My (made-up) theory of the the hierarchy of loss

You’ve lost your husband (or wife). You’re in survival mode. Get help and support!

When you’ve experienced the death of a spouse, you are thrust into unknown territory and dark waters.  Probably shark infested. With a Kraken swimming around at the bottom. Carrying a spear. No, make that a nuclear powered laser gun with a really pointy end with which he/she/it repeatedly shoots you in the heart. That about sums it up. 

The second you’ve processed the horrible fact that your spouse had died, your world instantly became foreign and unrecognizable. Maybe you’ve just left their hospital room. The people you’re encountering are just going on with their lives and you feel like screaming: “How can you all be acting so normal?? Don’t you know someone I loved just died??” Everything, and I mean everything, that you've taken for granted like...say....just walking through a parking lot, deciding what to have for breakfast, deciding if you can wait until morning to get up to pee... has become the equivalent of having those fish-eye lenses for eyes and a brain. 

Life has just become so surreal. Twilight Zone-ish.  Buckle up. It’s going to be awhile. 

When the sheriff’s deputy who responded to my 911 call said those five words that we all will become accustomed to hearing from now on: “I’m sorry for your loss”, he may as well have had rocks in his mouth or was speaking a foreign language to me. I was floating somewhere overhead because I wasn’t in my body. My ears were ringing and I was vibrating...or maybe just shaking. Does that sound familiar? 

Whatever your own experience is, this is something that none of us are equipped to handle.  Of course, it’s a part of the human experience. So is having a baby and still most woman want to have someone who knows what they’re doing in the room.  Dear reader, I can’t stress enough the importance of support.  Don’t go down the long, dark hallway without backup. 

Sheryl Sandberg wrote a good book called "Plan B" about the death of her husband around the time that my husband died. I ran to Barnes and Noble and bought the book. There are a great, many books also available on the topic, but this was the only one I read.  Her website, "Optionb.org" directed me to the Facebook group by the same name. "OptionB for Grief and Loss" (Note: there are other Option B topic groups besides death) provided an incredible outlet for my pain and unrecognizable life. I would spill my guts and within 5 minutes, someone would respond with two of the most powerful words…”Me too!”.  While I am NOT a fan of social media, Facebook has one of the best forums for connecting with others who are going through a similar pain with whom you can relate. 

My husband Steve died in May and I didn’t reach out for in-person support until the end of June when I found a Widow’s Support Group. I remember sharing with the group that I didn't recognize my brain.  I was suddenly having a difficult time processing the simplest and most mundane of thoughts and how that was really stressful for me.   The lone widower in the group of widows said that he was going through the same thing.  I followed up by saying that I couldn't figure how to go grocery shopping anymore. He just nodded....and a wave of relief flooded my body.  

Four months after he had died, I knew I needed stronger stuff so I began seeing an incredible therapist. I totally lucked out with her, and saw her on and off for the better part of two and a half years.  She helped me work through some very hard emotions and I am indebted to her. I would go in feeling lost and very down on myself, and would emerge energized and encouraged. 

I had attended a Suicide Support Group a few weeks after Steve died, but I was bouncing off walls what with being in shock and all and could not relate to their stories. I talked way too fast and kept getting up out of my plastic molded chair. The people in the group were probably simultaneously appalled by my manically jovial behavior, and sympathetic because they knew shock and googly eyes when they saw it.  I didn't go back. 

I believe the Greeks have a phrase for this part of the party. The literal translation is "Fuck Me Running".  Those Greeks. What a bunch of weird-ass language-speaking, toga-wearing nut balls. 

Make no mistake, Steve's death took me down to the studs. I was broken and in pieces. I lost the person who knew me the best before he descended into a severe depression. My identity was being Steve's wife. I was the wife of the guy to whom people gravitated.  The IT wiz whom companies wanted working for them. I was the stick person that rode shotgun when Steve walked up to bands during their breaks and impressed them with his knowledge of guitars, not to mention his guitar playing prowess. Steve was amazing. Steve was a wizard. And then, Steve was gone. 

