Helping others helps

I've had a rough few days. It comes and goes, but is tough when I don't get out and see people. But today, I had arranged to see a friend before she travels for a few months. I will miss her when she's gone. One less person to put on my "keeping-me-sane" roster. It's not that full either. 

But during our brief chat, we mentioned two things that are useful when we travel. The first is a debit card with good exchange rates and easy use (the Wise card), and the second was an esim. She asked for help. Because we'd met close nearby, it was easy to drop back to her house and work through setting both things up. She's iPhone and I am android, but the apps are generally the same, so after a lot of to-ing and fro-ing and back and forth, we managed to set up both apps on her phone, upload some currency into one, and purchase and install the esim.

I left feeling so much better than on the drive there. Though driving home via the bays, seeing the harbour at high tide in full sun, helped too. 

Grief and its toll

I've always said writing helps. And it really does. But in the absolute depths of grief, writing has been, and still is, too hard. I could pour my heart out here. But I've never really done that in this space, not in the midst of the experiences, not as I am trying to roll with the feelings, and just get through each day. Yet my brain keeps trying to make sense of it. So today I've been trying to write things down - yes, actual handwriting! What a novelty. But at times, it just feels that that is what my brain needs. 

It's now been almost seven weeks. The passage of time feels unbearably cruel. Yet I feel as if he is still with me.  Because he is with me and he always will be; we have over 40 years of memories together. They will never go. And so it's not a case of having to reprogram my brain, which I talked about after the final diagnosis that I would never have children. I'd been so used to thinking "when I have children" that I needed a complete brain reset. And that was hard, every realisation a sharp shock. Especially when the prevailing attitude from everyone around me was always that I had to keep hope. "Think positive" - ugh! But this is different. I've had over a year knowing that he was going to die, though we didn't think it would be quite so soon. But that doesn't make it any easier.

I'd forgotten how exhausting grief can be. I'd forgotten too how exhausting it is trying to "stay strong." Just as any of us who have been to child-centred activities would get home feeling depleted, anything I do now that is a reminder of D (which is pretty much everything) takes a toll. Staying strong - ie not weeping and wailing - with friends (even when the tears do come) or with tradesmen or lawyers or at the damn supermarket takes a toll. Even writing through the grief takes a toll. Which is why I'll stop here today. Thanks for reading. And if you are suffering loss in any way, recognise that it takes a toll, and be kind to yourself.

Childless, and now, Single

My husband died late last month. It still seems unbelievable to write it, let alone say it or live it. In the end, things happened quite quickly. We spent a (largely) peaceful week or so in the local hospice, with (mostly) wonderful staff and volunteers, and space for family and friends to visit, and a nice view across a valley, much like life here at home. I was able to stay with him the entire time, which was a comfort to us both.  

My sister and brother-in-law, who had stayed with me just a week or so earlier when he was in hospital, and had fed me and supported me and chauffeured me when I was exhausted, jumped in their car on very short notice to drive seven hours to be here to support me. They were amazing, took over everything, made the hard phone calls, organised the small gathering we had to honour him, and helped organise people too. Other family were here, and after they all went home about 12 days later, friends have been checking in on me. I have been lucky to have that support. 

But having so many people around so intensely was at times overwhelming. I felt I had no time to grieve. But maybe that's why we do it that way. The brain and heart has to catch up with reality. And now that I'm alone, I can mourn freely, whenever the moment hits me, knowing that I can also be strong around others.  

One thing that has surprised me is that receiving messages, texts, emails, whatsapps etc, having actual conversations chatting about anything, makes me feel much less alone. They are real connections, and very important. Physical presence hasn't been essential every day, if I've been chatting to my sister-in-law in Australia, or my friend in Thailand, or my sister in the north. Messages are also much easier to respond to, when I weep at the drop of a hat. (When writing this, for example.) Responding to heartfelt messages takes a toll though, so I am doing that very slowly.

Thanks to neighbours and wonderful blogging friends, my freezer is almost overflowing with food. Cooking is not so much the problem. Going out to the supermarket is. I went once, and was surprised how hard it was - walking past his favourites, picking up only enough for me, answering questions at the checkout. So knowing there are ready-made meals waiting for me is a great relief. I am extremely thankful for their support. 

