I Made It Through Christmas

It’s Boxing Day — not here in the U.S., but many of you know what I’m talking about. Which means I made it through Christmas, now I just have to get through David’s memorial, New Year, and the rest of my life.

There is much uncertainty right now, the greatest concern being U.S. Immigration and how the Patriot Act is affecting me while I’m caught in the legal mire of a semi-processed spouse visa application. I have an immigration attorney and an estate lawyer assisting me, but there is little anyone can do over the holidays. I have less time to grieve than you’d think, but when I do, it’s in private.

Meanwhile, I’ve been struck speechless at the range of behaviour I’ve witnessed from people — ranging from disturbingly crass and even offensive to incredibly kind and empathetic. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve voiced in my head, “David, can you believe it?!?” I can practically see the shocked expression on his face.

Someone sent me a couple of links on bereavement, both of which I found quite helpful. One is called “The Merry Widow” and I found some parts of some sections quite true to my experiences thus far.

Death and Destruction

You are completely numb.

You cannot cry. People around you are looking to you, expecting you to break down, but the shock of finally realising that your husband is dead has the effect of cancelling out all the normal emotional responses.

Part of you has been torn away, but you cannot feel the pain – not yet.

You can see a man who was once joined to you lying nearby… but you feel nothing.

Why is that?

Well, basically it is the mind’s way of preventing total hysteria. Your brain might allow you an initial scream, or a bout of wailing, but it will not allow that to continue. You would go mad if the full impact of what had just happened to you was allowed to sink in. So the mind blocks it out and numbs all of your senses at the same time. The body plays a part too; it has been medically proven that the muscles in your chest contract to stop the grief exploding out of you. In my case it felt as though I had a small boulder wedged just beneath my breastbone and although I could cry, I couldn’t let go completely. It is a self-preservation measure, which is short-lived, but very effective.

So don’t feel guilty that you didn’t cry at the funeral, or that you can look on with a detached gaze whilst others collapse sobbing all around you. You can only cry when you feel ready to cry – don’t feel that you have to just because others expect it of you.

What you must understand is that your experience of death is unique, just as your knowledge of your husband was unique. You knew him better than anybody and you will know when it is the right time to mourn him.

The Funeral

I was 33 when Charlie died and it was my age, and the fact that I had two young children that shocked people most. You will find that you get inundated with letters of sympathy and often from the most unexpected people. And as you will soon come to realise, the reason that so many people express concern at your plight is that they find it hard to believe that a man in his prime can die, leaving a young wife behind him. Sadly cancer and car accidents, heart disease and head trauma do not legislate for the age of their victim.

The reaction that your husband’s death provokes will be initially overwhelming. If you find it too hard to read all the letters of sympathy – don’t. Don’t do anything that you feel that you cannot cope with. Put the letters away and wait a while – there are many more pressing matters that you have to attend to.

In an ideal world we would all live in a close-knit family group, which would provide us with endless love and support, thus negating the need for us to seek help elsewhere. If you find yourself in that position then you are very lucky – you can skip the next bit because it doesn’t affect you.

For the rest of us, the reality of our family situation ranges from warm and caring, to positively dysfunctional. You may have family who are emotionally close but geographically distant. Conversely, you may be stuck with a stepmother who lives on your doorstep, makes your life unbearable and that you wish you could tell to **** off and leave you the hell alone.

My point is this: if you don’t have family whom you can call upon to help you, then you have to rely on your friends. When the funeral is over and your houseguests have left you will be amazed by how many people come forward and offer help to you. Most people say the same thing, “Just give me a call if you need anything – anything at all”.

This is not helpful to you. What you need is help of a practical nature, and help that is freely given without you having to ask for it.

But how do you ask for help?

You can’t do it, can you?

One of the emotions that you will experience first is a feeling of worthlessness. Total worthlessness.

You have been left alone, but you are too crucified with self-doubt to ask anybody for anything. You may think that there are no positive aspects to being widowed at a young age. You are wrong. This is the point when you will learn the first of the valuable lessons that widowhood is going to teach you.

Real friends don’t have to be asked.

