The Stages: Denial

Everyone knows the five stages of grief.  They are steeped in pop-culture, often as the punchline of a psychological joke (See:  Frasier, Scrubs, The Colbert Report, and countless other TV comedies).  More seriously, they frame our understanding of grief, particularly of another person's grief.  Before I was a widow, I admit that I'd hear of a grieving person who was exhibiting symptoms of one of the stages, and I, as though I were some kind of expert, would say to myself, "of course.  They're in denial.  That's normal."  What did I know of normal?  I think this is how many people understand the stages of grief- they make a grieving person's actions and emotions understandable to those on the outside.

Sometime after Ryan died, a fellow widow sent me a book in the mail- the definitive text on the stages, Elisabeth Kubler-Ross's On Grief and Grieving:  Finding the Meaning of Grief Through the Five Stages of Loss.  I was put off at first, thinking that, again, someone was trying to fit me into a simple formula.  My grief was personal, and no one else could possibly understand it.  But, considering the gifter, I decided to give the book a chance.

Upon reading, I began to see myself in many of Kubler-Ross's descriptions of the effects of grief.  It was gratifying, to know that what I was feeling truly was normal.  And not only that - it was still extremely, undeniably, personal.  The book, along with grief counselling, taught me that the five stages of grief are real, but not as pop-culture has taught us to understand them.  They are not things that grievers travel through in a defined order, in a defined time period, or in a defined way.  People in grief may go through all of them, none of them, or only a few.  They can cycle back again, you can feel multiple of them at the same time, you can have rapid switches from anger to bargaining and back again, for instance, or sit in denial for several weeks before moving straight to acceptance.  It's different for each person.  In fact, I would say that they are not so much "stages" of grief (which implies a certain formulaic progression) as "reactions" to grief.  To me, they have been almost symptoms of a condition, ways that my body and brain responded and learned to cope with what I was going through, and continue to go through, in my life.

I'm not done, and  I don't know if I ever will be.  I can say though that learning to accept the normalcy of my own grief has helped me to deal with it, and helped me to go through it each and every day.  I thought I'd write a bit of a "blog within a blog" and share, one at a time, a bit of how each of the stages have affected me personally.  I've been through them all, to some extent, some more than others.  It's my hope that in sharing some of these stories, it may help others to understand some of the the emotional process involved in grieving, and how deeply personal and individual each person's experience of deep grief can be.

When I Said Yes

I never told Ryan, but I knew he was going to propose to me before he did it.  I didn't know when he would, or how, but I knew he was planning it.  One night when I was stopping at my parents' house to tutor my nephew, I bumped into Ryan on his way out.  He had a pretty flimsy excuse for why he had been there, and while I didn't figure it out right away, I knew that's why he had come.  I let him have his secret, and tried to forget about it myself.  I always wanted to be surprised when I was asked that question, and it did neither of us any good for me to have figured it out.  Until the day he died, I never mentioned that I knew why he was there.

Months earlier, I was frustrated.  Ryan and I had been together several years, and we didn't talk marriage much.  I was beginning to worry that it wasn't something he cared much about.  I know we had talked about it before and that he had said he wanted a family, and I couldn't imagine that he was living with me for all of this time and didn't want to make it permanent.  But, I was terrified to bring it up- afraid that the conversation would ruin things.  I knew I eventually would have to say something though, and I planned for it.  I was beginning to get scared that I'd waited too long, and ended up in a dead end relationship.

Ryan and I taking a selfie in New
York, before "selfies" were a thing.

In February 2009, Ryan asked me if I wanted to spend Valentine's weekend in New York City.  I love New York, and was so thrilled that he had come up with the idea on his own.  It seemed so spontaneous and romantic.  Even though it seemed a little too cliche for him, I started to get it into my head that he was going to propose to me on this trip.  I tried not to get too excited, but the surprise trip was so out of character for Ryan that I thought maybe there would be more surprises to come.

It wasn't until later that I found out Ryan didn't come up with this idea at all.  It was a happy accident- his parents had planned a trip to New York and decided late in the game that they would cut the trip short by a day.  So they offered Ryan the last night of their hotel stay, and he took it.  The trip was a lot of fun- but no ring.  I tried not to be, but I was dissapointed.   Not only did I have no confirmation that Ryan wanted to be with me forever, but he hadn't taken me to a particularly romantic dinner (I think we ate at an Irish pub), and there wasn't really any grand romantic gesture at all.  In fact, his entire Valentine's Day gift was predicated on the fact that his parents happened to have a hotel room that they needed to fill.