I have a long list of things I need to do. Some of it feels overwhelming. Some of it is routine. But it is all hard, though I'm trying to force myself to get at least one thing done each day. I'm not sure how soon or how often I will be able to write here again. I might need the outlet, I might need privacy. 

We were together since our university days. We grew up together.  We shared everything. Together we learned and explored - ideas, activities, and the world - in ways that we might not have done apart. I am who I am because of him. But now I have to learn to be alone. 

 

Worst case scenarios

I've written before about infertility and worst case scenarios. At first, we think it will all be easy. The worst case scenario might be struggling to get pregnant. Then if we are lucky enough to conceive, a miscarriage is the worst case scenario. That can escalate, as it did for me, to life-threatening ectopic pregnancies. Then the worst case becomes IVF, then not even getting a chance to complete a cycle, and then childlessness. That gradual but relentless spiral down became familiar, until we reached the depths of where hope for that life did not exist.

I'm going through the same thing now with my husband. It is rough. I know I will come through it, and will survive. I just don't want to have to go through everything that is coming. II don't want him to have to go through what he is enduring at the moment, let alone what is coming. 

On top of everything that is going on, we got some shocking news this week. My sister-in-law, someone I've known since our first year at university together 45 years ago, died suddenly. She had been sick for years, but with the wonders of new medical advances, she had survived the last seven years, and was actively caring for her own husband (my husband's brother) who was facing severe medical challenges of his own. The situation was bad enough already. Talk about spiralling down. 

For obvious reasons, we can't travel to support the family, my brother-in-law and my niece and nephew, in Asia. I am live-streaming her funeral mass as I write this. (The audio is terrible, which is why I am writing right now, but the music is lovely. She was a musician, and would have liked that).  Emotions have caught up with me. Today, it is all too much!

My sister-in-law was always supportive of me. She recognised that my life was different because we did not have children. In particular, she has thought of me undertaking this care-giving role without adult children, or any family in this city. I have always appreciated her acknowledgements that sometimes, life without children is really difficult. 

We'll get through this year, one way or another. I know that. Pregnancy loss and childlessness taught me that. But I've really had enough of these ever deteriorating worst case scenarios.    

And so in honour of my SIL, I prefer to think of the road trip we took together from Amsterdam, where she was living 20 years ago, to Lille and Bruges (or Brugge). For years, we had talked about escaping, just the two of us, and this was our one opportunity to do so. I'll remember us laughing in the leather shop in Lille, in the middle of a Gay Pride Weekend, when we were assumed to be a couple. I'll remember her patience as she drove round and round the one-way loop road in Bruges, until I could figure out the navigation route to our hotel. I'll remember her pointing out all the Madonnas on the corners in Bruges, and eating mussels and later waffles there with her on a sunny, early summer day. And I'll remember her laughing at our soup course at the Michelin-recommended restaurant, as we tried to figure out how to eat it out of the tiny cups, with the sporks we had been given. Patience, and laughter in the face of challenges was a strength of hers, it turned out, as the years to come proved. I think that's a wonderful legacy. One I am trying to emulate.

Other's or Aunties' Day

Yesterday - in NZ - and today - in the US/Canada - it has been The Day that Should Not be Named.  This year, with all the turmoil going on at home with a terminal husband, the day registered but barely. Still, last night as I was going to bed, I got a message from my niece. She's been through a lot. She's studying psychology as an adult student, and doing great, putting all her experiences and growth into the course. I'm very very proud of her.

She said: 

"Wanted to say thinking of you today on  Mother's Day. I cannot pretend to know what emotions get brought up on days like today. So happy Aunties day instead, love you lots."

I think that is the first time, in 24 years of Mother's Days since I lost my first pregnancy, that I've had a message from anyone outside of this community acknowledging that the day might be hard for me. Sure, I made a point of telling one or two people that is was hard, who then recognised that. My mother was one. But this was unsolicited, and just lovely to receive. She made a point of saying she's making a conscious effort to reach out to people in a small way, instead of saying nothing. Which seems to be a family trait. Or a NZ trait. Or a Western trait. Anyway, I've tried to do that too, and she reminded me it is worth continuing to do so. Trying is better than not trying.

Did I mention we are both middle children? ;-)  

So even if the day is tough, and the years are silent, small changes can and do happen.  And they will warm your heart when they do.