I've lost most of four days.
I've kept busy. Yoga, work-outs, long walks. Busy-work and email. Endless snow-shoveling. Even house-cleaned in a way more exacting than any sane person would demand. Just kept my mind running best I could. Running away.
Couldn't believe -- still can't -- the level of emotional turmoil I've been running away from. Just keeps snapping at my heels. Like starting grieving all over. I should turn around and face it, but I'm afraid. Frightens me to think I may have to start grieving all over.
Terrible four days of grim struggle. Part of my current emotional turmoil is not wanting to have to admit to myself that all the difficult grief-work I've done this past three years has been futile. Part of it is not understanding: why now -- while at the same time knowing I can't know or understand -- because grief is emotional, not rational.
Part of my current dilemma is the uncertain notion that if I just let go and dive into the turmoil I may get through it more quickly. But not knowing that for a fact, I'm afraid to leap in. What if I'm swept away?
Still another part of the desperation is that I know my children and grandchildren expect me to somehow become again the competent person they once knew. As if I will somehow have failed them if I don't pass my exams and graduate with my grief class. Isn't there some schedule of realistic expectations.
My kids've never seen me fail at anything before. At least I think that's so.
I never really have failed. Not at anything this important, anyway. Truthfully, though: I've never before had to face anything this difficult. At least I don't think I have.
Part of this turmoil may be connected to my realization that I'm more afraid right now than I have been since Nancy's death. I remember years ago reading my two young daughters a Dr. Seuss story about a boy who is frantically running away from a pair of green pants. He runs and runs until he is so exhausted he can't run away any more. So he turns and confronts the pants. Of course, he discovers the pants are empty.
Remembering this story makes me think I don't know what it is that's frightening me these days. And I won't know if I don't stop running and face whatever it is that's got me running.
Is it that I'm still afraid of facing life without my best friend?
Is it that I'm afraid of facing life as a retired person?
Can I survive whole without the distraction of some meaningful work?
Is it that I feel less confident and competent because I'm old?
Anyway, for four days I've successfully avoided thinking about these four new aspects of my life. Thinking may not end this current emotional turmoil, but whining won't either. I offer this thinking, not because I am certain I have a solution to my fears. I'm offering this thinking because sharing it may somehow help other runners in my age range. And clarify it for myself, too.
I'm 75 years old. For the past fifty years I was successful in my chosen work, and in my personal life. I thought myself so blessed I felt I was invulnerable. OkayOKAY! A little laughter can't hurt.
Is it that I'm afraid of facing life as a retired person?
Can I survive whole without the distraction of some meaningful work?
Is it that I feel less confident and competent because I'm old?
There may be more things scaring me. . But these four are the relatively new things in my life. And with them comes this fear I apparently have to face. Or keep running. I'm confused. Haven't I known these things for the past three years? Or do fear and pain like this drift in and out of focus and keep coming back to haunt aging people in the midst of their losses?
Anyway, for four days I've successfully avoided thinking about these four new aspects of my life. Thinking may not end this current emotional turmoil, but whining won't either. I offer this thinking, not because I am certain I have a solution to my fears. I'm offering this thinking because sharing it may somehow help other runners in my age range. And clarify it for myself, too.
I'm 75 years old. For the past fifty years I was successful in my chosen work, and in my personal life. I thought myself so blessed I felt I was invulnerable. OkayOKAY! A little laughter can't hurt.
This afternoon, I sat down and reflected. I divided the past fifty years (or so) of my life, best I could into six phases. These phases vary in length. Below is a quick retrospective on these phases -- as I've roughly refined them as I write:
Still, struggling to write this has helped me in several ways. First, it makes me realize how good most of my life has truly been. Second, most of my life has been school. I've loved school, as a student and teacher. Being a good teacher requires being a perpetual learner. So I've always been a student. Three, most of my adult life has been Nancy-Time. We were friends, lovers, and teammates.
For thirty-seven years Nancy's students referred to me as Mrs. Meadows Husband. (I suppose her students still think of me this way.) Makes me laugh as I write this: Neither one of us corrected them. We knew it was my favorite thing to be.
Could be I shouldn't post this. It's too personal. But I'm gonna post it anyway. Might be somebody in pain will read it, and wind up feeling better.
Phase One: 1959-1969
Established successful professional life.
Completed three degrees.
Carried on service projects in public schools.
Phase two -- 1970-2003
Met and married my wife.
We became a successful professional team.
We developed an idyllic married life.
We established parallel teaching careers
Phase three: Nancy's illness and death -- 2003-2006
I retired to help Nancy survive breast cancer
that recurred in her liver.
Phase four: 2006-2008
Period of Grieving.
Feelings of Abandonment, misery, and hopelessness.
Found competent counseling.
Phase five: early 2009
Continuation of counseling.
Gradual re-birth of self.
Fluctuating sense of well-being and hope.
Phase six: present
Alone.
Growing sense of independence
and self-sufficiency.
Met and married my wife.
We became a successful professional team.
We developed an idyllic married life.
We established parallel teaching careers
Phase three: Nancy's illness and death -- 2003-2006
I retired to help Nancy survive breast cancer
that recurred in her liver.
Phase four: 2006-2008
Period of Grieving.
Feelings of Abandonment, misery, and hopelessness.
Found competent counseling.
Phase five: early 2009
Continuation of counseling.
Gradual re-birth of self.
Fluctuating sense of well-being and hope.
Phase six: present
Alone.
Growing sense of independence
and self-sufficiency.
Fluctuating sense of competence and confidence.
If you've read this far, you may be asking SO WHAT?! Things're tough all over.
True!
If you've read this far, you may be asking SO WHAT?! Things're tough all over.
True!
Still, struggling to write this has helped me in several ways. First, it makes me realize how good most of my life has truly been. Second, most of my life has been school. I've loved school, as a student and teacher. Being a good teacher requires being a perpetual learner. So I've always been a student. Three, most of my adult life has been Nancy-Time. We were friends, lovers, and teammates.
For thirty-seven years Nancy's students referred to me as Mrs. Meadows Husband. (I suppose her students still think of me this way.) Makes me laugh as I write this: Neither one of us corrected them. We knew it was my favorite thing to be.
Could be I shouldn't post this. It's too personal. But I'm gonna post it anyway. Might be somebody in pain will read it, and wind up feeling better.
Or at least not so alone.
Things really are tough all over!
Things really are tough all over!
Your power of self examination and the pain and joy of being able to express yourself so personally is a wonderful gift.
ReplyDeleteI'm so sorry for your sadness. Things are tough everywhere, but that doesn't make your struggles or anyone else's any less real or difficult. You've come a long way and have made great progress! I am certain you will have brighter days soon where you will find yourself stepping back in amazement as you recognize that the bleak part of the cycle has passed.
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