Six Month Review (Day 180)

Today marks six months (or 180 days or half a year depending on your perspective) since you’ve been gone. I was just thinking about the various ways we express age or the passage of time in our society. For newborns and infants in the first year, we use days and then weeks up to a certain point and then shift to months. During the active phase of our lives, we celebrate annual milestones for birthdays, wedding anniversaries, work anniversaries, and such. But what about death? For those of us left behind the measure of time “without you” resets and reverts back the smallest increments as with a newborn baby.

Initially we exist in the traumatic aftershock of loss by minutes, hours, and days. Then, as the initial shock and sheer physical and mental exhaustion start to wane, we begin to live one week at a time. Somewhere around three months, we switch to months as the standard of measure; and that is where I find myself now at the six-month mark.

From what I have read and learned from others, there is no tangible six-month milestone or condition to check off in grief. And there is no definitive guideline for how far along in the process the half year mark represents. As the books say, “everyone’s grief journey is different and unique to them.” For me, six months feels significant for several reasons.

First, it is long enough to have at least partially recovered from the sheer physical, emotional, and mental demands associated with being a full-time caregiver for over a year. I have never felt such deep exhaustion of body and mind as when I came home from the hospice unit the day that you died. The stress and strain of those last days and weeks on the heels of the yearlong marathon of treatments we had run left me spent in a way I had never experienced. So, for me, the first phase of my grief was primarily rest and physical recovery of the body. I slept a lot those first few weeks! In my family, we have a phrase we use - usually after a long hike in the mountains - to describe the state of rest and recovery from the exertion. We call it “crawling into the tent.” That is literally and figuratively where I spent the first month or so.

Somewhere along the way, I crawled out of the tent, and started the next phase of my grief which involved the harsh realization and acceptance of the immutable fact that you were gone. The awareness of your absence is palpable and undeniable. There are still so many pieces of you left here in the house and on this farm. Your clothes still inhabit their space in the closet; the drawers and cabinets in the bathroom still house your personal items; and your pictures and decorations are untouched. Soon, I think I will be writing a piece that will be called “Cleaning Out the Closet”; but that is for another time.

Also, your memory is indelibly etched into every plant and home improvement project that you planned, and we implemented together over the years. There is no escaping the memory of your presence anywhere in this place. Truthfully, I do not wish to escape it.

I think this phase of grief is primarily about the gradual lessening of the pain associated with your memory. Like the candle that I still burn in your memory nearly every night, there is less pain and sadness; and, more and more, a soft glow and warmth in your memory. There are still tears, and I never know what will trigger them or when and where they will flow; but they are less frequent and less debilitating than a few months ago. I think that is progress!

Don’t get me wrong, I am in no way ready to start thinking about any major life changes or “moving on” with a new relationship. Yes, I am lonely; and I do miss companionship and physical intimacy. But I am still in a place where I long for those things only with you!

I think another aspect of this stage of grief is learning to be satisfied (I won’t go so far as to say happy) with myself. Part of that process is just immersing myself in the everyday chores and tasks of taking care of the animals and the farm. There is comfort and healing in the act of making to do lists and completing the tasks. Yes, part of it is about keeping myself busy and my mind occupied so I’m not thinking about missing you all the time. But mostly, it’s about the simple act of continuing to live in a world without you and the reality that life goes on.

The last reflection I will share for this first six-month review is about granting myself the freedom of doing some things for me. Now that my role as your caregiver, and all the selfless demands that entailed, is over, I needed some time to focus exclusively on myself. Shortly after you died, a dear friend gave me a generous check with the stipulation that I use it for something nice for myself. So, I have enjoyed putting money, energy, and time into my shop/man cave in the garage. I truly love that space! I have travelled home to Knoxville for some long overdue visits with my dad and good friends there; and I have also started taking steps to address some of my own health issues that had to be put on the back burner for the last two years.

To be honest, this is turning out to be a bit scary and dark after living through your experience. On one hand, there is fear and anxiety associated with the unknown and with navigating the various tests and procedures needed to get answers alone. Additionally, the prospect of facing a serious illness or recovery from surgery alone without a spouse caregiver is rather frightening. But as you would say there is no sense dwelling on something that hasn’t happened or that you can’t control! I guess I will cross that bridge if/when I get to it.

So, that is a not so brief rundown of my physical and mental state of mind at the six-month mark. As I sit here and reflect, I realize I could have been much more succinct in summarizing all this. At the most basic level, it really boils down to these three affirmations:

1. You are gone.

2. I miss you.

3. I am slowly learning to move forward and live with the memory of you in a new reality of life without you.

That is the essence of grief in a nutshell; with the common denominator being time. So, if someone asks me how I am doing after six months without you, my answer will likely be: “I’m doing okay.” And sometimes that is actually true; more so now than six months ago. So that’s progress, right?