I would hate anybody to think that I did not appreciate every single act of kindness that was shown to me in the first weeks of my widowhood – I did and I still do. The point that I am trying to make is that whilst it is very heartening to receive offers of help, what you need more than anything else is not an offer, but a deed. Finding a casserole on your doorstep will mean more to you than any amount of sympathetic words. Being asked out to lunch with your children will make you feel more loved than a hundred offers of help.

And why is that? Because you didn’t have to ask.

I have friends in my village who cooked for me when they knew that I didn’t have the heart to cook for myself. Four years later they still come over every so often, bringing with them something delicious on a tray. They love me and they don’t expect anything in return, they do it because they loved my husband and they just want to make me happy now that he is gone. That sums up the true nature of friendship to me, and if you are lucky enough to have friends like mine then I know that you will find the first few weeks a whole lot easier to cope with.

Of course you cannot make people help you in practical ways. If all you ever get are offers of help, then you might have to pluck up the courage to ask.

I’m sick of the telephone these days. I spent so much time on the phone the weekend that David died that when the phone rings now I don’t want to answer it. I had to go through David’s daytimer and mobile phone and make necessary phone calls, take calls, and field calls that I didn’t want to deal with. But I dealt with them. For months now I’ve had to handle our situation in a responsible manner and everything attendant with a caregiver role, to be strong because David depended on me to be strong for the both of us. That doesn’t stop now that he’s gone.

A ringing telephone is very demanding. It demands a response, whether I’m up for it or not. If I talk to you and sound “normal”, it’s a coping mechanism and if you know me at all, you know I’m a pragmatist, not a phone bawler. David didn’t want people feeling sorry for him, either, and when he spoke to people on the phone he sounded fairly “normal”, too. But I could see how much pain he was in, and how much energy it took for him to be as cheerful and steady as possible. In some ways it works against us, to act this way, because then people never know what we’re going through.

But, look at the alternative: if we acted anything BUT “normal”, that a) would create ill feeling, and b) discourages any further phone calls. So “normal” is what you’ll get, most of the time. I use the phone sparingly these days, to get things taken care of quickly, but to emote? No. There are actually very few people I want to talk to via the phone, and even those people will probably not hear from me right away. I listen to voicemail and deal with lawyers and pressing matters, of which there are many right now. The rest will have to wait.

I do, however, read comments and e-mails and whatever communication comes my way electronically. It allows me to respond when I am able and I read them for comfort, too. It gives me the space and time I need.

My brother arrived around 2:30am from Vancouver, but I was barely awake enough to answer the door. I have a completely different circadian rhythm these days, and Hugh probably has much to do with that. He’s taken to sleeping right on my chest, like he did with David before it hurt too much and Hugh migrated to sleeping around him instead of on top of him. I used to be a diehard night owl, but now Hugh and I both hit the hay relatively early.

I wake up anywhere between 5:30-7:00am. The fatigue of just getting through the day sets in around 9 or 10 o’clock, and by midnight I’m barely functional. I sleep on my back, on the couch, on plastic (because Hugh has a tendency to pee in his sleep). I am eating properly and getting lots of sleep, however, and wake up every morning with 18-lbs of warm cat on my chest. It sounds unpleasant, but it is actually very comforting.

Possibly related posts:

1. The Chickens Made It Back to the Coop Friday, Aug 29: Molly and Don’s 40th Wedding Anniversary, Kamloops On Friday, we tried to leave early, but there was...
2. Dear David: Christmas Day Dear David, I’m writing because I strongly felt both your presence and absence today. I talked myself into accepting an...
3. I already have a Christmas tree! Christmas tree Originally uploaded by gailontheweb. wedding kit Originally uploaded by gailontheweb. One of the mums in the Civil Air...
4. Filipino Christmas party Gumpa and Maribeth Went to my dad’s church for the first time on Saturday night, to attend their Christmas party....
5. Christmas decorations If I had a dollar for every over-the-top Christmas house/lawn makeover I’ve seen for the past month, I’d be RICH!...
6. Christmas Eve I went to Mercy Hospice earlier this evening. I had some invitations to other homes for Christmas Eve, but I...
7. ERA Christmas Party massive dining table King Ross (top) Our massive medieval-length table in the UBC Room at the Vancouver Club (bottom) Ross,...

Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.