The Griever's Gaze

Joe came home on hospice on February 29, 2020. At first, the house was buzzing with the chaos of hospice intake staff; the assessment nurse, equipment delivery and set-up guy,  and a doorstep pharmacy delivery man. The evening activity was rounded off with a crash course on how to administer narcotics (if and when needed). But after the house cleared out that day, I quickly situated myself on the couch next to Joe's hospice bed. We had shared a bed every night for 11 years, only away from each other a handful of days at most. So, I posted up where I knew I belonged, and buckled in for what would be the hardest days of my life, of his life, of our life together. 

At first the nights were uneventful. After I put Jacob to bed, we stayed up watching mindless TV together (some new series on Netflix that, it quickly occurred to me, he would never live to see the end of). There were the occasional trips to the bathroom in the middle of the night, which required creating a new routine, getting slippers on Joe's feet, then helping him in and out of the clunky wheelchair he needed because walking had become too difficult. There might be a request for water here and there, or back scratches to ease the itching caused by the hospital bed and residual pain medications. And there were definitely a few tough late-night conversations regarding Joe's wishes, which resulted in an overwhelming calm on Joe's part and a forcibly hushed panic on mine. It was all so surreal, like walking through your house that has been turned upside down; everything looks somewhat familiar, but you're not sure how to navigate your way through it anymore. All that was once safe and predictable, was strange. And the "normal" day to day stresses - work, traffic, bank accounts, housework, old arguments about parenting styles; they didn't matter anymore. Life narrowed to that one room, as everything unnecessary dropped away. 

Then, nearly two weeks into our hospice venture, Joe asked me for a flashlight, a simple request. (I'm not sure if this is common in all those nearing death, but Joe became nocturnal, sleeping through most of the day and highly active at night.) He said he needed the flashlight to find items on his bedside table, so he wouldn't have to wake me up to get things for him - that was how it started anyway. But the very next night he started "journeying." I woke up several times during the night to find Joe waving the flashlight at the wall in front of him, looking as if he was staring down a long hallway or tunnel, trying to get someone's attention, squinting his eyes to get a better look. I asked him what was wrong, and he answered without lifting his gaze from whatever held his attention ahead. "Nothing," he replied. It was frightening at first. My initial instinct was to call him back. I didn't know what he saw, I just knew I didn't want him to go towards it. "Joe......Joe!" But he was already stepping onto a bridge, somewhere between the here and there, gazing forward with intense interest. All I could do was be present to witness it. 

The next day, he journeyed even longer. He could come back when we asked him questions, but he spent a good portion of his time looking past everyone in the room, drifting. He started talking about things that we couldn't see, fixated on the wall ahead. The more his eyes gazed past us, the more I watched him, fascinated, frozen with the realization that something not bound to the rules of the physical world was approaching. On March 12th, around 11:00am, he made his way across the bridge, through the tunnel to the other side. He didn't need his body to get there, so he left it behind. That's exactly what it felt (and looked) like. 

Since his death, I have taken Joe's place as the drifter, frequently gazing off into the distance. I am transported to another realm, somewhere between the here and there, looking for him. It's a place we can catch up, if only in my mind. I let myself drift to that place in the light of day or the quiet of night, sometimes right in the middle of a conversation or in a crowded room, staring blankly at the floor or wall ahead. When and where rarely make sense and are hardly ever convenient. It could be a familiar song or smell, and I'm gone, staring blankly at the wall, past anyone in my path. Jacob calls to me, "Mom......Mom!" And I snap out of it. 

To live a "woke" life we're supposed to attempt to remain in the present moment. I know, I've read the books. But these days, being awake hurts. Most times I'm happy to gaze into the past, back to a time when life was light and warm. I find Joe there laughing and smiling, grabbing me around the waist, kissing the top of my head, and laughing at some inside joke we had together. Sometimes I feel like I could stay gone forever. Then I blink or get summoned, and I'm ripped back to the present. Everything is so bright and defined here, no space for the gray inconsistencies of grief. There are sharp edges around every corner. Everything hurts to touch. 

I drift so I can breathe. 