If I feared that Ryan was uncommitted, or lacked in romace, I was wrong.  Ryan was totally, completely committed.  He was perhaps the most committed guy I've ever met.  When he decided that he wanted something, he set his sights on it and gave it everything he had.  In fact, that's one of the most important things I want Sophie to know about her Dad- he was extremely devoted to our family, to our future.  He would have done anything for us, for her, if he'd had the chance; he would have always been there.  I see now that he simply didn't want to get married or have kids until he was ready, so he could do it right.  I recognize that many happy couples go through hard times and split up, but I really believe that Ryan would have done everything he could to make sure that never happened to us, especially once kids were involved.  For the fact that I wasn't sure he wanted to settle down, he was so content being "settled down" in the end.  Marriage, family, grown-up life, it suited him.

And while he wasn't one for the grand romantic gesture, he worked with a quieter, more understated type of romance: he delighted in making me happy.  When he did something that made me happy, you could tell how happy it made him.  He felt that his biggest job in our relationship was to make me feel loved and taken care of.  And there's simply nothing in the world more romantic than being made to feel special.  I've never felt more special than I did with Ryan- particularly in the years after we were married.

While I was worried that Ryan might not be the marrying kind, he was deciding to buy a ring.  I was busy worrying that we wouldn't have a future, and he was busy getting ready for it.  That coming summer, he was travelling to Europe for three months to work on research for his dissertation.  I was coming to Berlin for ten days to visit, and his original plan was to ask me to marry him in the Tiergarten, Berlin's sprawling public gardens.  He decided against it, because he was afraid of travelling with the ring.  In my head though, I can imagine it.  That would have been the grand gesture, and just the fact that Ryan thought of it meant something to me.  Plan B was proposing to me the Friday before he left to go to Europe, at my parents' house, during an annual fireworks display that can be seen from there.  Again, a grand romantic gesture.  He changed his mind on that one at the last minute too, because there were large number of people there he didn't know, and he felt uncomfortable.

Ryan and I right after getting engaged.
One of the happiest moments of my life.

In the end, he asked me to marry him in front of his family, a couple of days before he left for Germany.  It had been weeks since the incident when I bumped into him leaving my parents' house after asking for my Dad's blessing, and I wasn't really thinking about it anymore - the one, single time in my life I managed to put something like that out of my mind.  So, even though I knew it was going to happen, I was surprised.  And happier than I'd ever been, ever, in my life before it.  That day felt like the beginning of the rest of my life- a day that I knew I had a future with the man I loved, and that he would always be there to love me.

I've been thinking about that day a lot this week, because it was over Memorial Day weekend that year, so this week is a sort of unofficial anniversary of the day we started planning to grow old together.  Thinking of this now, I'm happy at the memory, but I feel hollow right after, thinking of the unfulfilled plans and hopes.  That is how it is for me- even the happy memories (of which there are very many) come with heartache and a deep sense of loss.  When I said "yes" to Ryan's proposal, I absolutely thought I was starting down the path to "Happily ever after", not to "'Tis better to have loved and lost".  Without a doubt, it's true that I'd rather have the memories than not have them, even with the hurt.  I just wish I could find a way to have never lost in the first place, and get back to the happy ever after Ryan and I had both been imagining.

On Being a Mom

It's Mother's Day.  It's my first Mother's Day, my first real one, with an actual child who loves and appreciates me.  I got some credit last year when I was pregnant, but this year is the first year that really counts.  

Mother's Day has become, let's face it, the very definition of a Hallmark holiday.  It started after the American Civil War as an opportunity to celebrate mothers and maternal bonds, and has become a reason for fathers to do a lot of panicked last minute shopping to maintain their happy homes.  As a mother of an infant, Mother's Day should have been a holiday where my husband had the opportunity to appreciate the hard work I do as a Mom.

