Health by Heidi

  I met with my therapist yesterday.  It was the first session we'd had since Shannon's son, Clayton, died.  As it goes with grief, it felt like seven lifetimes had passed since the last time I sat down on the couch in my therapist's office.   I took a deep breath, exhaled, looked at her.  She smiled back at me.  "I don't know where to begin," I said as I closed my eyes and thought back on the last two and a half months.   She nodded.  "Start with whatever wants to come out first." I took another deep breath and felt tears spring to the corners of my eyes as my throat constricted.  I thought of Clayton, of Shannon, of my mom, my kitty Lily, and of course, I thought about Scott.  I opened my mouth and the words gushed forth like an avalanche.  Once I started talking, I couldn't stop. We started with Clayton and Shannon.  As I shared, I realized how much empathy, compassion, and patience I have gained over the last seve...

  I was standing in the back room of a strange house, and I was being held hostage.  My captor was a man, but I didn't know who he was.  He would occasionally yell at me down the hallway.  I knew I was in danger, and I knew I had to escape.  I glanced down and realized I was holding a long, thin, blue saw blade in my right hand.  It was too long to hide.  How could I conceal it to make a surprise attack on my captor?  I heard heavy footsteps coming down the hall.  He was coming.  I gripped the sawblade in my hand, readied myself for the oncoming fight.  And then the alarm went off.   I woke up, rolled over, and reached for my alarm clock to turn off the alarm.  Except the alarm wasn't going off.  I vividly heard it in my dream.  It woke me up.  In real life, no alarm.  I lay back on the pillow, thinking about my dream.  Did my brain really just set off an imaginary alarm to wake me up and spar...

  My dad passed away in January of 2013.  I miss him.  I think about him often.  He was 84 years old when he died.  He had a long, eventful life, and by the end he was ready to go.  It was time.  I was sad when he left, but the sadness was mixed with relief in knowing that he was ready and he was no longer suffering.  We expect to lose our parents.  It's the natural order of things.  Knowing it's coming doesn't make it easier, but I do think it softens the edges of death a little bit.  After my dad died, I was sad for a long time, but I didn't have any of the other emotions associated with grieving.  I was never angry.  I didn't feel guilt.  There was no denial or despair or numb.  We all knew it was coming.  We were prepared.  Above all, my dad was ready to go.  He was tired and worn out from a life lived well and hard.  I expected to outlive Scott.  He was seven years older than me, and...

  It's been just over six months.  I can't believe it.  It seems surreal to me when I think about it.  How can it be real?  How did that actually happen?  And now it's February and the days keep coming and I keep moving.  Before this happened, I often wondered how people keep living when they lose someone close to them.  As it turns out, living just happens.  The days pass by and I don't get to do any of them over again.  No mulligans.  Might as well make the most of each one. It's a bit late, but I thought I would do my annual year-in-review for the rollercoaster shit show that was 2025. January: Scott and I spent the month in Mexico and decided it would be our last trip down there.  We had been going there for over ten years, and decided it was time for a change.  On the drive back to the states, we got held up by the Sinaloa cartel and robbed for 10,000 pesos.  Fun times.   February: Scott and I spent the...

  I met a friend at a coffee shop yesterday afternoon for our monthly catch-up.  I arrived first, and while I was placing my order, I saw a former client of mine.  We hadn't seen each other in quite a while, and greeted each other with smiles and a hug.   I know what's coming. We exchanged pleasantries and small talk.   Any minute now... She asked a few questions about how my work was going and told me about her workouts and what she had been doing.   Any second now... And then she asked it.  The question I knew was coming.   "How's your husband doing?" "My husband died."  No hesitation.  No preamble.  No introduction.   She recoiled, took a step back, hand on her chest, jaw wide open. "Oh my God," she stammered.  "I'm so sorry.  I don't...I can't...I'm so sorry." I gave her a sympathetic smile.  "I'm sorry," I offered.  "I'm still working on my delivery.  I'm not quite sure how...

  I keep wondering if I'm approaching my breaking point.  What does that look like? It's too much.  But I've been saying it's too much for a while now.  So when is it actually too much? I pushed "Send" and my text whooshed off to my best friend, Denise.  Three dots immediately popped up on my screen.   You're stronger than you think.  Tell your brain to shut up.  You got this! I smiled at her reply, even if I doubted her confidence. In August, my husband of 17 years died.  One day, he was alive, healthy, vibrant, and strong.  The next day, he was dead.  Just like that.  No warning.  No preparation.  In an instant, my world crumbled into a million tiny bits that flung themselves to the far corners of the solar system.  I couldn't fathom how to get through that day, or the next, or the next.  I remember thinking, What does November even look like?  Or next summer?  How do I even get there? ...