The life I had known was gone, baby, gone with him. The countless things that I had taken for granted during our life together were standing together in a group, pointing at me and laughing. 

And then his family turned on me. 

And then I was ground into a fine dust. 

How the fuck do you come back from shit like that? 

Today I'm able to tell you that you come back from that because somewhere within you a decision is made to survive. It may not be a conscious one, but once it's been made, it's been my experience that my inner wisdom made decisions that kept me on that path.  On a conscious level however,  I found myself in the "death" home version of the TV reality show Survivor where I had to outwit, outplay, and outlast. 

I couldn't tell you how once his body was taken away, I was able to go stand in the garage right where I had found him. I also didn't know where the decision come from to send everyone home that evening and sleep in our house and our bed alone. At the time I thought it was Steve helping me.  I think now it was my inner wisdom telling me that if I didn't stand in the garage or sleep in our bed, those two places would always control me, and I had just enough presence of mind to not let that happen. 

How do you process and recover from the loss of your loved one? The same way you build a muscle which is an analogy that I made up.  I think.  Hmmm, don't quote me.   I won't get into the actual terminology for building a muscle because I don't want to.  But, essentially you break it down while you're challenging the muscle. Then, it rebuilds itself and becomes stronger.  Rinse and repeat ad nauseum. Rev. Dr. Terri Daniel calls it "loss and restoration" but I like the muscle analogy better. Still, she has many degrees to my no degrees. 

In time, new normals will develop. Coming home to an empty, quiet home was, in a word, really fucking awful. But...in time, I became accustomed to it. Now, I don't give a it second thought...except the times that I do. Also in time having to make decisions became a bit easier. Writing things out helps! I wrote notes to myself and then couldn't find them (!!) so I got a notebook to keep a running list, by date, of things I wanted to remember or process. Sometimes, I go back to different dates and can see what kind of space I was in by the stuff I wanted to remember.  It's always on my desk so I know where it is. It took me awhile to come up with that really good idea.

Yes, you will get taken down to the ground. Often too. But each time you get back up on your own steam, and not because of a mouth full of chocolate or medicinal shots of tequila  (both of which I employed in the beginning) (who am I kidding, I used it ALL the time!) (um....still do), you're building your recovery muscle. That is how you do it.

Maybe you've taken to your bed for a day or many because you can't do it anymore...or some equivalent thereof. Hiding in bed is a very natural instinct.  But, the moment that you decide to get out of bed and get dressed, your muscle has gotten a little more stronger.  Just stick with it, when you can. Little victories = bigger muscles.

Of course this shit is hard. It's very hard.  I'm not going to sit here with my roots showing and say it's not. But this is how we survive and eventually grow. It's not the easy times that propel us towards growth...which is so annoying.  It's the times when our backs are against the wall and we're faced with either getting up off the ground or staying stuck.  (Many mixed metaphors alert!!)

I think you get the point.  But above all else, be easy and gentle with yourself. This is not a race to the finish line. This is coming back from being squashed. 

Okay, I thought I was done with this part but I guess I'm not because clearly I'm still writing. Since Steve died: 

1. I was a car accident. Six months later, I was hit by a deer while sitting in my car at a stop sign, both accidents required body work to the car. (The deer was totally okay and we went out for beers later.)
2. I nearly severed the tip of my left index finger because of a stupid daredevil move on my part of trying to use a hedge trimmer with one hand while on my toes to reach an oleander branch.  My neighbor drove me to the ER where a very cool doctor had to give me a shot directly into the open flesh.  I came home to an empty house. 
3. My sprinklers broke on multiple occasions. 
4. My irrigation drip lines kept not working because I kept severing them when I trimmed my plants. I know how to fix them now. In fact, I'm a drip line-fixin'-motherfucker.
5. My garage door opener broke. 
6. My whole garage door broke, independent of #5.
7. My computer crashed. 
8. I received an extortion email telling me that I was filmed beating off to computer porn. How would they know? My monitor didn't come with a camera. 
9. I ended three very close and long-term friendships because I finally realized that they were toxic. (I would not have seen this before.) 
10. I set up a Living Trust for myself. 
11. I got scammed out of $600 because I was a trusting, greedy dumb shit.
12. There was a raging fire in the hills near my house. Only grass burned, but still.
13. There was a short but strong earthquake. We didn't have an earthquake kit then but I do now!!
14. Last summer, the Bay Area and parts of Northern California had their power cut to avoid starting more fires. We were with out power for a few days. And me with a freezer crammed with food waiting to go bad and no emergency kit. I have a kit now and still have a crammed freezer. 
15. I taught myself how to BBQ. 
16. I think I've been through enough shit to prove to myself that I can handle anything.....and even learn to BBQ. But wait........
17. Covid-19 hit.  Fuck. Bring out the chocolate and medicinal tequila.
18. Recent addition: I had to evacuate my home because of the August 2020 Northern California fires. And then for bonus points, a week later, I sat in my house waiting on a second dry lightening storm that gratefully never happened.  (Please see "The Illusion of Control and the Lightening Strike...." on my "Blogs...As If!" page.