Of course, that is not to be for me, or for many other single moms out there.  Despite this, I had a lovely first Mother's Day; I went to brunch with my family, my nephew bought me flowers, my Mom and Mother-In-Law both gave me gifts in Sophie's name (I'm sorry, I mean Sophie gave me two gifts), my sister-in-law and her family sent me a gift, and I received many seasonal wishes from friends and family alike.  And, most importantly, I got to spend a relaxing day home with my daughter, who laughed at my silly faces and wowed me with her new-found ability to sit up independently.  Under the circumstances, I have no complaints.  Obviously though, the circumstances suck.  I found myself at many times, today and throughout the week, devastatingly sad that Ryan isn't here to make me breakfast in bed.  Of course, then I reminded myself that he never would have done that anyway.  Cracking the eggs alone would have perplexed him.  But, the point stands.  I don't even have the opportunity to complain that Ryan refuses to make me breakfast in bed.

At my worst point during the week, I broke down crying, thinking how much I wanted Ryan to be the one giving me a Mother's Day gift.  I was home alone with Sophie that night, and when I started crying, she was awake, looking at me.  I wondered what she must have thought, a seven month old, watching her Mommy crying, for what to her must have seemed like no reason.  As desperately as I wanted to lie down, put my head in my hands and just cry, I didn't.  Instead, I stopped, wiped my eyes, smiled at Sophie, and took her upstairs to get her ready for bed.  I sang her a lighthearted song, made silly faces at her, and made her feel loved and taken care of.  And as it often seems to, the most amazing thing happened.  She returned the favor.

I have many observations on motherhood in general, and widowed motherhood specifically, but they start with this; it's hard.  Being a mom is always hard- being a single mom could be harder, and being specifically a widowed mom could be harder still, because of the implications of the grief you're struggling through.  Grief makes you feel like less than a complete person, and as a single parent, you're striving every day to fill the roles of two complete people.  It's tough for half a person to suddenly have the strength and resolve to fill the roles of two people.  Regardless of all of that, motherhood is hard for anyone.  It's always going to be hard, and there will be times that you just want to give up.  Sometimes they'll relate to your child- sometimes they won't.  But, moms can't give up.  If they do, their kids will suffer the consequences- and no good mom wants that.  Moms have to wipe their own tears, put on a smile, and take care of the helpless being in front of them.  Okay, the smile is optional (but recommended).  But, even though it's hard, you do it as a mom, because you have to.  Who else will?  And if you're a single mom, seriously, who else will do this for you?  Grandparents are amazing (and probably the single reason that I didn't lose my mind in the first few months), but the responsibility held by a mother is beyond compare.

But, it's not all bad- and that's what Sophie shows me every day.  As hard as being a mother can be, as exhausting and emotionally depleting, it hopefully comes back to you.  If you're doing it right (which I sincerely hope I am), the reward of being a mother balances out the responsibility.  As you're being held solely responsible for the life of another human, that other human is pouring its love back into you, without even making a conscious effort to do so.  That night that I was home alone, crying over the hole in my heart where Ryan should be, Sophie saved me a little bit just by being there.  Then she saved me further by giggling at my funny faces.  Then she saved me all of the way by snuggling into me as she fell asleep.  The hole in my heart is still there (and as deep and painful as before) - but Sophie has awakened a new place in my heart, a place that I didn't know I had before.  Being a mom makes you do and feel things that you didn't know you could do or feel.  It sounds like a cliche, but being a mom makes you live for something other than yourself, and in doing so, gives your own life more meaning.  As any mom with an infant who won't sleep the night can tell you, it breaks you down first - and then, hopefully, builds you back up.

When I first thought about writing a blog post about some of my observations on motherhood, I thought I'd write something else.  Even when I sat down to write, I thought it would go in a different direction.  I'm not even sure now what it was I was going to write.  The point is, I have a lot of observations about motherhood in general, and my experience specifically.  I hope that I get to share more of them as I continue to experience them and grow as a mom.  

To every other mother out there, I hope you've all had an enjoyable and rewarding Mother's Day.  Sure, it's a made up holiday, but we deserve it.  To my own Mom, thank you.  Thank you for being a wonderful mom, a wonderful grandmother to my daughter, and for helping me through the hardest times in my life even while I'm sure it has been very, very hard for you.  To my Sophie, thanks for giving me something to live for, and for building me back up, a little every day.  You don't even know you're doing it, but thanks all the same.  

Feeling Sorry, and Being Strong

In the months following Ryan's death, I read a few books on grief, only one of which I found helpful.  I didn't find a book that was able to speak to me - a young, pregnant widow whose husband died suddenly, but not in a disaster or in the line of any kind of duty.  Recently though, I decided to try again, and simply focus on books relating to young widows.  In doing so, I came across a memoir, the title of which I don't remember, by a woman in a situation very much like my own.  I rely on the reviews of these books, as I find that most reviewers are grievers themselves, and give honest opinions about what books have helped them and why.  In the case of this book, the top reviewer said that what he most admired about the writer was that she "never once felt sorry for herself".  This line, probably unfairly, made my blood boil.

