Grief is an interesting thing. It seems to have a life all its own, uncontrolled by your thoughts, emotions, needs . . . Grief does what grief needs. It's like being possessed by something other than yourself that seems to be able to take hold of your actions and force you to do things that you would never choose.
Many years ago, when I lost my first grandparent, I remember being at work in the days that followed, reading a newspaper, not even thinking about my Grandpa, when tears began to flow, unchecked, down my cheeks. We all know that we can force emotion or tearful sentiment by dwelling on sad thoughts. But I wasn't even thinking about him. It was as if grief was in no way connected to MY brain - it just DID things that seemed to be beyond my control.
Losing my mother-in-law has been different, but no less mind-boggling. I'm much older now, have a husband and children who need my support, and HAVE to stay focused to be a responsible parent. But I find myself zoning out and have difficulty completing tasks, getting "fuzzy-headed" and forgetting what I'm in the middle of doing, being unbelievably tired and disinterested in just about everything, and just wanting to curl up in a ball and sleep, yet unable to make my mind stop long enough to catch even a few winks. Again, I feel like my body is being controlled by someone else, that I'm a marionette at the beck and call of this thing we call "grief".
While we were in West Virginia, I shifted into high gear. I felt an overwhelming need to take care of my father-in-law; to leave him with a freezer full of home-cooked meals portioned out, a clean house that won't need touching up for quite some time, and organized cabinets that will be easy for him to use. I spent hours, working from fairly early in the day until late at night reorganizing and cooking. I got massive amounts of work accomplished and was very focused. I kept telling myself there would be time to grieve when I got home. I'm home now and, like it or now, the process has begun. I've tried to push it aside and focus on a very busy life and schedule, but it won't be denied.
People keep asking me how Don is doing; after all, it was HIS mother that died. I tell them I have no idea. Don is normally quiet and I seldom know what he's thinking, but his usual quietness has been mild in comparison to the man I'm living with right now. We went out to the Lake with friends today, celebrating Daelyn and his buddy, Kolbe's, First Communion. Don sat away from everyone else, didn't join in the conversation, and spent awhile off walking by himself. On the way to the Lake, in the van, I told him that people were asking how he's doing and explained that I don't know what to say.
"I don't know what to tell you to tell our friends," he said. "I don't know how I'm doing."
"Are you just numb still?" I asked him.
"I think that's what's happening," he responded. Then, a few minutes later, added quietly, "And Mother's Day is next weekend . . ."
Grief takes many different shapes. Deanna chewed me out yesterday when I was gone for an hour and she didn't know where I was. I had told Dane where I was going, just walking across the street to talk to a friend, but he forgot. After I got a little tired of Deanna fussing at me and told her to stop, she welled up with tears.
"You could have dropped dead somewhere from a heart attack and I wouldn't have even known," she blurted out, then ran from the room crying. I hadn't realized that her grief was causing her to fear suddenly losing someone else she loves. It looks different from my zoning out and lack of concentration. It even looks different from Don's detached quietness.
We're all dealing as best we can. The good news is that we're dealing. The bad news is that I have no idea how long it will take us. Grief is a strange bedfellow.
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