Someone asked…what does grief feel like? Wow. If we knew ahead of time what it would feel like, would we be better prepared? I don’t know…maybe. In 1981, I had my gallbladder removed. I had absolutely NO idea the amount of pain that would entail. It was back in the days before they were done through laparoscopic surgery so it was the full 8″ incision across the upper right side of my abdomen. It was excruciating and I was so mad that no one had warned me.
I’ve suffered losses. My grandparents, my parents, friends from school. They were painful and sad. I can’t imagine losing a child or grandchild, God forbid. I’m not sure I could have understood what losing Mr. Virgo would feel like if someone would have told me ahead of time, but I will do my best to describe what it was like for me.
While in the ER watching the lifesaving attempts being made, I was in disbelief. It felt like sliding downhill on ice…the farther it went, the faster it went, the more out of control I felt.
When the doctor came out to tell me he was gone, it felt as though someone hit me in the stomach. A sucker punch that I wasn’t ready for…that knocked the wind out of me. I immediately went into denial mode. I knew I had to put one foot in front of the other and get through this nasty business that they were going to expose me to in a few minutes, but after that, I was going to get in my car and drive home and Mr. Virgo would be there waiting for me.
They had me wait with the Chaplain for a bit while they removed the tubes and got Mr. Virgo cleaned up. They led me into the room where he was. They didn’t have his hair combed right. It pissed me off. (I was very concerned about his hair, even at the funeral home. It is strange what you focus on.) I felt like a trapped animal and looked for the nearest exit. I felt detached from reality. Then they did something very nice for me and looking back on it from a purely sociological standpoint, it was the best thing they could have done to shock me back into the present. They had wrapped a heating pad around Mr. Virgo’s left hand to keep it warm and gently led me to his side. The nurse said, in the kindest voice, “You need to take his wedding ring off now.” Bam! I was back in the room and reality struck me. This was real. This was really happening and he was really gone. I went numb. I remember trying to make the staff feel better, telling them I knew it wasn’t their fault that he had died. That I knew they had done everything they could. It was my first exposure to playing the gracious hostess of a macabre family reunion.
A friend had joined me at the hospital so I didn’t have to be alone. She wanted to drive me home. I insisted on driving myself and she followed close behind. I needed to be alone. I didn’t cry. I kept looking over at the passenger seat, feeling like I had forgotten something very important. Like I had left my purse at the restaurant. I called my ex-husband and asked him to have the girls go to his house and I would meet them there. I remember about 5 minutes of that drive. I would recommend you take someone up on the offer to drive you home.
When I got to my ex-husband’s house, he, his wife, and my oldest daughter came down the steps to meet me and I collapsed in their arms. I was led inside, given a cup of tea and a yogurt. I blamed myself for not recognizing symptoms, for not listening to my gut instincts, for not letting Mr. Virgo quit his stressful job because we needed the benefits, for not insisting he have that complete physical his doctor wanted. Heck, I would have blamed myself for global warming at that point. I felt horrible and took it all on my shoulders.
One or the other of my daughters slept with me for a week. I did not sedate myself. I wanted to feel whatever came my way. I don’t drink and didn’t want to. My memories that week are like looking at an ill-arranged slide show. Snippets here. Bits there. Truly, I was numb, spaced out, being led from one thing to another. Amazingly, I was not anxious about the visitation, the Rosary, or the funeral…and I am typically an anxious person when it comes to not being in complete control of a situation. I walked through the paces, went where I was told, ate when it was placed before me, slept when I was led to my bed. Robotic comes to mind.
I needed to be at home to take care of some things for the first week after everyone left, then I went to my son-in-law’s parent’s house for three weeks. I was exhausted. One of the most profound effects of my grief was memory loss. I had to write things down on my iPad. I made lists galore. I put blinders on and plodded forward.
I took off for three months and traveled in TOW-Wanda by myself. Buying that trailer was the best thing I have ever done for myself. It was small and cozy, like a cocoon where I could hunker down and lick my wounds like a sick cat. I took her up high in the mountains where there was no one around for miles and screamed at God for taking my man away from me. I screamed at Mr. Virgo for not taking care of himself. I screamed and cried till I was hoarse. I slept for days. I forced myself to eat. I put no demands on myself. I went where the mood struck me. I wrote and wrote and wrote. I know that was a luxury not everyone has and I am grateful.
Time does not heal grief. Only grieving heals grief. You must let yourself grieve in whatever way feels best for you. Not every book has an answer for every person. You will feel lost, out of control, angry, sad, fearful, depressed, euphoric, vacant, acutely present, acutely absent. You will cry, you will laugh, you will yell. You will sleep for days and you will spend long, lonely nights wondering if sleep will ever come again. You will bargain, deny, accept, and bargain all over again. There are no “Five Stages of Grief”. There is no particular order. You don’t get through one phase then neatly move on to the next and then one day magically wake up and it’s over. Grief is ugly. Grief is messy. Grief is a gift you give yourself to honor the loved one lost. Grief is the price we pay for loving…the deeper you have loved, the deeper you will grieve.
I honestly didn’t start feeling totally like myself for about 9 or 10 months. I still have moments when something strikes me and I cry, but for the most part, I’m really doing ok. Personally, I could not have gotten through this without my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. And now, I’m ready to do something different, to stop talking about it to whoever will sit still and listen, to live my life again. I don’t want it to dominate every conversation. When someone you love is gone, your life will never be the same. You have to adapt to the new reality because the alternative is not good. If you need help, get it. If you are thinking of hurting yourself, call the Suicide Prevention Hotline at 1-800-273-8255. If you need a personal Savior, instant message me. I’d be happy to talk with you about mine.
Everyone’s grief is different. This is mine.
? Ginny