Brain Power

 

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 spare me the gore and angst of having to engage in a nightmare saw-blade fight?  Yes, I believe it did.  My brain was protecting me.

Lisa and I listened to a podcast about grief a few weeks ago.  The grief expert explained that the brain has all kinds of protective mechanisms to help people deal with grief.  He talked about anger and how anger is just a different expression of pain.  I recalled when I became consumed with anger in my grieving process.  It was a few months after Scott had died.  I thought I was safe from anger, that I could skip it or miss it somehow.  Not a chance.  Revelations and epiphanies brought on the anger, and I needed to address those issues.  That was only part of it.  Looking back, I see now that my brain was tired of the oppressive sadness.  Sadness is exhausting and depressive.  Anger is hot and fiery.  I channeled my anger into work, bike rides, hikes.  The anger subsided a while ago, and the sadness has settled in again, but it's a softer sadness, a manageable sadness, the edges now smooth and rounded where they once were razor sharp.  My brain needed a break, and it worked.

The grief expert also talked about feeling numb as a means of protection.  Immediately after Scott died, I seemed to go through a three-day cycle.  Infinite Sadness engulfed me for two full days, resting heavy on my chest and limbs like a lead blanket.  On day three, I would feel blissfully numb.  I wasn't sad, or angry, or anxious, or happy, or despairing.  I just was.  I longed for those days of numb.  Feeling nothing was the greatest gift I could have had in those first several weeks.  Once again, my brain needed the reprieve from so many big, heavy emotions.

Another topic the grief expert covered was the different kinds of grieving.  I learned that I am a practical griever.  I grieve by being productive, handling problems, getting stuff done.  In the week after Scott died, I met with the attorney, the banker, the accountant, and the financial advisor (sadly, the logistics of death are 90% financial).  My brother and my best friend made spreadsheets of all the contacts I needed out of Scott's phone, business plans, income and expenses, and on and on.  I remember on several occasions, friends would stop by and see all that I was doing and ask me, "Are you really okay?"  No, no I wasn't okay, but being productive was the only way I knew how to grieve, so that's what I did.  My brain did what was familiar, and that was to be practical and productive.    

And then Clayton was killed.  Suddenly, I was on the other side.  I became the shoulder, the supporter, the guide.  Within a few days of Clayton's death, Shannon had made lists of all the things we needed to do.  Loans and banks and credit cards and insurance policies.  We were making phone calls and sending emails and getting stuff done.  I would often look at Shannon and wonder if he was okay. only to recall doing exactly the same things after Scott died.  It made sense to me now why people were asking if I was okay.  It was how I was grieving, and now I was watching Shannon do the same things.    

I sometimes wonder if the brain intentionally prevents sleep in the aftermath of a tragedy.  For me, going to sleep was nearly impossible.  Waking up was worse.  Reality would hit me immediately upon awakening.  Perhaps the brain knew that a constant state of exhaustion would soften the all-consuming sadness, and that when I was more prepared and able to handle everything, sleep would come more readily.  

I don't know how it all works.  What I do know is that my brain played some amazing tricks on me over the past seven months.  Those tricks have allowed me to keep moving forward, to find happiness and love and excitement about life again.  Brain, keep up the good work.