First off, it's very likely simply not true.  To think that a woman in her twenties or thirties lost her husband months before the birth of their first child, and then never felt sorry for herself, is pretty much inconceivable.  I don't know this woman, and I'm making assumptions.  Perhaps she truly is that remarkable of a person, but I seriously doubt it.  I'm awfully cynical, and I bet that a more "positive" telling of the story probably sold more books.  The self-pity was probably edited out.

What bothered me more though, is that this reviewer's single favorite thing about the story was that the writer didn't pity herself.  This, to me, represents a fundamental point about how this society views grief.  We respect a person who is able to get knocked down and get back up like nothing happened.  Preferably quickly, and with a smile.

For the record, I feel sorry for myself.  Regularly.  Not every minute, not every day, but regularly.  And what's more, I'm not ashamed of it.  I think it's normal, and that most people who have been through a deep loss would go through some period of self-pity.  I hate that I lost my husband, I hate that my daughter will never know him, and I hate that our future together was taken away.  I hate that I have no answers for why it happened.  Why should I not be entitled to feel sorry for myself?  I feel sorry for the other people in Ryan's life who have lost a son, a brother, a friend.  I believe I'm entitled to feel a little sorry for myself too.  Maybe not forever, and not so much that it takes over my entire existence, but probably for a long time.  I'm not done grieving yet, and I don't know when I will be.

Grief takes time.  It take a lot more time than this society is prepared to give it.  We applaud people who are able to heal quickly.  We call them "strong".  It's not a perfect example, but I think of the Boston Marathon bombing.  The anniversary was last month, and I can't tell you the number of stories that I saw about someone who lost a limb or was otherwise injured or traumatized, and is up walking or running again a year later.  News anchors want to run these stories because they're inspirational - they show that after tragedy, these strong people were able to work hard, overcome their losses, and move on with a promising new life, like a happy ending of a movie.  The loss of a limb is, of course, different than the loss of a loved one, but I doubt that anyone who lost a limb or was otherwise the victim of terrorism would have completely overcome their grief and trauma after a year.  I'm sure they still struggle.  I'm sure they still have hard days and times when they wonder why this had to happen to them, and times when they wish it hadn't.  This is not to say that their stories shouldn't be inspiring to others, it's not to say that they're not remarkable people.  They are.  They are remarkable, and to be admired for their resilience.  But, perhaps we owe them, and other victims of tragedy, a bit more time before expecting them to be healed.  There is something symbolic about the one year anniversary of an event - it seems to be a statute of limitations, after which a person should be ready to get up and move on.  It's nowhere near that simple.  Often, the second year of grief can be just as bad or even worse.  At least a part of this comes from the fact that people feel you should be over the hard part.   It's hard to continue to grieve when people think you should be done.  

In the year after Ryan died, a lot of people called me "strong".  I got "brave" too.  Most of the time, I feel that I am neither.  In fact, the antonyms of those words, "weak" and "cowardly" seem often to apply more aptly.  I want to lay down and quit often.  And, as mentioned before, I feel sorry for myself a lot. I'm tired, and often bitter and angry.  I didn't just get back up and brush myself off - I wallowed.  Sometimes, I still do, and I think I will for a long time.  I'm not "better".

But, I think maybe that's what actually makes a person strong.  It's not the ability to get over it and move on quickly, it's not the ability to resist self-pity.  Those things, if you truly have them, are admirable, but I think strength comes from somewhere else too.  Strength can be the ability to get up and go on with your life, even knowing that it's not better, knowing that you'll never get back what you lost, knowing that you have many more hard times ahead of you, pining for your old life, living with crushing hurt all of the time, but going on anyway.  No matter how tired I am, no matter how many times I've completely freaked out, and no matter how much I still feel like there's no reward at the end of all of this work, I do get up every morning.  I get up carrying my grief all of the time, and do the best I can, even though I often don't feel much like it.  If I'm strong, that's why.  The same, I'm sure, can be said of countless other people out there who are suffering through deep grief.  Their strength lies not in their ability to heal quickly, but in their ability to live with their loss, despite how difficult it is to do so.