses. But overall, I've come a long way since the beginning, and I feel it has helped me tremendously.
I've been desperate to feel Curtis near me. I have mentioned that I do not dream of him, but I do not feel his presence either. This bothers me so much that it hurts. I have had a particularly tough week with mini panic attacks and a feeling that I am forgetting something, but for the life of me I cannot remember what it is. During my yoga class the other day, I was all over the place. By the end of class I had changed my mantra to "Come to me Curtis" I know it sounds desperate, it sure sounds like it to me!
That afternoon, while home for lunch, I spotted a bald eagle floating lazily above me. It was a bitter cold day, and we were nowhere near open water. Thank you Curtis, I know you are with me.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Address Book
My address book has changed drastically since last April. I've been told this can happen, but it has taken me by surprise how different it looks. There has been some long time friends and family members that we have not heard from, but for the most part the numbers have gone up substantially.
I think Dave describes it best when he talks about this new path we have been placed on, and you are either on this path with us, or occasionally merge on to it, or you are not. We can't be angry or hurt that some choose not to, we just don't have the time nor the energy to be.
Some joined us immediately when they showed up to the wake and funeral, we may not have known them then, but have had an opportunity to get to know many of them since. One in particular we met last week at a Patriot Guard get together, she has been walking this path with us silently and unseen. Janell is a mother of an Army soldier about the same age as Curtis. After hearing about Curtis' death she knew she needed to do something, so she quietly attended his funeral. After seeing the dignity of the Patriot Guard she soon joined them. It makes me feel good that Curtis had such an impact on people he never knew. Her story of her first mission while relearning to maneuver a bike is hilarious! Every member of the Patriot Guard has a story and a big heart, I am so glad I get to hang out with them, and grateful to call them my friends.
Gold Star families are another group that has filled my book. It is a group none of us ever wanted to be part of, but it is where we ended up. For us this path is not a walk, it is a march, but so many are enduring it with grace and dignity. The support, advice and tears I share with them have gotten me further than I could have alone. Jamie is a wonderful young lady we have met that lost her brother a few years ago. She moved here from Florida shortly after his death, but talked to very few people about it. She wrote on Curtis' memorial wall and she and Dave started a rapport. She has since visited us several times and opened up about her experience. I believe this has helped her to deal with her brothers death better, and we have gained another friend.
There are so many more I feel blessed to have met, so many caring people that I would have never known. My book may be full, but I can always find more space for people like this.
I think Dave describes it best when he talks about this new path we have been placed on, and you are either on this path with us, or occasionally merge on to it, or you are not. We can't be angry or hurt that some choose not to, we just don't have the time nor the energy to be.
Some joined us immediately when they showed up to the wake and funeral, we may not have known them then, but have had an opportunity to get to know many of them since. One in particular we met last week at a Patriot Guard get together, she has been walking this path with us silently and unseen. Janell is a mother of an Army soldier about the same age as Curtis. After hearing about Curtis' death she knew she needed to do something, so she quietly attended his funeral. After seeing the dignity of the Patriot Guard she soon joined them. It makes me feel good that Curtis had such an impact on people he never knew. Her story of her first mission while relearning to maneuver a bike is hilarious! Every member of the Patriot Guard has a story and a big heart, I am so glad I get to hang out with them, and grateful to call them my friends.
Gold Star families are another group that has filled my book. It is a group none of us ever wanted to be part of, but it is where we ended up. For us this path is not a walk, it is a march, but so many are enduring it with grace and dignity. The support, advice and tears I share with them have gotten me further than I could have alone. Jamie is a wonderful young lady we have met that lost her brother a few years ago. She moved here from Florida shortly after his death, but talked to very few people about it. She wrote on Curtis' memorial wall and she and Dave started a rapport. She has since visited us several times and opened up about her experience. I believe this has helped her to deal with her brothers death better, and we have gained another friend.
There are so many more I feel blessed to have met, so many caring people that I would have never known. My book may be full, but I can always find more space for people like this.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Steamboat
In Curtis' senior year we took our last family vacation. Skiing had been a fun family sport for us for many years, so we decided to go to Steamboat for a week with another family.
We were so excited to go our first day out that we couldn't wait for our friends to drop their youngest off at daycare, so along with their oldest daughter, Madison, we started our trek up the mountain. After taking a couple of pictures of the kids at the top we made our first run of the morning. It was a sunny and pleasant day. The second run down, we stopped at the fork of two runs to chat, the one we had just gone down, and a different one. Dave pointed to the new trail and said "Let's go!" I hesitated for a second, my mind told me to take the first trail another time to get our legs, but I followed anyway. Part way down we hit a cloud bank, and the visibility went to near zero. Curtis was slightly in front of me about 15 feet to my right. Suddenly I saw him go down hard. I knew instantly that he would need help, so I stopped as quick as I could, which made me fall over as well. No sooner than that, Madison zipped past me. After the cloud of snow settled around Curtis, I realized that he wasn't there. I couldn't figure out what had happened. Had he slid down the hill?