Give yourself permission to do whatever the fuck you need and want to do, or as my homey Lucille says, we need self-care up the butt.

That’s a Hallmark card right there, Lucille. 

Nobody, and I mean nobody gets to tell you how to...um...give yourself pleasure. Whatever makes you feel better, do it. But don't drive, sign papers, remarry, or shop on Amazon until you're sober....assuming that alcohol is part of your self-care. It was for me. That, and: chocolate, BBQ potato chips, Taco Bell, pop corn, binge watching The West Wing (and now Supernatural), KFC (I'm not proud of that) and mint chocolate chip ice cream. 

If your loss is fairly recent, you are probably still in shock. Because of my PTSD, I was in shock for nearly two and a half years.  For some, it’s even longer. Others, not so long.  Nonetheless, your entire being is in a stress response. You probably have "Widow Brain" or as I’ve come to call it, Grief-Induced ADHD with dyslexia thrown in to add some flavor and texture. Maybe you’ve taken to putting your car keys in the fridge, or forget where you parked the car, or that you even brought a car (!!), or routinely forget to take your credit card out of the reader, requiring you to have to get a new credit card. A dear friend did that at least two times. Probably more. (Let’s not tell her I told you.) 

Forget trying to read a book or remembering ANY-FUCKING-THING. ARGH!!!!! And this guy too: 😱

You may also start eating very strange combinations. In the days following Steve’s death, I can’t even tell you what I ate. Toast? Cereal? Taco Bell every day? Heaping spoonfuls of brown sugar? For a time, other widow friends and I were comparing what we had for dinner. It was generally something carb-y......and alcohol (see?). My favorite was microwave pop corn and a nice fat Pinot Noir from the central coast of California. This is also crucial to remember during this whack-a-doodle time in your grief journey: a jammy Zin also goes really nice with microwave pop corn. Avoid a Syrah. Sure, a Merlot would be nice but so pedestrian.  

Seriously though, your brain has shut down to protect you from all the stressful things coming at you. Our body is a miraculous creation and knows exactly what it needs to do to survive the onslaught of cortisol. Please, be kind to yourself and just allow your body to do what it instinctively knows to do. It’s going to do it anyway and trying to stop it will only add additional stress and anxiety. 

I am truly one to talk. I was raised by a German woman (with everything that implies and includes ALL stereotypes). It’s no exaggeration to say that that she cleaned the house three times a week.  Ask my sister. Sitting around doing nothing before all one’s chores were done was simply not how I grew up. And I should know because I was constantly in trouble for getting the order backwards. (She also rationed out 3-4 pretzels for nighttime TV watching, but that’s a story for my therapist or my memoir: Born Without a Forehead.) Self-care was so hard fought, and at times still is, but so very necessary.  You need self-care so far up your butt that you walk funny. 

Maybe you’ve kept a house so clean that people could eat off the floor. Eeeuw. Gross. Now, you have crud growing in the corners and it’s been weeks since you’ve vacuumed. You don’t want to make the bed or wear clean clothes or shave your legs or see anything weird about drinking old cold tea that's been sitting on your desk for at least two days but probably more, with some kind of iridescent caffeine film on the top. NONE of this is coming from personal experience except to say that ALL of it is coming from personal experience. 

