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Triage

  "I'm so tired of being sad," I said dully, noticing that I was crying but not having the energy to care.  I was sitting on the couch in my therapist's office, staring at the wall. "What are you sad about?  What feels the biggest right now?" my therapist asked softly. I continued to stare at the wall.  Talking felt like too much.  I felt empty.  I sat quietly for a few moments, working up the strength to find words.  Finally, I took a breath.  "I feel sad about my mom.  I don't know why it's coming up so much now, but there it is," I said flatly.  I shifted my gaze to my therapist.  "I don't have the energy to grieve another thing." My therapist nodded.  "Our brains can only process so much.  You've been in triage for months, dealing with the most important thing at the time..."  She continued to talk, but my mind drifted. I thought back to June of last year, when we got the diagnosis that my mom had dementia.  ...
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Pretend

  I just broke down crying in the car on the way to Hamilton.  That hasn't happened in a while. I pushed "Send" and my text whooshed off to Denise and Lisa.  They both replied almost immediately with a similar version of the same question:  Why?  Did something happen or is it just everything? Life.  Life happened.  Shannon and I were just in Oregon for two weeks.  We attended his son, Clayton's, celebration of life and started tearing down the crushed remains of the house where Clayton had lived.  Shannon had lived with both of his sons in that same house for several years.  Lots of memories covered in soggy insulation, moldy drywall, and tree branches.  A house full of mementos now smashed to bits and loaded into 40-yard dumpsters.   We came home to Montana just in time for Shannon to fly back to Oregon for work.  There was no time to decompress, to settle, to process.  We jumped right back into life and charged...
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Scabs

  This past Saturday, we attended the celebration of life for Shannon's son, Clayton.   "How did it go?" I don't know how to answer that question.  I don't know why it's called a "celebration of life."  No one was celebrating.  Most people were crying.  I think "remembrance of life" would be a more accurate description.  The ceremony was nice, if nice is the correct word to use.  Clayton's uncle was in charge of running the show, and did a good job keeping things moving.  A few family members shared stories about Clayton.  There was a lovely slideshow featuring photos of Clayton from baby to adulthood.  The weather was warm and sunny when we arrived.  As family members shared stories, clouds rolled in and the wind picked up.  Just as the slideshow began, fat raindrops started to split-splat on the tents and the heads of those of us not under the tents.  The rain intensified during the fifteen-minute slideshow, an...
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Graham

  I have officially started the process of changing my last name back to Graham.  It was the name I was born with.  It was the name I had for 29 years of my life.  It feels right to go back to my roots.   I started by calling the county courthouse.  A nice woman answered the phone.   "Hi," I said.  "I'm calling to get information on how to change my name." "Yes," she replied.  "You just need to have your divorce decree." I paused.  "My husband died."  "Oh!" she exclaimed.  "Oh, I'm so sorry.  Well, um, well, I think you need to file for a name change with the court." "Ok, what does that mean?" "You can download the paperwork from our website.  Once you fill out the paperwork, bring it to the courthouse.  Then you have to file a notice in the local newspaper for 30 days, announcing to the public that you are changing your name.  If you have any unpaid debts, any debt collectors can come forward ...
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Normal

  Last year, I registered for a 14-day, 1,000 mile bike tour in Colorado.  The tour had close to 70,000 feet of climbing, all at high altitude.  Starting in March of last year, I trained hard.  I rode my bike five or six days a week, had a structured training plan, and followed it closely.  Every day, I would ride, then work, or work, then ride.  Weekends were consumed by long rides with lots of climbing.  That was the routine.  That was the rhythm.  That was the normal.  By the time July and the bike tour rolled around, I was in the best cycling shape of my life.  The tour was more than I ever thought it would be, and I felt great for all 14 days.  My training paid off.  Five days later, Scott died. In January of this year, I signed up for another bike tour, also in July, also big miles, also lots of climbing.  I was excited for it.  I was ready to start training for it.  But.  Things happened.  L...
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Pinball

  I yawned, stretched, rolled over onto my side. Don't look at the clock,  I thought.  With my eyes closed, I could tell it was still dark outside. I grimaced as I felt a bead of sweat drip down my chest.  I put my hand on my belly, also covered in a slick slime of sweat.   Yuck.   Apparently, this is what happens to a 47-year-old woman.   I sighed again. Don't look at the clock. I opened my eyes.  1:04 a.m.  I peeled back to soaking wet sheet.  The window was open, and the air hit me like a plunge into an ice-cold mountain lake.  I shivered, sweat still covering my skin.  I got up, walked to the bathroom, dried myself off, went back to the bedroom.  I crawled in bed, squirming around in an attempt to find a piece of sheet that wasn't fully saturated.  No such luck.  I gave up and lay still in the cold wet.   I closed my eyes, willing sleep to find me again.  Instead, the starting gu...
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Signs

  It was Tuesday, March 10, last week.  It was my 47th birthday.  It was the first birthday since Scott died.  It was the first birthday since my mom moved into memory care.  Shannon was in Oregon working.  The alarm went off that morning at 4:00 am.  I had to be out the door for dog walk by 4:45 to get to my first clients by 6:30.  At 4:30, I started getting ready.  Put on my walking clothes, layering appropriately.  Put on the glowing green dog collars.  Grabbed my flashlight so I could see where I was going in the heavy darkness that is 4:45 am.   The dogs and I headed across the pasture on the same route we've done nearly every day since Scott died, the same walk he had done nearly every day since we moved into our house.  We made our way along the creek, up the switchbacks, onto the bench behind the house.  As we walked, I was throwing myself a pity party.  Here I was, once again walking in the darkness...
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