And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.
You know, I don’t know if it’s my ability and inherent connection to being a writer, but I like to think that my observation skills have been helping in the whole grief process. I am capable of standing back, looking at what’s going on, and thinking, Well, look at that. How interesting. This is developing here, and so that’s why I’m feeling that there, and this leads me to this and takes me away from that… It’s all very similar to when I look at the pages I write and pull myself out of the story so I can firmly and clearly edit. It’s almost like disassociation. Except that I’m very aware of it.
I was aware of it this week when my doctor used the word “catastrophic” (no, not in regard to me or my health, don’t worry, I’m fine). It was the first time that I can remember anyone applying that word to Michael’s accident and subsequent death. Words have a lot of impact on me, which is pretty obvious, I would think, and so when he said, “Everything that happened with Michael was just…just…” He shook his head. “Catastrophic.”
So mentally, I stepped aside and thought, Catastrophe? Catastrophe. Huh. I thought of things that I considered catastrophic, and they were mostly events I saw on the news. Hurricanes, tornadoes, flash floods, tsunamis, earthquakes. Massive. And then I applied the word and my meanings to Michael.
And I thought, Okay.
It took me back to my time on the Oregon coast, when I arrived there 66 days after Michael died. I was doing the first of my daily walks beside the ocean, and there was the usual collection of dead jellyfish in the sand. Seeing them, my mind blipped to Michael, and I pictured him like a jellyfish. But then I realized…
Michael didn’t die. He was killed.
It was the first time I applied that word. I don’t remember anyone else ever saying it to me.
And again, I had to step aside and examine the word. And the thing was, it was a relief. It helped the whole senseless thing make sense. Okay, not quite. Michael’s accident and subsequent death will never make sense to me. But it helped my feelings about my reaction to it make sense.
When my doctor said, “catastrophic,” it was another moment of sense-making. I’m not just getting through the death of my husband. I’m working my way through his being killed, and killed in a catastrophic way. And catastrophes come with aftershocks.
I’m sure I’m no different than others when I get impatient with the grieving process. What amazes me is that I appeared on a pretty even keel during the five months Michael was trying to recover, and I was on an even keel for the first year he was gone. Even keel, but I started having physical things happen. Falls – three of them, bing, bing, bing, requiring my first ever stitches, bruising my ribs, and making a mess of my shoulder. Illnesses. And one that probably seems positive. I’m a lifelong insomniac. When I came home from the ER that night of the accident, I prepared for a sleepless night…but as soon as I was in bed, if not sooner, I was out. I have never slept so deeply or so long or craved sleep as much as I have in the last almost three years since the accident.
But when I hit the first anniversary of Michael’s death, it was like the automatic pilot was turned off. The switch pulled out and tossed into the trash. The grief hit me harder than any weather system. And “catastrophic” became very, very real.
So where the heck is the Moment in this?
Well…I’ve spent a lot of time wondering and worrying if I’m doing grief right. If I’m living up to my reputation of being a “strong” woman. For most of the time since that first anniversary and the upheaval (upheaval…there’s another good word) that occurred inside of me, I’ve felt I was an absolute failure.
But the realization that Michael was killed, and my doctor bringing up and confirming that it was a catastrophe helps me make some sense. Not as to why it happened, but why it’s affecting me so. And not only does it let me know that I’m not doing it incorrectly, it’s reassuring me that there is no right way. It’s just the way it is.
Good grief, am I about to say, “It is what it is” again? Gah!
But I feel better about not feeling better. There we go. Moment of Happiness.
And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.