Please do whatever you can do to find even a moment a peace. Meditate if you can, walk in nature or around the block, get lost in vacuuming (that’s the German in me speaking), get lost in watching television. Anything that will take your mind away from what you’re doing and thinking. Shortly before Steve died, we had watched “The West Wing” all the way through. (Anyone else have a serious crush on Josh Lyman?) After he died, I watched it again. Twice. Seven seasons. Twenty four or more episodes per season. I tried to veer off and start Downton Abbey to finally see what all the fuss was about but it was new and different and I honestly couldn’t take anything that even hinted of being new and different.  I needed everything to be exactly the same. I’m totally serious too. 

You are in survival mode, friend. Honor that. Do what make YOU feel good. If your children and family, or your friends or even your dealer thinks you’ve gone further off the deep end because you’re eating the same thing every day, so-the-fuck what? Seriously.  

And that brings me to:

I wasn't even going to have a "Civilians" section until one just now made me want to release the Kraken on his callous, insensitive, and oh, so douchey ass. 

I have this someone in my life. Someone who I was involved with for several years who I will laughingly refer to as my second husband. That was...up until my getting a navel piercing collided with his inability to wear anything but neutral colors.  This is NOT made-up hyperbole. (Jeez, I love that word!!)

We've kept in touch for a least a decade, possibly more, via email but don't actually see each other because his girlfriend forbade that almost immediately upon entering his life. ( She didn't get along with her ex and believed that ex's shouldn't be friends.) Over the years, we've sent each other friendly and catch-up-y emails for each other's birthdays. 

His birthday was a few days ago so he got a friendly, catch-up-y email. 

One bit of crucial information of note here is that he met Steve before I did because they were in a band together. Then he, Steve, and I started a trio. We added a drummer, and that trio became a band, and remained a band even after he and I split up, Steve and I hooked up, and got married. He was Steve's co-best man and had come to a few parties at our house. It was kinda Fleetwood Mac-y but in a fun and amusing sort of way.  We all laughed about it. Ha ha. 

That was until he got into the relationship with Yoko. And he had to leave the band. And he wasn't allowed to associate with us (me), even though I was madly in love with, and married to, the hot guitar player guy who had a few tasteful piercings, a beautiful tattoo on his back, and was growing his hair out until it would fall almost at the middle of his sexy back.  

Okay, we're caught up. Back to the birthday email. 

In my email to him, I shared all the very cool things happening in my life, including this website. I also told him about it being the 3 year anniversary of Steve's death, of which he was very much aware of at the time. 

In his email back to me, he shared a few things he had going on, and touched on everything I had written, except didn't make one comment about Steve.  The. Guy. Said. Nothing.  Okay, alright. Nobody needs to reach for their nunchucks just yet.  Some people are weird about death, much less talking about it. 

I wrote back and commented on his lack of a comment and said that one would be appreciated.  He wrote back....and...and...said that he felt that Steve had put a distance between them. Thinking better of it, he would write later on in the email  that he was sorry for my loss and how horrible it must have been for Steve to choose suicide as his only option. 

That's right, wids. He fucking blamed the dead guy for why he didn't comment in the first place. 

No. No. No. No. No. No. No. NO!!!

I don't care if Steve stole your goat and ruined your prospects in life, leaving you to marry the village girl with the punched-in face and the one good tooth, you don't get to use that as an excuse for why you didn't respond to "it's the third anniversary of Steve's death" -  and someone who thought of you as a friend and isn't here to clear up your obvious, dickwad-y confusion. 

You can rant to you friends. You can whine to your mamma. You can confide in your hamster but you do not say that to the grieving widow. Not if you don't want to walk away limping. 

I've kicked my ex out of my orbit.  Jeez. That's not hyperbole either. 

(This section is long because it needs to be) (I know you have grief-induced ADHD because I do and can’t concentrate, so I’ve made the paragraphs short.) (Just being helpful because that’s who I am.) (Kinda awesome.)