What Curtis had seen at the last minute was a cat walk that spanned the run. There was a 2-3 foot drop with only a small sign to mark it, but it was missed by us in the low visibility. Curtis avoided in by making a spectacular fall, and saved me from it as well. Madison had hit it at full speed and was launched about 20 feet down the mountain. I didn't see Curtis initially, but when I looked over the lip, I saw him running toward Madison as fast as he could. I had always knew Curtis was a caring and sensitive kid, but that act was the first time I saw it in action. He had smashed his face into the ground in the fall, and it was full of blood, it looked as if he had broken his nose. It wasn't broken, but Madison's arm was. Thankfully the Steamboat emergency room is proficient at such things, within 4 hours, surgery included to pin her arm, Madison was back at the condo watching movies. We had a great week of skiing, laughs, friends and family, one I will never forget.
Each year Dave and I look forward to skiing, even after the kids have moved on. This year we have not gone once. Yes, we have been busy, or the weather hasn't cooperated, but the passion isn't there. We are even taking a warm weather vacation instead of a ski trip. We know that we will go again, maybe just not this year.
I should have followed my gut that day, in a way I felt responsible, just as Dave did because he made the choice to go down that run. But in the end, things happen beyond our control. We could beat ourselves up by telling ourselves we should have done things different, should have made a different decision, we didn't. We need to come to peace about what has happened and make better choices in the future, maybe follow that gut feeling. But we can't be afraid of living because it has risks.
We were so excited to go our first day out that we couldn't wait for our friends to drop their youngest off at daycare, so along with their oldest daughter, Madison, we started our trek up the mountain. After taking a couple of pictures of the kids at the top we made our first run of the morning. It was a sunny and pleasant day. The second run down, we stopped at the fork of two runs to chat, the one we had just gone down, and a different one. Dave pointed to the new trail and said "Let's go!" I hesitated for a second, my mind told me to take the first trail another time to get our legs, but I followed anyway. Part way down we hit a cloud bank, and the visibility went to near zero. Curtis was slightly in front of me about 15 feet to my right. Suddenly I saw him go down hard. I knew instantly that he would need help, so I stopped as quick as I could, which made me fall over as well. No sooner than that, Madison zipped past me. After the cloud of snow settled around Curtis, I realized that he wasn't there. I couldn't figure out what had happened. Had he slid down the hill?
What Curtis had seen at the last minute was a cat walk that spanned the run. There was a 2-3 foot drop with only a small sign to mark it, but it was missed by us in the low visibility. Curtis avoided in by making a spectacular fall, and saved me from it as well. Madison had hit it at full speed and was launched about 20 feet down the mountain. I didn't see Curtis initially, but when I looked over the lip, I saw him running toward Madison as fast as he could. I had always knew Curtis was a caring and sensitive kid, but that act was the first time I saw it in action. He had smashed his face into the ground in the fall, and it was full of blood, it looked as if he had broken his nose. It wasn't broken, but Madison's arm was. Thankfully the Steamboat emergency room is proficient at such things, within 4 hours, surgery included to pin her arm, Madison was back at the condo watching movies. We had a great week of skiing, laughs, friends and family, one I will never forget.
Each year Dave and I look forward to skiing, even after the kids have moved on. This year we have not gone once. Yes, we have been busy, or the weather hasn't cooperated, but the passion isn't there. We are even taking a warm weather vacation instead of a ski trip. We know that we will go again, maybe just not this year.
I should have followed my gut that day, in a way I felt responsible, just as Dave did because he made the choice to go down that run. But in the end, things happen beyond our control. We could beat ourselves up by telling ourselves we should have done things different, should have made a different decision, we didn't. We need to come to peace about what has happened and make better choices in the future, maybe follow that gut feeling. But we can't be afraid of living because it has risks.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Is It Chemistry?
I've been told that an event like this can change your body chemistry, sometimes for a short time, sometimes permanently. I see many changes in myself since last April. Some are slowly reverting back to my old self and some are not.
The first is my sleep patterns. Initially after Curtis' death I couldn't sleep for any length at all. I was up all hours of the night wondering around the house, checking the facebook sight that Emily had set up. I think this lasted about a month. After that there was a drastic change that I can't explain. I went into some sort of hibernation state. I would sleep 12 hours a night without waking, and any time I would sit down during the day, I would fall asleep. I have had many bouts of insomnia during my life, napping is not something I am too fond of because of it, so this was a huge change for me. On the other hand, Dave, usually a quick and deep sleeper, has had trouble sleeping though the night. This is something he is still struggling with, while I am slowly going back to a normal pattern.
Eating is another change. Of course at first eating was not something that came easily. Even if I found anything remotely appetizing, it got caught in my throat. I think I lived on fruit and water for the first couple of weeks. Although it's gotten better, I have to actually remind myself to eat, I don't really feel hunger. If someone puts food in front of me, I will eat it and think, "Wow, I was hungry", but I won't realize it until I'm eating. Is it that I don't care to eat, or that it's been a chore to actually make the meals to eat? Dave and I used to love to find new recipes and cook, now I'm lucky to have two dinners planned in a row, and they are pretty basic at that. I hope to never eat another frozen pizza again once I get through this!
