CONFESSIONS OF AN INTROVERT

25 02 2015

Image result for Snoopy cartoons

Soon it will be two years since Mel died. Conventional wisdom says that by now I have settled into my life as a widow and should be doing well. Outwardly I suppose I am, but the truth is I’m really good at not saying what I feel. I specialize in maintaining the illusion that I have survived my tragedy and now all is great. Yeah, right.

The truth? I used to think there was a timeline. I used to believe you eventually get over a loss. I used to think life would return to normal after a respectable time of mourning. Today I’m on the other side, and I’m here to tell you that none of those things is true.

Here’s the honest truth. Grief never ends. It changes, it’s a passage. It’s not a sign of weakness or a lack of faith. Grief is the price of LOVE. Grief is as unique as a fingerprint, but for those who share this state of being there is a common thread. I’m there too. My grief  is different than yours, but I share the common bond of pain with you. I understand the long-term effects. I know you don’t get over it.

Being an introvert can be extremely difficult in the lens of loss. Some of the widows I’ve been privileged to meet are quite vocal about their grief, and I envy their natural ability to express themselves. I wonder if that freedom relieves their sorrow in some small way. Much as I wish I could speak so freely, that is not who I am. So I nod and smile and say what I’m expected to say: I’m fine. Doing well. Thanks for asking.

Patrick O’Malley, a psychotherapist in Fort Worth, wrote the following article titled Getting Grief Right for a series in the New York Times Couch series (January 10, 2015):

“Mary was a successful accountant, a driven person who was unaccustomed to being weighed down by sorrow.     She was also well versed in the so-called stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. To her and so many others in our culture, that meant grief would be temporary and somewhat predictable, even with the enormity of her loss. She expected to be able to put it behind her and get on with her life. . .
THAT model is still deeply and rigidly embedded in our cultural consciousness and psychological language. It inspires much self-diagnosis and self-criticism among the aggrieved. This is compounded by the often subtle and well-meaning judgment of the surrounding community. A person is to grieve for only so long and with so much intensity. (Italics mine.)
To look at her, she already had done so. The mask she wore for the world was carefully constructed and effective. She seemed to epitomize what many people would call “doing really well,” meaning someone who had experienced a loss but looked as if she was finished grieving.”

That last sentence hit the mark for me. Looked as if says it all. Outward appearance can be such a liar, something most people will take at face value, want to take at face value. After all, if you dig into it and ask more pointed questions, things could get really messy. Most people don’t want to get their hands dirty or become invested because they fear the dreaded I never know what to say.

I speak for many others in my position when I say we often feel isolated, standing on the sidelines while the rest of the world moves on with their normal lives. It has become my world, not ours. It is now my weekend, not ours. I talk about my house, not ours. We has changed to I, ours to my. The list goes on, every item I tick off with a singular pronoun instead of a plural.

Don’t misunderstand, I’m not saying you shouldn’t talk about your lives and the things you are doing. You definitely should. I want to hear about them and share in your good times. It helps make life balanced for me to be told of your vacation, or some silly (or annoying) thing your spouse did last week. I need to know that how we communicate hasn’t changed. The sense of normalcy we all crave is especially prevalent in those of us who have lost a precious member of our family, so hearing about your life and your family keeps me grounded. Please don’t tiptoe around me. Pretty complicated, right?

So here’s the thing. In this broken, hurting world we live in, God’s intent is not for us to suffer alone. Regardless of our psychological makeup, it’s important to let each other in. We were not created to handle life by ourselves, but rather to bear each other’s burdens, to help lighten the load we see a friend carry. Sharing is hard, especially for those of us who hold our feelings close. It requires a certain amount of risk in the form of being judged, abandoned, mocked, or maligned. I’ve had lots of experience in those areas, and it makes me cautious. I am so thankful for the friends God has given me with whom I feel safe, feel able to share those deepest feelings. What blessings they are.

For those around whom I wear the mask of ‘I’m just fine’, I would ask that you remember this: Sometimes when I say I’m okay, I need someone to look me in the eyes, see the pain there, hug me tight, and say, “I know you are not.”





This is the Day

17 03 2014

Mel at work 2
I knew this day would come—it was inevitable. And our tears are there to bear witness.

One year ago today was a beautiful Sunday. Spring was bursting out all over the yard, coaxed by warm temperatures and bright sunshine. Mel and I attended our church that morning, thinking ahead to Easter Sunday coming in two weeks. We were sure a season of promise and new beginnings was finally upon us.

It didn’t turn out that way. Who would ever have thought that the unthinkable would happen on such a perfect day.

Everything’s different this year. This day, this wintery day after the longest, harshest winter in many years, is the total opposite. Snow has coated the earth for months, unrelenting cold causing furnaces to run constantly, and we are all weary of shoveling snow day after day after day. But that’s not the biggest difference.

This is the day my family and I and our close friends will never be able to erase from our memories. One year ago today, at about 3:20 in the afternoon, my husband was ushered through the gates of heaven by God’s angels. By the time we knew this, he had already spent over an hour in his eternal home, rejoicing and worshiping with all those who had gone before him.

The pain of that loss, so fresh and unfathomable then, is still fresh, still incomprehensible. We don’t understand, nor do we want it to be true. We don’t want to celebrate this day, the anniversary of his home-going, because it means we no longer have him here. The joy of knowing he is with his Father, his Lord, can’t begin to erase the hurt in our hearts, nor can it fill the hole in our lives. Our reality is that he is gone, never coming back, never here again to celebrate all the wonderful occasions through years to come. And it’s just not fair.

Sure, we have our faith. I doubt I could have made it through this year without it. But here’s the reality—he’s still gone. The comfort of knowing where he is can’t negate the fact that we no longer have him here. So what do we do with that? How do we face another year knowing Mel won’t be part of any of it?

This past weekend we spent time together, my three kids and I, talking about Mel, going through things that are precious to us all, missing him, crying over the emptiness we all feel. We held his things, looked at all the tools he used to create gifts for all of us, and realized once again that he will never touch those things again, never carve another piece of Christmas décor, never build that table out of the weathered wood, never repair that old chair he found at an antique store. Never is such a cruel word.

It hurts. Faith doesn’t lessen that. But it does help us cope. We are left behind, left to deal with the finality of his death. We are the ones who have to figure out how to do this in a new reality. How well we do it speaks to how much we trust. So we let ourselves fall into God’s arms–knowing that He is there to catch us, enfold us, comfort us, and give us the peace we so desperately need. He knows all the reasons, and in the end isn’t that really all we need to know?

You see the truth is, we will see him again. On that someday in the future, we will be reunited, not just with Mel, but with so many other dear ones we have lost, and those we will lose in years to come. That’s the thing; it’s all going to be good in the end, because as long as we believe and place our trust in God, we will see them again.

What a blessing. What peace that gives us. And maybe, just maybe, it will help us heal on this day. This, the hardest day.