Maybe there will come a day when Joe's absence won't fill up the present with the weight it does now. Maybe someday I will learn to carry the loss without needing to drift. Or maybe my life will grow around the holes left by his death, filling them in with equal parts memory and new beginning. Until then, I will cherish the drift, lost in a griever's gaze, praying that the sting of life without him will have eased some when I return.

Find Yourself a Gina

I was sitting in a quiet corner of a San Francisco hospital cafeteria.  The lighting was intrusive. (Fluorescent lighting increases anxiety, I'm sure of it.)  My head was resting heavy in my hands.  Slumped over, my feet tapping uncontrollably, I couldn't stop the tears from coming. (I hate crying in public.)

Please God, not now.  Please don't take him.  Save him, restore his body. 

Please God, not now.  Please don't take him.  Save him, restore his body.  

I wrote this mantra in my journal and repeated it obsessively to myself. 

Joe had been transported from our local hospital earlier in the day for emergency open heart surgery to remove blood and clotting from around his heart, a result of previous attempts to drain his heart sac, which had been filled with over 900 ml of malignant fluid. (Turns out your heart sac is only meant to hold about 50 ml of fluid, just enough to provide lubrication between the heart and the sac around it.)  This was a sign the cancer was progressing.  Our bubble of hope, the one we had been living in for over six months as Joe breezed through chemotherapy with no issues or side effects, burst.   

I was alone for some time just praying and journaling, clenching every part of my body, waiting for the surgeon to call to let me know that Joe was out in recovery and everything was OK. (I knew nothing about this was OK.  But our goal for that night was simple, get Joe out of surgery without dying.  And it almost didn't happen.)  

There are a handful of people in my life that just "know" when things aren't OK.  My best friend Gina is one of them, her wife Cyn is another.  They reach out on instinct and a "knowing" that has been gifted to them by God and the Universe.

I got a text from Cyn asking if Joe was all right.  I must have filled her in.  Honestly it's all so hazy now.  I remember she asked exactly where I was, then told me to hold tight.  In the meantime, I received the call I was hoping to get.  Joe was out of surgery.  But he had coded and the doctor had to perform CPR before they could start surgery.  What???  

By this time a friend from church who works in San Francisco showed up to sit with me.  I was telling him that I didn't know what to do.  Do I spend the night in the hospital?  Go home and come back the next day? (I didn't like that idea, Joe was still in an induced sleep and vitals were touchy. I mean, he had technically died.) Or should I stay close by somewhere?  

Then I swear I blinked and Gina was next to me.  I don't even remember how, but there she was.  

She hugged me, then got to work.  She called around to hotels and made reservations.  She told me she would be staying the night with me.  I didn't have strength to argue, and truthfully didn't want to be alone - she knew this.  She told me we weren't going to leave Joe in the City, we would be right down the street.  She Googled and found a Target down the block.  "We'll go and get some necessities, a toothbrush, body wash, deodorant, underwear...Lovie, have you eaten?  You need to eat."  I was like a child wandering lost and aimless, in total shock (and no I hadn't eaten since I couldn't remember when).  She told me how it was going to go down.  One less decision to make, one less task to handle. It was done, and she would be with me.  We would do this together.  Relief.

After Joe passed, things went gray.  Life went out like a light.   

I want to be alone, but don't want to be alone.  I want people to ask me about Joe, then get annoyed when the wrong people do.  I want to change the painful environment around me, but don't want anything touched.  Nothing about it makes sense.  It's like living in a nightmare and never waking up, just waiting for sleep to dream of normalcy, and only getting broken fragments of the life you once lived.

In my saddest moments, I call on Gina, knowing she'll let me keep Joe as present as I need him to be.  And when I have the tiniest breakthroughs, little whispers of hope, I share those with her too. 

