I facilitate a grief book group at my work. Because of the group and because of my interests, I’m always reading about death, dying and grief. This past month we discussed “The Grieving Brain : the surprising science of how we learn from love and loss” by Mary-Frances O’Connor. It’s absolutely fascinating! I have post-it notes all through the book, marking phrases and words I didn’t know but now want to remember–like “counterfactual thinking.” That’s when you think “If I had just told him to take his blood pressure pills, he’d still be here.” Or, “If the doctor had done this, then she’d still be alive.”

The word, “zeitgebers” or “time givers” was a new one for me, too. O’Connor defines zeitgebers as “those environmental clues that synchronize a person’s biological rhythms to Earth’s twenty-four-hour cycle of light and dark.” (p. 171) She talks about zeitgebers related to falling asleep, like a period of watching tv or reading before going to bed, or the warmth and smells of the person you’re going to bed with. So when your partner is no longer there, this lack of zeitgebers relating to them can cause rumination about the person you’re missing. That lack of your spouse’s snoring or the smell of her lotion are additional reasons why we start to think about them. It’s not always that something reminds us of them, it’s the LACK of the thing that reminds us. And we wonder why we can’t sleep when we’re grieving. (Of course, there are SO MANY reasons why you may not be sleeping right now. Grief may just be one of many reasons.)

It made me start to wonder how I’ll react to my husband’s absence. What will I miss?

Because of his breathing problems, Wal hasn’t slept in our bed for over a year. So the snoring that always put me to sleep, hasn’t been there for quite a while. So I probably won’t miss that. But missing his smell? Yeah. Especially that piney, clean smell from his soap and beard oil. His laughter? Hell, yeah. I miss hearing the laughter of every single person I’ve lost, don’t you?

Do I like to think about this?

No.

And yet…I can’t help it. I think it’s part of anticipatory grief. I feel so damn sad and lost now, so it’s natural to wonder what I’ll be like afterwards. I was so untethered by my brother’s death and so fucking lost, and part of me is afraid that I’ll be like that. But I just CAN’T BE LIKE THAT when my husband dies. I just can’t. I’ll be alone and I am the person responsible for taking care of everything. Just like I am now. But…not like I am now at all. I still have him here to bounce ideas off of or get advice. He’s still here so we can plan for tomorrow and plan for when there is no tomorrow.

I already miss how strong he used to be–those thick, muscular legs are now only thick with fluid because his fucking heart doesn’t pump the way it should. His arms are so much thinner now. He used to be able to carry all the groceries in at once for me. Now, when he’s particularly ill, I have to open soda or water bottles for him because he doesn’t have the strength to do it.

Before you say, “He’s still here so enjoy it! Spend every minute you can with him! Be grateful!” I want you to stop and not say any of those things to me. Ok? If you do, I may not talk to you anymore. Do I enjoy my time with Wal? Very often, yes. Every day or every minute? Fuck no! I don’t love every minute of every day with anyone, including myself. So don’t you fucking dare to tell me to be grateful. I love my husband. There’s no doubt about that. And I am grateful for much of the time we’ve had together and will have. But being a caregiver, even one like me who still works outside the home full time, is so….

fucking.

hard.

A few months ago, my workplace gave me the opportunity to go to a national conference that I’ve ALWAYS wanted to go to since I became a librarian nearly 30 years ago. Much of it would be paid by my work and I’ve been so excited to go. But I’ll be gone for a week. And Wal has been very unwell for this entire month. So after trying to get doctor recommendations about his health and getting no answers, we finally have a referral to get an evaluation to see where Wal is really at. Is he ready for hospice care or remain with some sort of palliative care? We might get some answers in the next few weeks. But since we still don’t have ANY recommendations, I ended up canceling my travel plans for the conference.

I can’t bring myself to sit with my feelings about canceling the trip. My brain tells me this was the right thing to do. If Wal had a week like he had this past week, I would have come home early anyways. It was a particularly rough, rough week–very low oxygen levels, little to no eating, weak, etc. Today, however, he is feeling pretty damn great. He can eat a bit more and is awake and is smiling. It’s really joyful for me to see! These good days are so rare. It might be only the 2nd or 3rd good day of the month, so this is when we celebrate. If he felt really good while I was away, then I’d be ok about leaving. Probably. But an entire week of him feeling good? That is just magical thinking.

My heart, however, is a bit torn about the whole thing. Here’s the thing: I’ve been married as long as I’ve been a librarian. We eloped two weeks after I received my Master’s degree and two weeks after that started my first professional librarian position. So the two are completely entwined. Does my husband mean more to me than my career? Yes. Most days. 😉 I’ve been with him for nearly 30 years, BUT never been to this conference. The cost of it is typically too much for me to go and it’s only every other year. So…I really wanted to go. There were sessions I wanted to attend and learn from, and authors I wanted to meet. But…how could I go when it’s in Minnesota? I can’t drive home. If something happens, I would need to fly home which obviously takes time to change flights and all that jazz. I may have people nearby that could lend a helping hand to my husband, but not me. Not his wife. Not the one whom he knows he can rely on. Not the one who wants to be with him until the end.

So…I just need to let it go, don’t I? I have to realize that my current life is not what it used to be. It never will be again.

Ok, friends, I think that’s enough ruminating for tonight. Or wallowing.

Thanks for reading. I hope you’re doing ok. I really do. I may not reach out much anymore, but I think of you often.

Hugs to you. ❤