Reflection

 

I study my reflection in the mirror.  My face stares back at me.  I look the same.  I lean forward, searching.  I must look different.  Somehow, my outward appearance must reflect the internal hurricane that is now my existence. I lean closer to the mirror.  I see sadness in my eyes, deep fatigue around the edges.  Is that it?  There should be more.  I should look DIFFERENT.  My forehead should have a stamp on it, “WIDOW.”

I am in the Good Food Store.  I finish filling my jar with peanut butter when I feel the sadness rising, climbing the staircase inside me.  I look around, searching for a place to go where no one can see me. It’s almost noon on Friday, and the store is packed.  The sadness keeps rising, higher and higher.  I feel my throat constrict and tears flood my eyes.  I walk quickly down the protein bar aisle, but there is nowhere to go.  The sadness erupts. I bury my face in my hands and weep.  I feel a hand on my arm and turn to see a woman gazing at me, her eyes full of empathy.

“I don’t know what happened, but I am so sorry.”  She softly rubs my arm, then continues down the aisle.

“Thank you,” I whisper to her between sobs.

Now I am in Costco, and I feel the sadness rising again.  Not again.  Not here.  I made it through the whole morning at home without crying, and now the sadness is relentless.  My eyes fill with tears again, and my phone rings.  

“Hello,” I softly answer.

“Where are you?”  The voice of my friend brings immediate comfort.

“I’m in Costco.”

"Where specifically in Costco?" he asks.

"I'm by the Pronamel toothpaste," I answer, feeling the sadness momentarily loosen its grip.

He laughs.  “There’s probably shampoo and diapers and vitamins there too.”

I feel the tears start to subside.  “Yeah, and soap.”

“It was a hardware store that did it for me.  I was trying to decide which size of bolts I needed, and I couldn’t make a decision.  I lost my shit, started crying in the middle of the store.  It’s okay.  Just let it out.”

I am in Butte for an overnight trip with my family.  Each passing moment brings another tidal wave of sadness, and it has consumed me.  My phone buzzes with a text message.  We can come get you and bring you home.  Just let us know.  I wipe my tears, take a few slow breaths, and the sadness surges again.  As I cry, my phone buzzes again, another text from a different friend.  Do you want us to come get you?  We could bring your car and mom back, too.

On my darkest days, through the overwhelming sadness comes overwhelming gratitude.  My brother giving me his best Scott impression of a bear hug.  My friends and family constantly reaching out, checking in, offering help and support in any way they can.  My friend flying in to spend the weekend and watch the kitties while I am away for the night.  Scott's best friend continuing to answer my phone calls in the dark of night, talking me through the pain, the infinite sorrow, the vomiting episodes, the long sleepless nights.  My best friend bringing me a blanket in the middle of the night to sleep on the bathroom floor when I am too sick to get up and go to bed.

There are always lessons to be learned, and I mentioned two already in a previous writing: 

1) Live like Scott.

2) Reach out to people.  

Over the past few days, more lessons have been revealed.  

3) People are good.  I am a hard-wired introvert.  I have my small circle of close friends, and tend to not reach out at all.  Over the past two weeks, I realized how big my circle really is, and that there is room for more.  I had an idea in my head for a long time that I didn't need people.  I had Scott, and he was all I needed.  I was fine being alone.  Now that I am alone, I realize I do need people.  I need my friends and family.  In my time of greatest need, they keep showing up.  No matter the day, no matter the night, whether I am home or not, they keep reaching out.  They text, call, stop by, or invite me over.  They listen when I need to talk, and talk when I can't.  Even the kindness of the woman in the Good Food Store gave me a glimpse of hope through the flow of tears.  Yes, people are good.

4) There are no words of solace, so don't try.  Just be there.  Like my friends and family have been doing, show up.  Listen.  Be comfortable with big emotions.  Be okay with crying, yelling, laughing, all of it, or none of it.  Be there for it.

Today marks two weeks.  People keep telling me, "Take one day at a time."  I don't have a choice.  The days keep coming, and the nights keep coming, and I don't have a choice but to go along for the ride.  How has it been two weeks?  I have no concept of time anymore.  All I can do is keep going.  I don't know how, but the days keep passing, so I guess I'm doing.