Below is a text conversation I had with Gina shortly after Joe passed.  It's just a peek through the window of our friendship...

o   Me:  Have you started the book? (Glennon Doyle’s Untamed).  It’s awesome so far.  I need Glennon right now.  She wouldn’t tell me to “choose joy,” like the tshirts and mugs these self-help personas are pushing online.  I guess every season has a hero.  In this season I need more grit, truth, and reality (even if it’s ugly).  I can’t gratitude and smile my way out of this one…

o   Gina: Yes, started it and love it.  There’s a way that she talks about just accepting wherever we are and not pretending, hiding or needing to be or feel a certain way because others tell us to do so.  And no gratitude or smile is necessary right now…it’s the other stuff – anger, sadness, depression that must be felt and experienced in order to get to the gratitude.  How did I end up with such a smart and intuitive friend?

o   Me: Yep, exactly.  Those are also the feelings I rarely let happen. I internalize and it’s never led me anywhere good (mentally) when I do that.  No way through this time but to do the work.  Love you.

o    Gina:  And Lovie you had to do that because you’ve ALWAYS been the rock to your family of origin, to Joe during his illness, and to Jakey.  I see how you hold Jakey so lovingly when he’s angry or sad…and let him have that space…but it's like how do you do that for yourself as well?  Allowing the other feelings that need attention and space, because of course you have those feelings - it’s all a part of the process.  Fuck gratitude and smiling right now!  (And love you more.)   

o   Gina continues: And Love I know you will get to that place eventually…I know this…you’ve been through so much and you are the least bitter or angry person I know.  But I also think it’s important not to ignore or internalize or stuff those feelings, because it’s part of your process.  I’d be very worried if you were just grateful now.  Hell, I feel angry at the Universe that this happened, and we knew Joe a sliver compared to how much you knew and loved him.  So delve into Glennon, because she is church for being real wherever we are at.

Through grief, Gina continues to be my shelter in the storm.  Chalk that up to 20 years of friendship woven together with crazy college stories, living together for years, and adventuring through Central and South America together on multiple trips. 

Gina is not the family I was born into, but she is the family I have chosen.  If Joe is my soulmate, then Gina is my soul sister. 

Gina stood next to me at my wedding and gave a speech that brought down the house.  She loved Joe like a brother, and she and Cyn were there the day he was released from the hospital into hospice.  I know Joe made her promise to stay close, to look after me (as if he needed to ask).  He knew she was the one who would do it.  

If you don't have a friend of this caliber, one who gets you, one who comes running when you're in a pit of despair to throw out a lifeline, one you would climb a mountain with just to experience a sunrise...I highly recommend you get one.  Granted, it will take you decades to build up this kind of rapport.  It will take trust and intention and the ability to love someone who isn't your blood as if they were.  It will take vulnerability and arguments, and letting each other grow.  It's nearly impossible to find, but so worth it if you do. 

Gina accepts me for who I am, without judgement, without reservation, and with total love and understanding.  I'm a hot mess right now - she loves me anyway. Period.    

I can only hope I have been half the friend to her that she has been to me.

I am walking through fire right now.  Gina hasn't tried to save me.  She knows "through" is the only way out, so she just walks with me.  She doesn't ask why we're walking or how long it will take, or even where we're going. She just walks.  I enjoy the company.  And besides, the conversations along the way will be epic. 

The Remembering

I am trying desperately to hold on to the memory of how you felt in the physical world.  Scents are beginning to fade, traces of you are diminishing.  What holds us together now is pure faith, faith that memories will be enough to see me through when reaching out into the empty space around me fails.

The early days of grief are a sacred space, like peering into another world, with one foot in this life and one in the next.  You are so close I could almost touch you...almost.  We continue to exist in that space between here and there...for now.  But one day, this holy fog will lift.  

 

I know it’s just your physical body that's gone.  At least that's what everyone tells me.  I am supposed to take comfort that...

"He's always with you." 

"He's in your heart."

"He's watching over you."

The phrases sound so warm and palatable, don't they? Capable of serving the antidote to grief on our prettiest Sunday brunch platter.  I can't tell you how many times I have offered these very phrases to a grieving person.  I've written them in cards, commented on posts, and said them over the phone, every time with nothing but the best of intentions and a genuine desire to provide comfort to someone I know is suffering.  

