Surviving Complicated Grief

 

Surviving complicated GriefThe hospital smells of disinfectant, trying to mask the presence of illness and grief. I walk into my husband’s room and give him a hug. I hold on tight, and even though he’s too weak to reciprocate, I relish the familiar touch and feel of his skin. How, I wonder, will I find the strength to witness his decline. He promised he’d never leave me, that he’d love me forever. But now he has cancer and promises are a thing of the past.

Six weeks later my sweet husband, Rex, passes peacefully at home. Even though I’m with him when he takes his last breath, I just stare in disbelief. Grief takes on many forms, and for now I feel like I’m watching a scene in a really bad play. I walk through the funeral, burial and reception like I’m a robot. I engage in conversation but I’m not really present. There’s a blanket between me and the rest of the world and nothing’s getting through.

When the feelings start to come they are complicated and not what I expected. The anger kicks in first. I tear through Rex’s tools and start packing them away. When I find corroded duplicates, I go to the dump and toss them out frantically. I call in a friend to take down the walls of his make-shift office in the garage. I clean out the space with a vengeance, furious at the mess that he left behind. If I’m going to be alone then I’ll do what I want, so don’t get in my way.

My kids are adults with families of their own, and I don’t want to burden them unnecessarily. But toughing it out on my own is harder than I thought. Out of nowhere, with Rex gone 6 weeks, the tears start to come. They come at the supermarket when I can’t decide between peaches and plums. They come when the light turns red and I’m going to be 5 minutes late. I cry when the gas tank hits empty and I’ve forgotten to fill the tank. And again when the dishes pile up in the sink and the dishwasher hasn’t been unloaded. It doesn’t take much, but for the next 8 months grief feels like it’s never going to end.

When the fear kicks in I suddenly feel very old. How will I navigate this next phase of my life on my own? Will I be lonely for the rest of my days? What if I get in an accident and nobody knows about it until it’s too late? Will I have enough money to live comfortably if I need long term care? Who can I talk to when I’m feeling worried or sad or even happy and excited? Rex was my heart, the one I shared everything with, and now I have no idea where I’m supposed to turn.

I’m independent to a fault and resist reaching out, until I see a card from The Gathering Place. Provident Little Company of Mary is offering a “Loss of Spouse” Grief Support Group. Even though I’m not Catholic, it’s close to my home so I agree to give it a chance. I go to the group for nine weeks and start connecting with other women. I start to make friends and surround myself with people who understand. “How did you deal with Social Security?” “Do you have to take your husband’s name off the mortgage to set up a trust?” “What are you doing with his clothes?” “Who do you talk to when you are feeling hopeless?” And most importantly, “Tell me about your husband, what was he like?”

It’s two years since I lost the love of my life, and although I’m still grieving I have begun to have hope. I journal every morning to stay in touch with my feelings. I honor my husband by sending him loving prayers throughout the day. I’ve learned to reach out and ask for help when I need it. I know who I can really talk to and who just wants me to move on. But mostly I’ve learned that I have not been abandoned. I have been loved and cherished by a man I adored, and that love gives me the strength to make it on my own.

Sydell Weiner, Ph.D

Surviving Grief, August, 2017

When Great Souls Die: Mother and Rex

 

My mother in 1945
Janet Kay Horowitz

Would my life have been different if my mother had lived beyond my 14th year? She was my universe, and I revolved around her like a planet orbiting the sun. It was safe and predictable, and I knew where I belonged.

My mother died suddenly, after a five year illness that was kept secret from me.  At the time, all I could feel was shock and disbelief. I no longer knew who I was, what was real or who I could trust.  So I looked for people, performance and academic achievement, to reassure myself that I had a right to keep living while she could not.

My grief was so deeply embedded that I couldn’t shake it loose. So I shut it down and kept it inside. I developed a polished “false self” that brought me external success, but internal emptiness. Because she wasn’t there to cheer me on, I never felt good enough.  As Maya Angelou said, “I was reduced to the unutterable ignorance of dark, cold caves.”

