Grief triggers are the worst! You know what I mean. Those little things that catch us unaware, and with no warning, we find ourselves plunging backwards in time to a space where we are once again raw and lost in our grief. It can be a song, a smell, someone body movements that are all too familiar… Anything can be trigger… It is like a sudden experience of déjà vu where you feel literally transported back to another time.
I have these occurrences happen to me at least two to three times a year – give or take… I think the hardest part is that you really aren’t prepared for it… So, keeping your emotions under control and not completely falling apart, is (for me) the hardest part of the challenge. For the first few years after Bruce died, I didn’t really worry about falling apart. I let myself feel what I felt. However, for the last few years, I understand that almost a decade has passed since I lost my love. I am even more aware of how others may be under the impression that I should be past all of that. Therefore, the tolerance is extremely limited… I know… I (kind of) get it… At the same time, they are wrong.
Granted, I am better at thinking about other things and pretending all is well… But for the most part, it is just that – pretending. Here, I can be honest and say that it still hurts. My heart is still raw and broken… And this week I was reminded once again, just how raw and broken it still is…
Let me back up just a little bit… Over six weeks ago, my son had an accident and ended up with a metal plate and several screws to hold him together. Despite living on his own since he was 18, he has needed to live with me for help and support as he recovers. It has been a long road for him, but he has been doing everything he is supposed to do in order to be independent again as soon as possible. His hope was to be able to move back to his place later this month after his follow-up.
Life, however, doesn’t always follow our plans. Through no fault of his own, the surgical site became inflamed, and we found ourselves heading to the local ER at 5 o’clock in the morning. This was not the hospital where he had his surgery nor is his doctor anywhere close by. However, we weren’t too worried about all of that. We both assumed they would clean it, re-stitch it, and let him go with some antibiotics…
As I was turning into the hospital parking lot, it was dark and almost empty… Then, it dawned on me that the last time I been to this ER was with Bruce on the awful night so many years ago. I have written about that night several times in the past… It was an awful experience… and suddenly, here I was walking through those awful doors once again.
I took a deep breath as I parked the car and walked inside.
This time, though, rather than being immediately directed to the “Consultation” room, which is evidently reserved for those whose loved ones arrive to the ER already dead (as in my experience with Bruce), we were asked to simply sit and wait in the lobby… Okay… so far, so good.
I took another deep breath and busied myself helping my son fill out the necessary paperwork. Before I knew it, we were called back to an exam room. I immediately got up and followed my son and the gentleman pushing him. As we walked through those double doors, there on the right was the “room” – that damn Consultation Room. That place where I sat in unbelief for what seemed like hours waiting for someone to tell me something… anything… where I sat while a doctor told me that my Bruce was gone… where I sat in shock while the police officer and hospital staffer assigned to “console” me actually ignored me and talked about the upcoming Super Bowl game.
This was a room I never wanted to see again. As we walked past it, all the things I have tried to push back into the darkest corners of my memory popped back into the forefront of my thoughts. I immediately, turned my eyes back to my son. “Think of him,” I told myself. “He is the one who needs you right now. You don’t have time to think about all that… not now… You can do that later.”
Then, in the next moment, I realized where we were headed… We were walking into the exact same exam room where Bruce had been… Where I had spent what felt like both an eternity and a single moment in time, with Bruce’s body… Touching him, stroking his hair, begging him to wake up…
I know Bruce died in our home, in our bed… in the space where I am each and every day. (It’s strange, but I actually find comfort there.) Yet, this space where I found myself – this exam room was the space where I had to accept that he was gone… where I had to actually say my goodbyes. This is the space where my world collapsed around me (and has never fully recovered).
This space was one of those triggers I was talking about… One of those triggers that you aren’t expecting and can’t avoid. While we sat in that room waiting, I didn’t quite know what to do with myself. I couldn’t lose it. I couldn’t fall apart. I was there to be the strong one… to be my son’s voice and advocate. I had to hold it together no matter what. So… I paced. I sat. I found myself talking about anything and everything – just not about the last time I was there.
After five very, long hours, my son was admitted and moved to a room – not what we had expected. (In fact, at this point the experience for my son went quickly downhill. However, that is not my story and does not belong here.) I, on the other hand, found myself going back home to grab some items we would each need for we thought was ahead.
While the ride home is less than ten minutes, it felt like an eternity. But I was driving. I couldn’t fall apart (yet). I need to hang on, just a little… bit… more. I can’t begin to tell you the relief I felt as I walked through my own door, into our space… a space where I am safe to feel what I feel, where the tears could flow without any eyes to judge me or make me feel ridiculous… A space where I constantly feel Bruce’s presence and comfort. This was the moment I could finally let myself feel all those emotions.