Now I realize, while culturally expected and accepted, these phrases are are dismissive to the process.  I believe you are with me, I know you're in my heart, I sense that you're watching over me.  There is absolute emotional accuracy and even comfort in these sentiments.  But...grief is not just emotional, it's physical.  I wasn't prepared for this.  It's not something I experienced when my Mom died. But there is an intense physical response to losing you (my husband, my partner, and the love of my life).   The constant physical longing to be with you is exhausting.  It affects sleep, eating habits, and memory, and with it brings real aches and pains in my chest and throat. Sometimes I feel my skin get hot and hyper sensitive with restlessness, like being pricked with a thousand buzzing needles. 

Physical side effects from grief are actually quite common and can include: 

• Increased inflammation
• Extreme fatigue
• Depleted immune system
• Increased blood pressure
• Sensation of being electrified with energy  (probably what I'm experiencing with my skin)
• "Broken heart syndrome" - causing a form of heart disease similar to a heart attack 

Grief can even lead to chronic illness.

(Source: Webmd.com)

Here is my perception on why this might be...

Any one of us could close our eyes right now and know what an apple would feel like in our hand, even if we're not holding one – familiar and obvious, anyone could do it right?  Much like amputees are said to still feel their missing limbs, and often that feeling comes with pain. The brain keeps the memory active as if it hasn't been lost.  The brain and body know what they should be feeling, even when it isn't there. 

"Researchers don’t know exactly what causes phantom limb pain. One possible explanation: Nerves in parts of your spinal cord and brain “rewire” when they lose signals from the missing arm or leg. As a result, they send pain signals, a typical response when your body senses something is wrong."

(Source: Webmd.com)

Grief's equivalent to physical amputation is loss of a loved one.   And just from my own experience, I am going to say mainly with loss of a spouse or loss of a child - someone you are used to smelling, touching, and hearing for a good portion of the day, every day. But here's the thing, if you look at me, you can't see what's been amputated.  I'm not missing a limb, I don't have any visible scars, but my heart knows something is not right, something is missing.  So unfortunately, I can't trick myself into fully accepting that you are still with me, even though I 100% believe it...because my body knows otherwise.  It's hard-wired to understand the physical loss.  It's sending signals out to hold your hand, smell your hair, hear your laugh.  I should still be able to feel you, but I can't.  I miss that place where my body could exist in the shadow of yours - protected, warm...home. 

I could summon up the feeling of your hair through my fingers right now, as easily as I could call up the apple.  The soft, thick strands in my hands as you slept on my lap.  The feeling is right there within my reach.  "Rub my head," you'd say, as you'd curl up next to me.  I can close my eyes and feel you grab me in a hug, or lay your chin on the top of my head. I remember what it feels like to land in your chest, burrowing in for comfort.  Your bristly go-tee on my forehead, your cold bony feet on my legs in bed (man I hated that), your laugh that could shake the house.  In this sacred space of early grief, you are my phantom limb.  I reach out for you, but the pain signals are my only answer.   

The other day I saw the slippers you last wore. They were peaking out your closet, so I picked them up and smelled them.  A couple days ago I found one of your hairs in the bottom of the bathroom vanity drawer. I quickly got a piece of tape and taped it to the inside of my journal.  Did I mention that grief makes you do really weird things?  But I am afraid you are slipping away.

Over time, the familiarity of your touch will fade.  The memory will become harder and harder to conjure up, making way for numbness in place of what you used to feel like.  I will call it up one day, and memory will fail me.  What then?

Grief is awkward, and hard to witness, even harder to go through.  Much like in the amputee scenario, we need to recognize that it takes a long time for the bereaved to reach a "new normal."  I have to accept that I am a different person now.  It takes daily work and intention, and learning to live all over again with a part of me missing.  And guess what?  Some days I don't want to do it.  I'd rather feel sorry for myself, climb in bed, and give up on life.  I can't do physical therapy for the piece that's been amputated, so I go to a mental health professional, I started working out, I journal and write this blog, I cry when I need to and reach out to friends, and I talk about you...I talk to you.   

We all grieve differently, but what  helps me is when people acknowledge the journey involved, even when it's not pretty to watch.  It helps when they acknowledge the pain even though they can't see the "amputation," when they let the grief be grief and recognize I'm working through it, not around it.  Tell your grieving friend "He'll always be with you," but follow it up with, "but I understand that may not be comforting right now. I know you are in pain." 