I made it through college and even started grad school, still trying to find my place in the world.  When I got married at 23,  I started to figure it out.  My career took off and I had two beautiful kids. But I hadn’t dealt with my grief, so my default mode was to avoid getting too close. We inevitably divorced and I vowed to learn from my mistakes.

Rex in 1988
Rex Heuschkel

And then I met Rex. I was 39 and he was an artist–a deep creative soul who allowed me to be honest, to take down the façade and be authentic.  And he thought I was wonderful. He thought I was the smartest person he ever knew, the most talented, and with him by my side I was also the most loved. Yes, he was troubled, and not an easy man to be with, but I loved him. I loved him so much that I almost lost myself in the process. He died 2 years ago, and I still can’t always find myself without him.

Rex, I visited you at the cemetery Tuesday morning.  As I drove  through the gates a familiar calmness swept over me, not unlike the feeling of coming home. The grounds are lush with green rolling hills and tall leafy trees. How can a place that is so beautiful hold so much grief?  I drive to your spot and grab the burgundy towels that I brought from home. I spread them out like a blanket, softening the blow of the hard, rocky ground.

As I sit facing your gravestone, I notice that dirt has accumulated between the raised letters of your name. Why isn’t there more grass close to the stone to absorb the water from the sprinklers? You’re in the shade, so the surrounding dirt turns to mud and never has the sun to harden it. Damn, that makes me mad! I pour out some water from my bottle and start scrubbing with one of my towels to clean it up. Have I neglected you by not coming here more often? Do you miss me my love, or has your spirit long flown away to be with the angels?

I lay down on top of the earth that holds your remains, where someday I too will be buried.  I feel your presence so deeply; you are embracing me from below.  It reminds me of the many times we held onto each other in bed. “What happens when you die?” I’d often ask you. “Oh darlin’,” you’d reply. “We will fly through eternity, untethered by appetite or earthly restraints. We’ll be together in a place where there’s no judgement, no need to impress, just acceptance, freedom and love.”

You are in my heart as I yearn for that freedom to soar. I sit up and search for the stone I brought from home. “Here’s a special one from Hart mountain, your favorite place on earth.  I’ve cut it open and polished it, so the colorful pattern can shine with your brilliance.”  I place it on your now clean gravestone and dig up 2 more with my fingertips.  The stones are a symbol of permanence; unlike flowers, they will never die.  I’m counting on that, Rex. Please wait for me, so we can share your dream of the everlasting.

I hope my mother has found the soul of my dear husband. He’s not who she would have imagined for me, but he was good and he loved me beyond anything I ever thought possible. I want to be with him NOW. Some days that’s all I can think about, just being together in another dimension.

My dearest Rex, losing you has cracked me open in unexpected ways. I’ve faced the unimaginable and instead of destroying me, I am still in one piece. When great souls die there is grief and loss, but there is also hope. Besides getting stronger, I am helping others to cope with their grief. Try not to worry about me, Mother. I am being sheltered by Rex’s love.  He’s helping me release the darkness and ease through the narrow opening towards wisdom and light.

Sydell Weiner, July 21, 2018
Inspired by Maya Angelou’s, “When Great Trees Fall.”
https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/when-great-trees-fall/

 

Vacationing as a Widow

Travel Perspective from a WidowDo relationships look the same on land
and at sea? Does travelling as a widow  change your perspective? I’m  on a cruise with my sister and brother-in-law, and as much as I love them, it’s my first vacation without my husband. My sweet Rex  died a year and a half ago and I am still trying  to navigate the seas… pun intended.

 

A pretty blonde on Deck 5 leans across the bistro table and smiles at her husband.  She notices that his coffee is darker than usual and whispers, “Do you need more milk for your coffee?” He smiles back and looks deeply into her eyes. “Thanks babe, that would be great!” They are in their 20’s and obviously in love. The gentle way they speak to each other reminds me of the sweetness that defined my marriage. Rex never raised his voice to me and always made sure I had everything I needed.

 

Two tables over, a 40 something couple in bright red tee shirts  engage in an animated conversation.  A teen-aged girl with a thick brown pony tail runs over to their table. Another girl, her sister maybe, joins her and together they begin their appeal.  “Mom, can we pleeeeese have money for ice cream?” After some playful banter and a lot of laughing, the girls run off to purchase their treats.

