Tissue box

After the sudden passing of my youngest sister and then within months, my husband passed as well, I was carrying around tissue boxes everywhere I went. I began to measure my grief progress by how many boxes I had. The green boxes were for why me,  the blue boxes from my hysterical anger episodes, the pink boxes represented how many times I cried because I loved then both so much and happy memories. My purple boxes were for the times I cried because I felt sorry for myself.  Other colors and patterns were for the sudden outbursts, television commercials, "just checking on  you" phone calls, anniversaries, birthdays and holidays. I kept the empty boxes stacked in a corner in my bedroom. They reminded me of how much I had cried and in a way I was looking for the boxes to decrease which to me, would mean I was progressing in my grief journey.

A very good friend of mine lost her husband about a year after I lost mine. She told me that she gained some inspiration from my tissue boxes. She took her empty boxes and filled them with words written on scraps of paper. Feeling words. Every time she cried, she would write down the word associated with that emotional cleanse. She did this every day for a year. At the end of the year, she took all the words out and divided them. She was shocked to see how many words that represented anger there were. Dispair, Disgust, Frustated, Pissed off, and Really fucking pissed off were just a few of the words she had in that pile. It made sense to me, a "seasoned" widow. My first year was filled with day after day of "why me, why my family" and "what the hell did I do to deserve this??" I felt so guilty for being angry. My friend said that she was inspired by my story of what I was doing to move through the grieving process. I was flattered and still am humbled that my insane way of attempting to deal with my emotional rollercoaster of a life inspired ANYONE.

During the second year, my friend continues to use her tissue box. She tells me that she has already seen a difference in how many happy words she is adding to the box. Now she uses colored paper. She tells me that her pink paper- representing love and happy memories is getting low in the box while the blue (anger) and green (worry, wonder and what the hell am I gonna do now) piles get used, but not as much.

I shared this story with someone I trust very much and told her that maybe I would try writing the emotion I was feeling and the memory or event that caused it. After a year, I would take them out and examine them.

It has been 2 1/2 years since my husband was called home and almost 3 for my sister. I am very vested in making this journey  one that is not just healing, but a learning one as well.

All Fakakta

Fakakta. Great word. Yiddish for "messed up" as well as a few other choice words....

That's how I have been feeling. My husband left this earth almost 2 1/2 years ago. I start to feel a little less sadness and then BOOM it starts all over again. I am beginning to  understand that this is what grief is.

Don't misunderstand me. I don't go a day without crying for his loss. Some days it is unpredictable and others, all I have to do is think of him and then the waterfall starts. It's a good thing I drink so much water or I swear I would be dehydrated. It is exhausting and cathartic at the same time. How is that possible?

I am so happy that my husband is free of pain, suffering and is in a place where he is whole again and able to do all the things he wanted to do while on earth. Selfishly, I want him back with me. Yes, I saw his body slowly being taken over by the Multiple Sclerosis. Yes, I saw his body twist and shrink as his muscles shriveled up. When he was  unable to eat he got thinner and thinner. We had to be so careful not to break his bones when trying to move him or straighten him out when he would have muscle spasms. We would all wear a happy face so that he would not see how much it pained us to see him in this condition. All these things haunt me and I take a deep breath and know that his suffering is over now.

I felt guilty for wanting him to live. Even when he forgot names. A few times he looked at me like a deer in headlights. He really didn't know who I was. I would joke with him and say "you know who I am, it's me the love of  your life". He would tear up and shake his head no and then in a second, he remembered and whispered my name.... Steph. I would tell him "see you DO know  me!" Triumphant for him, and bittersweet for me. Many afternoons were spent crying on the way home from work. I felt sorry for myself. Then I felt guilty for feeling sorry for myself.

What a twisted way to live. This insanity went on for the first year following his passing. I had such conflicting, mixed emotions. I wanted to label each one, put it in a jar on a shelf and open it only when I wanted to. Well that bitch GRIEF would not let me do that. She grabs you by the throat and throws  you into a clusterfuck of emotions. And then just when you think you have it kind of under control, she spins it up again when there is a holiday, anniversary or really sad commercial on TV. I never knew when something--a smell, sound, song, the bark of the dog... whatever, would stir up the tornado of emotions.