You are with me, but you're not with me.  My brain knows it, my heart feels it, my memory is trying to catch up.  I hope it never does.  

Purging

I'm pretty sure I'm going crazy.  Last week, walking back to the bathroom to take a shower, I stopped at your closet.  I knew it would hurt to open it, but I needed...something.  I grabbed a big section of your hanging t-shirts and hugged them to my chest, trying to gauge how many I would need for it to feel like you were in them.  I closed my eyes, and sunk my head into the heap. The tears poured out in hot streams.  I felt better after, also worse.  Grief isn't logical.  It's like being led to the edge of your sanity over and over again, then dragged back to the start.

A grief counselor I interviewed (yes, I'm interviewing grief counselors) said if I imagine myself as a cup full of grief, I could expect to feel like I'm scooping grief out a spoonful at a time to make room to breathe so I could go in for more when I'm ready.  Sorry, no.  I'm no expert, but (so far) grief is not as nice and neat as taking little spoonfuls out at a time.  This isn't a "pinkies up" situation.  It feels more like a purging - an involuntary release, preceded by a build-up that makes you feel disoriented, uncomfortable, and yes...sometimes crazy.  If you don't give in, it will find a way out. 

Your boys, their partners, and all the kids came over yesterday.  I was beyond excited to see them.  It was the first time we had all been together since you passed - we all knew it, but didn't say it.  It was so nice and flat out joyful that I kept my emotions in, like putting a stopper in a high pressure pipe. Let's not ruin the day by losing it in front of everyone shall we? But as we enjoyed laughs and stories, I knew it was building up.  I wanted to cry so many times, but I choked it back.  Why?  Why is grief so terrifying to let others witness?  It's like if I start crying I won't be able to stop, and then everyone will see what's going on inside - I don't even know what that is half the time, so that's a scary proposition.  

If there's anyone I can cry in front of it should be them, right?  We have shared countless tears - when you were in the hospital, on the way to emergency surgeries, when the doctors told us they recommended hospice...the day you left this Earth.  There were lots of tears, rivers of them, but lots of comforting, and so much understanding and love too.  So why hold back now? They all teared up during their visit - feeling, I'm sure, the obvious absence in the house.  There is a 6'3", 250lb elephant that isn't in the room, and so it is. The reality is hanging in the air like toxic gas we're all refusing to breathe - denial messes with your head in strange ways.   I know they're hurting. But I couldn't let it out.

After they left and I put Jacob to bed, when the night turned quiet, I realized my head was pounding and my ears were ringing  and hot.  I was restless and agitated.  It was right there at the surface.  Stumbling to your bathroom cabinet, I picked up your bottle of date night cologne.  You have a couple, but this one was just for date night.  You know, the fancy one. It instantly brings up happy memories, now turned desperate with longing.  I did it because I knew it would trigger the flood.  Like when your stomach is in knots, and you stick your finger down your throat to induce vomiting.  You know it will relieve the pressure.  That's what grief purging is like.  I sat on the bathroom floor (why is it always the bathroom floor) and sobbed. Like the kind of crying where you grab a towel or pillow to muffle the sound because you're afraid the neighbors will call the cops. I screamed into the towel, cried until my chest was void of air, then leaned back against the wall.  Defeated, crushed, but satisfied.  I could feel the wave subside and go back out to sea. I could breathe again.  

I never know when it's going to hit a breaking point and cause the need to purge.  Anything can be a trigger and timing is rarely convenient.  

These days I crawl into bed exhausted and wake up the same.  The stillness swallows me up at night.  My dreams are frantic.  I try to bring you back, but always fail.  Last night you were under water, held down by a boulder. I couldn't save you.  

I wake up, the sun is shining bright on another day I don't want to walk through.  My body aches and my head starts to hum with restlessness.  My feet hit the floor in spite of my better judgement.  Jacob will be ready for breakfast, and RC car races.  He'll want to watch videos of you. I do too. It's 8am, and I already know I'll have to purge again today.