 

I have two grown children, so the days of  them begging for ice cream money are long gone.  Fortunately, my kids are self-supporting with jobs, homes, and families of their own. I’m proud of them and love my six beautiful grandchildren. As I watch this family, I long for the day when my kids needed me that way. I’m fine on my own, but how nice it would be to put extra milk in my husband’s coffee.

 

As I start feeling sorry for myself, an older man passes by, pushing his wife in a wheelchair. Just then my focus shifts to a 50ish year old woman as she grabs her husband’s hand on the steps so she doesn’t lose her footing. Yes, cruising is for couples, and  I’m grateful for the chance to be spending quality time with my sister and brother-in-law. And yet, as I watch all the couples stroll by, I am once again hit with the reality of being a widow. I’m trying to have a good time, when suddenly the tears come uninvited.

 

I’ve been a couple for so long, that it feels like I’m missing a limb. I know the “rules” for being married, I just don’t know how to behave as a widow. Will I just get used to being alone?  Or will I  tag along with married friends and relatives on their vacations? Maybe I’ll find girlfriends to travel with.  Or would it be easier to just stay home to avoid the discomfort? I decide to call it a day and go to my cabin to indulge in a little pity party.

 

Fortunately, by the next morning my attitude has improved. I drag myself out of bed and go for coffee on the Promenade Deck. To my right I hear a 70ish year old woman with died orange hair berating her husband. Her voice is loud and shrill.  “Didn’t you go to the bathroom?” she scolds. “I told you to go before we  left the room. You’ll never find a clean toilet in port! Why don’t you ever listen to me?” He doesn’t look embarrassed, he’s apparently used to this, so I simply look away.

 

We get off the ship in Aruba and an overweight man in his 60’s shouts across the gangway to his wife. “It’s too slippery, I can’t do these steps,” he yells. “That’s not my fault,” she retorts, “If you lost weight like you’re supposed to, it wouldn’t be a problem!” She eventually goes over to him and helps him down to steps. “I knew this cruise wasn’t a good idea,” I hear her complain under her breath.

 

Marriage isn’t perfect, I understand that first hand. Rex and I  certainly had our share of problems. My first year as a widow I was angry all the time,  (in between bouts of depression). Now I’m remembering  the good times, and  probably idealizing them in the process. I long for his company when I have something on my mind that I’m burning to share. Talking things through with him always helped me make better  sense of my feelings. I miss the easy way we could talk about our day, books we’d read, politics, theatre, and especially the people we loved. We had such fun going places at home or away, and I miss his company, his companionship, his loving eyes.

 

And yet, there are days when I’m almost comfortable being a widow.  I can walk at my own pace and make my own decisions. I can stay up as late as I want and not tiptoe around the house when he’s napping. Don’t get me wrong, I miss him terribly, and would give anything in the world to have him  by my side.

 

I am grateful that we had a loving marriage that thrived both on land and at sea. I will always love you, Rex, nothing could ever change that.  I’m just starting to hear my own voice and walk my own path. And with that comes a new freedom that I’m actually starting to enjoy. Thank you, Rex, for giving me courage to enter this next phase of my life alone.

Sydell Weiner, Ph.D

Unexpected Acts of Kindness

Alaskan collaboration
Sydell and Rex in 2013

“In a world where you can be anything, be kind.” This quote is getting thousands of “Likes” on Facebook, but do we really practice kindness in our everyday lives?

In March of 2002, my husband Rex and I moved to a small fixer upper in Palos Verdes. Our next door neighbor is a single guy named Mark. He is barely 30, and like Rex, enjoys schmoozing in the driveway about home improvement. Rex invites Mark to one of his plays at the university, and that’s where we meet his fiancee Karen.  They get married, Karen moves in next door, and before long they’re raising a family. No matter how busy they get, they remain our “go to” neighbors when we go on vacation or need a favor.