This week has been a long one – filled with long hours, exhaustion, and frustration over sub-standard care. I have learned that while my grief still hurts, I am stronger than I think… Also, I have been reminded (once again) about the preciousness of life and how quickly our world can change…
I say it every week… Loss is hard, and the grief we are left to figure out is even harder. But this is a journey where I am continuously learning about life, faith, and love. There have been some great life lessons on this journey, but I hate that losing Bruce is how I got here. After all, I didn’t ask to be here… I didn’t ask for any of this. As the years pass, I can honestly say that there are more good days than bad as I learn those things that seem to bring me a little bit of healing each day. Through it all, though, I still find myself wishing for a world where Bruce is here beside me. So, I will continue to allow myself the space I need to heal and process this life without him. Thankfully, at this point in my journey, I am learning that I am not alone – thanks to you!
In fact, none of us need to be alone, because we have each other. It is our love for those we have lost that brings us together into this space where we can share our experiences. I believe the sharing of our stories is so important… I believe it is healing and helps us to process that avalanche of emotions that grief brings us. Do you have a story to tell? I believe we can find courage and strength in one another’s stories. I believe we can offer each other empathy when we open our hearts to one another. I don’t know about you, but it makes me feel better knowing there are others out there who understand what I mean, and what I feel. It’s nice to know I’m not alone… Maybe this strikes a chord with you too. We would all love to hear your thoughts or your story. If you would like to share your experience or if you need a helping hand or maybe a virtual hug, let us know. We are here for you.
Please do… This is our community. To share your thoughts and experiences go to the comments and leave your message.*
This is a weekly blog, for daily affirmations we have a Facebook page of the same name. Join us daily at www.facebook.com/peaceloveandgrief
* Be advised that all comments are subject to approval prior to posting. Any comments determined to be spam or not in accordance with the mission of this website/blog will not be approved or posted. Furthermore, any comments determined to be hostile in nature will be reported to the proper authorities. Thank you.
Hi, my name is Becky and I ran across your blog in the Nextdoor app. It touched so close to home, I cried the whole time I read it. I lost my husband, Tim, January 15, 2021 to Covid. We’d been together 30 years and were each others everything. Suddenly, all the plans we’d made to enjoy life after 20 years of caring for my parents and his mom, were gone. I had to move from the house we lived in for the last 15 years within a month and a half after he passed. I had to go through and get rid of most of his things because there wasn’t room to take it all with me. Every part of my life was drastically changed and here I am, a year and a half later, still reeling from all the change. I miss him so much there aren’t words big enough to express the loss. The triggers that cause tears are everywhere. I went through a Grief Share program and it help a bit but, then came the holidays and I was back to the beginning. I don’t want to be a broken hearted, crying widow but, I can’t seem to make it through a single day without at least one good cry. I’ve managed my tears in public for the most part but, triggers really are everywhere because we did so much of daily life together. So, I keep kleenex in my purse and know where every ladies room in town is so I can dry my tears and get myself together. I’m going through another Grief Share program next month to try again to cope with the overwhelming pain and loss. I do have my 3 grown children, my sister, and a few really good friends who are really good to me but, I don’t want to be know as the lady who can’t get through a day without the sadness taking over. Unfortunately, that who I feel like I am on the inside.
Becky, I am so sorry for your loss and all you have had to go through since Tim’s death. My heart breaks for you. I have been blessed to stay in our home so far, but I know those days are limited, and I don’t want to go. Please know you are in my prayers, and I (along with this community) understand and are here for you. {{hugs}}
Becky,
Don’t ever be ashamed for being “the crying widow” In the first year after my husband passed. I cried all the time…with no shame, no guilt. You are not responsible for other people’s inability for compassion. Feel what you feel when you feel it. It eases over time, but even now, almost five years later, I have random “no reasons why” moments when it hits, and everything makes me cry. I. Don’t. Care. how it makes others feel. And for reference, prior to losing Chuck(my husband), I never cried. I was the pillar of “strength”. I joke sometimes that he broke me. I wasn’t emotionally healthy that way. I’d rather cry, I’d rather feel how I feel because it’s all part of my undying love for that man. Don’t ever feel ashamed, or guilty for that!
Linda,
Your story reminds me of a moment I had several months ago. I’m a photographer, and over this spring I worked for a sports league company that caters to the city and surrounding area where my husband used to work. (FYI: His heart attack happened at work.) On this particular day we were doing a soccer league, on a field that just so happened to be directly next door adjacent to his former place of work. Directly behind the area I stood and shot photos all day, was a patch of woods, and directly behind that patch of woods…was the EXACT place he went down that day. None of my coworkers knew me when this happened, and it felt really inappropriate to bring it up. But I knew, and I had to know that 1000 ft from where I was standing all day, he most likely died. I told friends and family about it, but obviously they didn’t really understand. Which is fine, but it made for an “odd” day for me to say the least.
<3 Thank you for your love-filled words!