Check the Box

After you died, my role as your caregiver was over.  There were no more doctors’ appointments, researching miracle cures, e-mailing your primary care physician, oncologist, cardiologist, nephrologist and naturopathic. No more updates on symptoms, asking questions, and advocating for appointments, imaging, and medication.   

I got so used to checking the boxes each day:  take your blood pressure (check), weigh-in (check), morning meds (check), doctors’ appointments, drive to the pharmacy, oh and scratch your back (check check check). I wanted to take care of you the way you had taken care of me - with love, respect, and total dedication. I didn’t want this to end with us feeling like there were stones left unturned or options left unexplored.  It was all-consuming…and truthfully one of the greatest honors of my life.  

Then one otherwise ordinary March afternoon, you took your last breath and that was that.  There was initial chaos...but then things got still.  Then they got real quiet.  Medical equipment disappeared, doctors stopped calling, meds were thrown out, family dispersed, and schedules were forgotten.  I ignored the constant buzz of my phone.  I didn't know what to say to people and didn't want to talk to anyone but you anyway.  So what was the point? Finally, the phones went silent too.

No one tells you when the love of your life dies, when it’s all said and done and you've done the impossible together, that's not the worst of it.  In a way, it's only the beginning. 

I made the initial calls to make arrangements for services, of course.  I met with the funeral home director, scheduled your cremation, all the things you're supposed to do.  COVID-19 put a prompt end to planning an actual service.  But then people started asking me if I had called our bank, notified my retirement company, cancelled your credit cards.  “Don’t wait too long.”  “You’ll want to make sure Jacob is protected should something happen to you too.”  

Wait, what? 

 

Let me pause here a moment to give you a glimpse into life without you. 

I don’t believe you died.  

I don't mean that figuratively, I mean I literally can't believe it, I've tried.  Denial is a real thing and man does it mess with you.  I wake up every morning and see the sunlight coming out from under the bathroom door and think you'll come walking out of the bathroom (naked, no shame 😄), with your reading glasses on, having just finished your morning Facebook scroll.  You'll say something funny, kiss me on the cheek, then hop back in the bathroom to take a shower. 

I go to sleep and dream vivid dreams like life has carried on right where we left off.  Last night we went on a motorcycle ride.  I swear I could feel the rough mesh of your motorcycle jacket as I wrapped my arms around your waist.  I could smell the road.  It was real wasn't it?  It feels real.  It's the waking hours that don't.

Sure, there are tiny moments throughout the day when reality sneaks in through little holes in my delusion, and with it comes sharp agonizing pain in my throat and chest and I can barely breathe.  This is my actual life now? No. Unbelievable.

Nothing could have prepared me, however, for the list of tasks I had ahead of me, the ones asking me to check here and sign there. They all wanted me to wipe you away like chalk dust.  

I started with an e-mail to cancel your monthly donation to KQED, a call to K-Love (Christian radio) for the same thing. I mean c'mon, so sweet!  But then came the bigger calls to our bank, which immediately resulted in forms and packets being sent, asking me to send your death certificate to prove to them that you were gone.  My husband's not dead.

One bank offered the option to check single, married, or widowed.  At least they acknowledged there was a difference. There is a certain sensitivity in that.  Retirement accounts were harder.  California State law requires that you make your spouse at least 50% beneficiary to your retirement account.  So when your spouse dies (and you've been reminded that you could go at any time), and you need to ensure that your 5-year old won’t end up a penniless orphan, you come across a form that doesn’t allow you to ease into your new life, like “widowed” did.  I had to check “single.” And it felt like a betrayal to our marriage.  It felt like I was betraying you.

That box was taunting me.

I was instantly reminded of how long it took me to find you, all the heartbreak we experienced before we ended up together, the confusion, the sea of crappy dating experiences (Lord!).  I recalled the relief I felt when you were finally mine, my person. Memories of our courtship bubbled up - getting to know each other, the intense attraction, letting down walls, trusting and starting a family together.  We cultivated a healthy, loving relationship over almost 11 years. I felt safe and protected, and looking forward to our future. I was so damned sure of everything.

Now, looking at my computer screen, I was supposed to check a box that cleared it all away, erased it (erased you).  It made me feel like we didn't exist anymore.  I was transported back to the starting line, totally alone, and this time knowing exactly what I had lost...us.