As their children begin to grow, my husband’s health begins to decline. At first it’s almost imperceptible, but as the years progress he becomes increasingly tired with bouts of confusion. On an ordinary day in January, 2014, I drive to the Westside to babysit my son and daughter-in-law’s 4 kids. As soon as they leave for their “date,” I get an urgent call on my cell phone. “Rex is in his car in the driveway,” my neighbor Karen says. “The car alarm is going off and he’s just sitting there, staring into space.”

I’m with 4 kids under 10, even if I could leave them, it would take me an hour and a half to get home in traffic. I tell her I’ll call her back and start making some calls. Meanwhile, Karen brings Rex into my house and manages to turn off the car alarm. Her kids come over too, because Mark isn’t home and they’re too young to be alone. Fortunately, I reach my step-daughter who agrees to drive from Burbank and stay with her dad until I can get home.

By the time I get there Rex is running a high fever. I call 911 and he’s taken by ambulance to Torrance Memorial Hospital. Everything happens fast, and before I know it he’s having his gallbladder removed. The doctor-on-call tells me not to worry; everything else checks out fine and he’ll be ready to go home in a few days. Even though he’s given a clean bill of health, as I reflect on it now, that was the beginning of the end.

On July 28th, 2016, Rex took another emergency trip to Torrance Memorial. This time I have my own doctor involved, and she personally runs all the tests that should have been run in 2014. By noon the next day we have a diagnosis: Stage 4 Cancer. We do surgery, we do radiation, we do everything possible. But on September 17th, 2016, my sweet husband dies in a hospital bed at home and none of us knows what hit us.

With all the funeral arrangements and commotion in our family, I forget to tell Karen and Mark. About 3 weeks go by when Karen knocks on my door to ask about Rex. “Oh Karen, I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you. He passed away 3 weeks ago.” She stands on my doorstep as tears start flooding her eyes. “We loved him,” she sobs. “Mark is going to be devastated.”

The next few months go by in a blur. I do all the household chores and try to keep it together. I continue going to my daughter’s house in Costa Mesa on Mondays to watch her kids. On those days I don’t get home until after 7 pm. Monday is garbage day, so I try to get the cans out on Sunday nights.

One Monday night when I get home, I notice that my empty cans have already been taken in.  The neighbors on my other side were also very helpful when Rex was sick, so maybe it was them. Oh wait, I’m close to the rabbi who lives around the corner, so it could have been him. I have no idea who my “Secret Angel” is, and I want to find out so I can thank them.

The next Monday night as I’m driving home, I see Mark and his 10 year old son Bobby in front of my house.  They’re wheeling my garbage cans to the side yard.  I roll down my car window and call out, “Are you the one who’s been doing this for the past few weeks? He looks like a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar. “We try to,” he answers sheepishly; “it’s no big deal.”

The next day I see him alone in his driveway and go over. “Thank you so much, Mark,” I say. “You don’t have to do this every week, really.” He smiles at me with a look of embarrassment and says, “I want Bobby to learn about neighbors and chores. And besides,” he pauses with a catch in his throat, “I loved Rex. I want to do this for him.”

That was a year ago and they still take out my garbage on Sunday nights and return the cans on Monday, without saying a word. A few months ago, when the fog in my brain started to lift, I bought Bobby a junior size football that he freely retrieves from my backyard whenever it goes over the fence. For Thanksgiving I made them all a huge gift basket with gummy bears and other kid friendly treats.  They’re always appreciative, but they don’t need gifts or recognition.  Their acts of kindness seem to be helping them and much as it does me.

A few weeks ago I knocked on their door, because an unfamiliar car was blocking my driveway. When Karen answers, one of her friends hears me and appologizes profusely. “I was just dropping off my kids, I’ll move my car in a second.” I start chatting with Bobby and his 9 years old sister Julie. We’re laughing about our dogs digging under the fence so they can play together. Julie is very talkative and I’m enjoying the friendly banter with my next door neighbors’ kids.

I few days later, I get home from work feeling tired and cranky. As I approach my front door I see a pink gift bag with ribbons overflowing. Inside there is a handmade card and on the front it says: “A little Gift for…” I open it and it says, “YOU! Look in this bag! I made this for you!! “Love, JuJulie's gift of kindnesslie!” I rummage through the bag and I find it: a 2 inch wide heart, made from over 30 pink beads. It’s adorable! This 9 year old child’s gesture has touched me beyond words.