One of the most profound changes has been my love of chocolate. It is almost non existent now! Chocolate cravings used to be a daily occurrence for me. I would even hide it from my family, just in case. Now, I can take it or leave it. If it is sitting out, I may take a piece, but more often than not I won't. I have some in my closet now that I received for Christmas that goes unopened, and I even threw some away that was still around from Easter. I guess it's not a bad thing that I eat less chocolate, but I find it strange.
Of course there are other changes I see in myself. It makes me wonder if it is an actual chemistry change or just part of depression that comes from grief? I get up every day, my house is clean, I go to work and socialize. I find my humor is still intact, but the joy and passion for things is dull. If my body had sustained the injuries that my emotions did, I would have ended up in the ICU, I've been upgraded, but I still need time to recover. These chemicals are getting the best of me yet!
The first is my sleep patterns. Initially after Curtis' death I couldn't sleep for any length at all. I was up all hours of the night wondering around the house, checking the facebook sight that Emily had set up. I think this lasted about a month. After that there was a drastic change that I can't explain. I went into some sort of hibernation state. I would sleep 12 hours a night without waking, and any time I would sit down during the day, I would fall asleep. I have had many bouts of insomnia during my life, napping is not something I am too fond of because of it, so this was a huge change for me. On the other hand, Dave, usually a quick and deep sleeper, has had trouble sleeping though the night. This is something he is still struggling with, while I am slowly going back to a normal pattern.
Eating is another change. Of course at first eating was not something that came easily. Even if I found anything remotely appetizing, it got caught in my throat. I think I lived on fruit and water for the first couple of weeks. Although it's gotten better, I have to actually remind myself to eat, I don't really feel hunger. If someone puts food in front of me, I will eat it and think, "Wow, I was hungry", but I won't realize it until I'm eating. Is it that I don't care to eat, or that it's been a chore to actually make the meals to eat? Dave and I used to love to find new recipes and cook, now I'm lucky to have two dinners planned in a row, and they are pretty basic at that. I hope to never eat another frozen pizza again once I get through this!
One of the most profound changes has been my love of chocolate. It is almost non existent now! Chocolate cravings used to be a daily occurrence for me. I would even hide it from my family, just in case. Now, I can take it or leave it. If it is sitting out, I may take a piece, but more often than not I won't. I have some in my closet now that I received for Christmas that goes unopened, and I even threw some away that was still around from Easter. I guess it's not a bad thing that I eat less chocolate, but I find it strange.
Of course there are other changes I see in myself. It makes me wonder if it is an actual chemistry change or just part of depression that comes from grief? I get up every day, my house is clean, I go to work and socialize. I find my humor is still intact, but the joy and passion for things is dull. If my body had sustained the injuries that my emotions did, I would have ended up in the ICU, I've been upgraded, but I still need time to recover. These chemicals are getting the best of me yet!
Friday, January 14, 2011
"I've Been Better"
Awhile back Dave was complaining that when people would ask him how he's been, the standard answer of "Fine" seemed inadequate. I suggested he use "I've been better" instead. It's more honest, besides, how many people really listen to the answer of that common greeting? So when Ron, another Gold Star Father, called one evening, Dave tested it out for the first time. Ron is a psychologist, and Dave said as soon as he said it, he regretted the words. After about an hour of reassuring him that he was mearly trying out a new response, and there was nothing in particular that was bothering him that day, I think Ron got the idea. I got a good laugh out of that.
So when I received a phone call after work the other day from Dave, which is a fairly rare occurrence, and asked him how he was, when he responded "I've been better", the alarms in my head went off. If any of you know Dave well, his relationship with the emergency room over his lifetime is extensive! Just north of Rochester, on his way home from work, he rolled his car. Thankfully he and his passenger were not injured, but the car wasn't so lucky.
The impact of this event didn't really hit me until I got Dave home. I didn't sleep well, thinking of what could have been frightened me. I had not had an anxiety attack in a few months, but had one the next morning during my yoga class, and it was a chore to get through the day at work. I know too well how quickly one event can change your life so drastically. Today I feel better, I bounce back from these setbacks much quicker than I could just a few months ago.
I still think the "I've been better" come back is good, if the person who is asking is listening and cares, it will open a conversation that "Fine" couldn't.
So when I received a phone call after work the other day from Dave, which is a fairly rare occurrence, and asked him how he was, when he responded "I've been better", the alarms in my head went off. If any of you know Dave well, his relationship with the emergency room over his lifetime is extensive! Just north of Rochester, on his way home from work, he rolled his car. Thankfully he and his passenger were not injured, but the car wasn't so lucky.
The impact of this event didn't really hit me until I got Dave home. I didn't sleep well, thinking of what could have been frightened me. I had not had an anxiety attack in a few months, but had one the next morning during my yoga class, and it was a chore to get through the day at work. I know too well how quickly one event can change your life so drastically. Today I feel better, I bounce back from these setbacks much quicker than I could just a few months ago.
I still think the "I've been better" come back is good, if the person who is asking is listening and cares, it will open a conversation that "Fine" couldn't.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)