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.  I had suspected it was coming, but I was unprepared.  My brother and I, along with my aunt and uncle, struggled with how to move forward, how to plan my mom's life in a way that would be safe and comfortable for her.  Her future weighed on me.  My mom had been my biggest cheerleader, supporter, and a great friend for years.  I wanted to be sure that whatever happened, she would be happy, safe, and comfortable.  I cried often in those first few months after the diagnosis, knowing the long road ahead was going to be terribly rough. 

"When Scott died, his death moved to the front of the triage," I heard my therapist say.  

Yes.  Sudden, Unexpected Death of a Spouse moves immediately to the front of the line.  I thought back to those first days and weeks after he died.  I was consumed by grief, drowning in infinite sorrow.  My world had exploded in front of me.  I couldn't conceive of what tomorrow or the next day would look like for me.  Losing a spouse is so much more than losing the person.  I had lost the life that we had made together.  All the routines, habits, and daily rhythms, the division of chores and financial responsibilities, meals together and quiet time in the evening watching a movie, inside jokes and silly gestures, future plans, all died with Scott.  I had to completely rebuild my life from the ground up, and the thought was impossible to comprehend.  Forget about trying to plan the future for my mom.  She moved to the back of the line.

"And then Shannon," my therapist said with a smile.  

I smiled, too, through my tears, feeling a glimmer of energy in my otherwise exhausted being.  I remembered those long, sleepless nights in the weeks after Scott died, of Shannon talking with me for hours on the phone, listening to me cry, making me laugh, staying on the phone with me until I felt like I could finally succumb to sleep.  He helped me see that joy, happiness, and love can live side by side with sadness.  He helped me see a future of excitement and possibilities.  He brought me back to life.  He helped me get my footing and start building my new life, one tiny step at a time.  

Just as I felt like I was finally making progress, we found a memory care facility for my mom and made the gut-wrenching decision to move her out of her home and into the facility.  Sudden, Unexpected Death of a Spouse remained firmly at the front of the triage line, but Mom with Dementia moved into second place, bumping Creating a New Life to third.  

"And then Clayton died."

Three weeks after my mom moved to her new facility, Shannon's son, Clayton, was killed.  Sudden, Unexpected Death of a Partner's Son bypassed everyone else and moved into first.  Shannon and I raced to Oregon where Clayton had lived.  We spent a long, sad week with Shannon's family, dealing with all the necessary things that need attention after someone dies.  Christmas came and went, unnoticed.  We drove back to Montana, packed our things, and headed to Arizona for six weeks, then back to Oregon for two weeks, and then back to Montana.

When Shannon and I finally got back to Montana, I felt like I had some capacity to start focusing once again on Creating a New Life.  It didn't move to the front of the line, but it was close.  I had to establish new routines for when Shannon was here with me and when he was back in Oregon for work.  When he is here, everything is monumentally easier.  When he is gone, all responsibilities of running the household are squarely on my shoulders.  But I was getting it figured out, and I finally felt like I was able to settle a bit.

"And then you just went to Clayton's memorial in Oregon."

I nodded, shifting my listless gaze to the floor.  The most recent Oregon trip was tough.  Between Clayton's service and tearing down the house, it was hard.  

"Now you're back.  The memorial is over.  The house is torn down," she paused, looking at me.  "You seem like you are processing the loss of Scott in a healthy way."

I nodded again, lifting my eyes to hers.  I realized that slowly, over the past few months, my memories of Scott have shifted.  I think about him every day, and I miss him every day, but when I think of him, I smile.  Memories of silly things appear more than memories of sad things.  I can look at photos of him now, and rather than feeling like my heart is being shredded, I feel a gentle tug.

"It makes sense that you finally have time to grieve the loss of your mom, watching her go from the person you knew so well to the person she is now.  She has become the child, and you have become the parent."

Tears swelled in my eyes again.  No more Saturday bike rides from my mom's house.  No more lunch with her in the back yard after my rides.  No more random visits to her house on my way home from work, or little treats that she would bring me at the gym, or trips to Missoula to go to Costco and the Good Food Store.  I had to settle for phone calls and as many trips to Bozeman as I could squeeze into a year.

"I call her every day," I said quietly.  "And every day she is so excited to talk to me."  My throat constricted and choked off my words.  I took a few deep breaths, then continued.  "And every day it breaks my heart."

My therapist nodded.  "Heidi, you've been in crisis mode for nearly a year.  Now you have time to process everything with your mom, and your body is saying no way, it can't do that right now.  You've been in fight-or-flight for a long time, and your body is telling you it needs a break.  It makes sense that you feel numb, or flat.  This is your body and your brain's way of protecting you."

Yes.  Yes.  The proverbial lightbulb appeared above my head.  

"So what do I do?  How do I stop being sad?" I asked, wiping tears from my face.

"You will be sad for a long time," she said softly.  "But remember, nothing is permanent.  Take care of yourself.  Eat, stay hydrated, ride your bike and hike.  Even if there is no joy in it, keep doing those things.  The joy will return, even if the sadness doesn't leave."

I nodded.  I knew this well, that sadness and joy can live side by side.  When people see that I am sad or struggling, I think the assumption is that I am sad about Scott.  Yes, that is certainly part of it, but it is only part of it.  As Shannon and I like to say, "There have been things."

Life can be an absolute motherfucker, but it can also be breathtakingly beautiful.  All we can do is seek the beauty, the joy, and the happiness, deal with the hard stuff when it comes, and know that none of it will last.