It’s easy to resort to self-pity when you lose someone you love. Believe me, I’ve done more than my share. Yet who would have thought that the single guy next door would morph into this beautiful, loving family? Their unexpected acts of kindness have been instrumental in helping to lift my spirits.

They make me think of all the other caring people who’ve been there for me since I lost my husband.  I am so grateful. Acts of kindness remind us of our shared humanity. For the past year and a half I’ve been the recipient, and now it is time to pay it forward. The greatest acts of kindness are helping others without expecting anything in return. In Hebrew we call it a Mitzvah. And what better way to honor the memory of my dear husband Rex.

Sydell Weiner, Ph.D

 

 

 

Is It OCD Or Coping With Life?

This is the wall unit that I needed my dear Rex’s help with!

I move the books on my wall unit so they’re grouped by height. Am I being  OCD, or is this just how I cope?  Standing back to admire my work, I think, “Hmmm…I need a vase or a sculpture next to the books on the second shelf.”  I try a red vase…too bright.  Then I try a tan one…too tall. Finally I hit the jackpot with a bowl of white marble balls.  I love it. I think. By tomorrow I’ll probably rearrange it again. My mind goes to the iron sculpture that would be just perfect in that spot.

I can’t stop moving things around. I arrange the dishes on the shelves in my dining room. Then I proceed to the kitchen, where I put pretty ceramic mugs in the cabinets with glass doors.  It feels creative and I applaud myself when something looks great.  But I do it for hours on end, and not being able to stop makes my feet hurt and convinces me that I’m seriously OCD.

But it works for me. It helps me shut out the pain that I don’t want to feel. Feeling means being upset and hearing that critical voice in my head. “How could you be so stupid?” or “Don’t be ridiculous!” Feeling means facing the guilt of being emotionally detached when my husband was dying.

Granted, I took care of all his physical needs and was an efficient, devoted wife. I drove  him to his doctors appointments, administered his medication, attended to his personal hygiene and arranged for hospice when it was time. But I cut myself off emotionally. I knew that if I allowed myself to feel, I would break into a million pieces.

About two weeks before Rex died, he got up from the hospital bed in the guest room and asked if he could lay down  with me in our room. “Sure,” I said, “but just for a little while, I don’t want you to fall out of bed.” He had fallen many times, and the hospital bed had side rails for just that reason. If only I had held you then, Rex, and absorbed the familiar feel of your body. I should have comforted you and reassured you and told you how much your love changed the landscape of my life.

Of course, you knew all that.   And if I asked you today you’d say, “You were great, darlin’, I couldn’t have asked for more.” And yet I know I held back. I held back because I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you, the one person  in the world who knew my true heart. You never judged me when I was being OCD. Instead, you understood that arranging things was a distraction that got me through difficult times. You loved me, perhaps more purely, than I was able to love you.

I wish I had hung your scene designs more prominently in our home, but if they didn’t go with my “decor” they were relegated to the hall. Now they are flaunted in every single room. They remind me of all the plays we did together, and how your vision always inspired me to be a better director. I wish I had embraced your AA work with a more open heart, instead of being jealous of the time it took away from me. Check out the wall unit, Rex.  I have all your sobriety chips on the bottom shelf, and you would be so proud to see them displayed.

I miss your artistic eye as I continue to rearrange my shelves. You’re the only one who could have helped me decide between the red and tan vases.  Because no matter which I finally chose, you’d say, “You got that one right!” You had my back, and valued my opinion on just abut everything. But you’re not here anymore. WHY NOT?

Why do people leave when you need them the most: my mother, my father, my first shrink who committed suicide? And now you. And with you, I have lost your daughter. I have lost those wonderful Holiday Dinners with the whole blended family–my kids and grandkids, your daughter and son-in-law, and even my ex-husband and his sweet girlfriend, who we lost last summer.

Yes it hurts to feel, and that’s why I try to stay out of it. I go back to rearranging my shelves because it calms me. You can call it OCD, but for a few hours anyway, there are things in my life I can actually control.

Sydell Weiner, Ph.D.