I couldn't understand what was going on. I had my verbal one to one's with God. I  yelled and screamed at him. I even got angry at Pete. He just left me. No notice, no great parting words of wisdom. Nothing. Slowly, I started to understand. Everything I was feeling was ok. It was part of the plan. Part of the process. Part of the healing.

Fakakta. Yes, that is how it was and some days it still is. And that is ok.

1 more minute.....

I struggle with whether or not I was a good enough wife, friend, lover, companion or caregiver. I never asked my husband and he never made me feel like I wasn't. Since I was not  home with him when the Big Man upstairs came to bring him home to Heaven, I never got to say goodbye. This haunts me. I wonder if he was scared. Did he suffer? Did he know? What was the last thing he thought of? Did he smile when he saw God?

I have begged, pleaded, bargained and offered to be the best damn spokeswoman for Heaven, if I could have just one more minute. I know exactly what I would do with every nano second of that time. 60 seconds. Try looking in the bathroom mirror and talking for one minute straight. The average person only gets to 47 seconds before they run out of things to say. I dream about this minute. I imagine it. I know what I would do. I would make it the best 60 seconds of my life. 1...2...3...4...5...I just want to be able to look into my husband's eyes one more time.  I want to gaze into his soul. Those beautiful, puppy dog, chestnut brown eyes. The eyes that could melt a glacier, the eyes that captured my heart in 1980.

One more minute.6....7....8....9...10  I would stroke his face with the back of my hand like I did to calm him when he was in pain. One more minute to look at the handsome face of my first, last and everything11...12....13..... I would run my fingers through his hair. I would hug him harder than I ever had before, knowing this would be the last time. One more minute.    28....29........30.....We wouldn't even need to speak. To see him smile, watch him look at me. One more minute.

I would press my cheek to his, close my eyes and imagine us dancing. 31....32......33.......34

35...36...37.. The day he first said I Love You. 38....39....40.....I do and still do. 41....42....43....44....tears because a minute is almost up. 45....46....47.. he holds me close and  when our eyes meet again I see everything he is trying to tell me. Don't be sad, I will miss you more than  you can imagine. 48... 49.... 50... Oh, God, please stay!! Don't go Pete. . 51... 52....53....54....55... I see the pain in his eyes and whisper "I will be fine. I love you too much to ask  you to stay. Be with me every day and let me know you are there."


56...57...58...59... He would gently kiss me and hold me for the last time. His fingers trace my face as I close my eyes and silently beg for him to stay.  When I open my eyes he would disappear from my sight leaving the impression of ever after and forever love on my heart.

I find myself doing this all the time. I will take Pete's hairbrush and remember him using it and I can actually see him brushing his hair. I close my eyes and hold his favorite cup and imagine him drinking from it. I open his desk drawer and see everything exactly as he left it. I close my eyes and I can see  him going through it looking the drawer. I remember catching him "hiding" something in the drawer, learning a week later that it was the engagement ring he bought for me. Sometimes I will spray his cologne... Grey Flannel in the bathroom when I am drying my hair. It reminds me of the times he would get ready for our "date nights". My eyes well up because I miss him so much. Remembering is part of the grief process. At first the memories come in flooding, overwhelming tides of emotion. I felt like I was drowning and couldn't catch my breath. I tried to control my memories. Tried desperately to decide WHICH memory and WHEN to have it. I would be sitting at work and burning tears would just run down my cheeks. It didn't matter where I was, work, church, supermarket, driving... I could not control them.

I have only cleaned out 2 of his dresser drawers. I would run my fingers over his clothes, hug them tight to my chest and bury my face in the shirts desperate to smell his scent. I have taken a few of  his shirts and put them in ziplock bags hoping to preserve them forever.  I sat in his wheelchairs and remember how he hated to see me do that. He didn't want to imagine me in a wheelchair. Ironic, that now I am. I wonder what he is thinking about that now!  I hold the pen he used every day when he worked out of our home. As I run my fingers over the smooth edges I remember seeing him with that pen. As the quote says... looking for echos of your fingers.