This is a serious topic, and I will get very serious about it. But first, I have to say this about guilt…Steve died on my watch. Ding, ding, ding…I win the prize! I’d put my guilt up against anyone else’s and let them duke it out like female mud wrestlers.  

Without going into a lot of details here  (the grizzly detail are in the “My Story” section), after Steve was released from the “Behavioral” department (Psych Ward), I spent the last 6 months of Steve’s life doing everything I could think of to help that dear man who didn’t want help because he was severely depressed. It was a battle right up until the end. 

I know they had their reasons and I respect those reasons, but his family wasn’t around all that much following his release. I was doing it all on my own.  So, when he died, it was all on me. Soon, I came to find out that his family no longer held me in high regard, and blamed me for everything that happened. How do I know this? Well for one, I was asked not to attend Steve’s cremation service because I “wasn’t family”.  Subtle jab, right?  And that’s all I’ll say here on that regard. 

Intellectually, I have nothing to feel guilty about. Looking back now, I can totally see that I was depressed right along with Steve and had been for some time.  Under those circumstances, and living with the profound stress of sharing a house and a bed with someone that depressed and paranoid, I functioned fairly well, relatively speaking. I did what I could and what I had the capacity to do given that my brain pan was burnt toast and chop suey.

So…yes, intellectually, I had nothing to feel guilty about.  But true intellectual logical thought didn’t kick in for a few years.  Emotionally, I was drenched in guilt. It was oozing from my pores like alcohol from last night’s bender. 

I felt guilty to my bones for the last 6 months of his life. I felt guilty that I couldn’t and didn’t save him. 

I felt guilty for the small wave of relief I felt after he died. I felt guilty for how I treated him during the marriage, even though he was a very difficult person to live with. 

I felt guilty for things that I hadn’t even considered until the moment the thought entered my brain. 

I felt guilty that I wasn’t more supportive and understanding of things that would have given the Pope an aneurysm.  I may have even invented shit because the guilt was just too immense and was often wobbling under the weight of not having enough justification to keep it aloft.  

My incredible therapist (Shout out to Janelle Bull), and everyone who knew the story told me that I had no reason to feel guilty. Janelle and I worked on my guilt whenever it reared its butt-ugly head like a never ending game of guilt whack-a-mole . I'd get some momentary relief but it didn’t matter. Guilt is part and parcel of grief. 

Friends, I was able to let go of the guilt and am totally guilt-free as sure as I'm sitting here in old yoga pants and a non-matching tee.  

Releasing guilt is a process that requires time. 

One for which there are no short cuts, hacks, or coupons. Avoiding it absolutely does not work and only makes things worse in the long run.  Trust me on this one. Praying may work but I wouldn’t know because I’m a faithless heathen. 

Though I didn’t know that I was doing it at the time, just the exercise of combing back and forth and back and forth repeatedly through as many of our interactions as I could drum up would eventually bring me to a place of peace. But make no mistake, this is some very painful shit to go through, and I was doing it all the time in an effort to find answers or meaning or something to give me even a fleeting microscopic moment of peace.  I had to honestly look at my own behavior, especially the times when I wasn’t being my best self. The more cringe-worthy, the "better" to bring up and face. There were many nights I was awake and lying in a pool of my own shame after a new memory had surfaced. 

Another very painful part of this peeling of the onion was that I could not apologize to him.   I had no way to make amends for the things that I now deeply regretted doing or saying. That's a very, very tough thing to have to sit with and feel. And it took a long time for those feelings to begin to dissipate.  It's one thing to read about it as you're doing now. It's an entirely different thing to live through it which I did.   I had to accept that while I was actively pointing the finger and blaming him for past hurts, I had culpability too.  He was not an easy person to live with, but then, at times, neither was I. 

Over the three years since he died, I did what I would liken to spreading out our entire relationship on a sieve, continuously picking away and sifting over and over and over again until finally all nearly 15 years together was reduced down to the essence of who we both were…two precious and innocent people standing side by side, free from all the silt and grit that hid us from our true selves. 

We were two flawed humans who furiously loved each other for a time, and so I called it even. And the guilt fell away.