Once More, Years Later
It's that time of year again, though it seems to have arrived earlier than past years. Usually, by my recollection, I don't end up feeling quite so sensitive until March, or especially May. Then again, that might be simply my impression.
I've been... overly sensitive for the past week or so, even as my writerly self--the one so thrilled and willing with story and character and creation--resurfaced in this new environment of family and encouragement. It's been like having sunburned feelings: you know the person touching you doesn't mean to cause pain, but even back-pats of encouragement hurt.
Then yesterday, when my mother was doing nothing more than trying to schedule a dinner for either Sunday or Monday, I just about bit her head off for no reason. Then I tried to laundry, and ended up stuffing clothes in the washer while tears ran down my face. Then I tried to cook supper, and ended up with the same result. Then I went to apologize to my mother, but what came out of my mouth instead was, "My 40th birthday was when I knew Ron was going to die."
Until those words spilled out, I really hadn't aligned past grief with present hurt. But there it is, doncha know, because grief is an unpredictable thing. It isn't malicious (at least mine isn't). It is instead almost too polite, apologizing for popping up year after year, and trying to be so subtle it leaves me confused and seemingly unable to identify it for days or weeks.
And the words, while true in an emotional sense, weren't true in a factual sense. I mean, yes, I spent my fortieth birthday in a VA hospital, helping Ron eat the first meal he'd been permitted in a couple days and arguing with doctors who wanted to put him on blood-thinning medications when he'd almost bled to death internally a few days before. But I didn't know he was going to die so soon for a few more days. (And I am still bitter and angry that I was the one who, after reading his test results, diagnosed him and told him the diagnosis weeks before a doctor got around to it.)
But the emotions rule, this far removed from the date. And my heart will always link my birthday with losing Ron--even though another four months passed before we lost him.
And I thought I had all that under control after figuring this out last night. Then I read this from Kathryn Cramer, and lost my shit all over again.
At the time Ron was diagnosed, we'd been living separately for almost three years, but we never divorced and we did remain close. There are times I still feel as if he's simply lost, and I'll find him if I walk into the next room even though he's been lost for five years now.
So... I think we're having a family dinner on Sunday. It'll probably be okay. I'm giving myself permission to leak emotions all over the place if I feel like it. The feels aren't going away, and though the feels aren't pleasant, having them is not a bad thing.
They exist. I exist. One cannot miss what one did not love, and love is not a thing to be left behind.
I've been... overly sensitive for the past week or so, even as my writerly self--the one so thrilled and willing with story and character and creation--resurfaced in this new environment of family and encouragement. It's been like having sunburned feelings: you know the person touching you doesn't mean to cause pain, but even back-pats of encouragement hurt.
Then yesterday, when my mother was doing nothing more than trying to schedule a dinner for either Sunday or Monday, I just about bit her head off for no reason. Then I tried to laundry, and ended up stuffing clothes in the washer while tears ran down my face. Then I tried to cook supper, and ended up with the same result. Then I went to apologize to my mother, but what came out of my mouth instead was, "My 40th birthday was when I knew Ron was going to die."
Until those words spilled out, I really hadn't aligned past grief with present hurt. But there it is, doncha know, because grief is an unpredictable thing. It isn't malicious (at least mine isn't). It is instead almost too polite, apologizing for popping up year after year, and trying to be so subtle it leaves me confused and seemingly unable to identify it for days or weeks.
And the words, while true in an emotional sense, weren't true in a factual sense. I mean, yes, I spent my fortieth birthday in a VA hospital, helping Ron eat the first meal he'd been permitted in a couple days and arguing with doctors who wanted to put him on blood-thinning medications when he'd almost bled to death internally a few days before. But I didn't know he was going to die so soon for a few more days. (And I am still bitter and angry that I was the one who, after reading his test results, diagnosed him and told him the diagnosis weeks before a doctor got around to it.)
But the emotions rule, this far removed from the date. And my heart will always link my birthday with losing Ron--even though another four months passed before we lost him.
And I thought I had all that under control after figuring this out last night. Then I read this from Kathryn Cramer, and lost my shit all over again.
At the time Ron was diagnosed, we'd been living separately for almost three years, but we never divorced and we did remain close. There are times I still feel as if he's simply lost, and I'll find him if I walk into the next room even though he's been lost for five years now.
So... I think we're having a family dinner on Sunday. It'll probably be okay. I'm giving myself permission to leak emotions all over the place if I feel like it. The feels aren't going away, and though the feels aren't pleasant, having them is not a bad thing.
They exist. I exist. One cannot miss what one did not love, and love is not a thing to be left behind.