That box is hostile.  It hurts. But I checked it.  And I'm sorry.  

For the record JoJo, we are still married.  I'm wearing my ring. I am still crazy in love with you.  I talk to you every day, and I believe you can hear me. We are still married. 

Period. 

 

Choose Joy Tomorrow

I am going to risk being wildly unpopular here, in the hopes that someone else needs to hear this.  

It is okay to NOT "Choose Joy."  There I said it.

I know this is the opposite of what's in your social media feed right now.  "Choose Joy" has become the trendy new catch phrase splattered on t-shirts, mugs, and in inspirational memes everywhere.  Personal growth celebrities blast out joy rhetoric into the world like confetti.  So I'm going to dive into this real quick, because maybe you're feeling like me - maybe joy isn't on the menu for you right now.  Today (and tomorrow), let's give ourselves permission to choose what rises up, even if it's not pretty, even if it makes your closest family and friends uncomfortable, even if it's scary.

I understand the joy mantra, I really do.  It is meant to keep us searching for the good in every day, right?  But doesn't it also imply that if we can't conjure up joy like pulling the proverbial rabbit out of a hat, we have failed?  

Choose joy, at least to me, means choose it over anything else you might be feeling.  Let it lead, let it trump all the other emotions, let it always ride shotgun in your life.  Make joy the highest priority, at all costs...and there is a cost. 

Does this mean I don't feel joyful in small moments throughout the day?  Of course I do, and it's important to enjoy those moments and give yourself permission to experience them fully. Playing with my son, hearing him laugh, those things bring me joy, but those moments are little breaks from what lies underneath; extreme grief, loneliness, confusion, anger, and sadness.  And if I ever want to have extended periods of joy again, I better pay attention to what lies underneath.

If you are in the depths of acute grief, suffering racial inequality, depression, systemic discrimination, loss of financial stability, and so on, what then?  Can we simply choose joy? Is that even an option?  Can you really fake it 'til you make it?    

I am an optimist at heart.  I've kept gratitude journals for years.  I have faith in the Universe and believe that our God, Source (however you define it) is inherently good and wants to lead us to a higher level of existence.  I think emotions are like little nudges from the soul, inviting us to get curious about what's behind them, to be still and listen.  But what if we ignore the call?  

I was assigned the role of peacemaker as a young girl, and I ran with it.  I had a wonderful childhood, for the most part, but when we hit any rough patches, I was the rock, the strong one, the one who jumped in to ease the friction.  I was a joy ninja.  Really, all I was doing was helping to keep up the appearance of joy.  I learned the art of keeping things comfortable for those around me over feeling anything authentically for myself.  I chose joy over anger, over sadness, and over courage. 

Then in 2004, at age 24, I lost my Mom to breast cancer.  She was 56 years old.  The bottom dropped out, the metaphorical walls of our house fell, and my Dad, my sister and I were left in the smoking rubble to face it, and each other.   And you know what?  All three of us did an about face and ran.  Losing Mom broke us in that way.  It was too painful to face, so we didn't, and there were consequences to that.

I moved out of our family home (I had moved home 3 years earlier to help take care of my Mom) and actively pursued numbness for several years after she passed.  I built up noise around me, diversions, walls, until I couldn't feel the pesky nudges anymore.  And the harder I tried to project joy and happiness, the more disconnected I became.  During that time, I also let creative outlets die away.  No more writing, or painting, no more playing guitar - it all seemed meaningless.  

So I packed creativity away inside a room in my heart and turned out the lights - much safer that way - but so much dimmer.  I thought if I could just run fast enough, it wouldn't catch up to me.  If I could appear like I was fine, then maybe one day I would be - just keep up the appearance of joy.  

It will come as no surprise that I landed myself in a job that, while lucrative, was a 180 opposite of what you'd imagine a naturally creative person doing.  I became an analyst.  Yep, a number crunching, paper pushing, contract analyst.  And with each passing year, the nudges got fainter.  Every now and then they would surface and I would push them down.

Several years in, however, I fell in love with one of my co-workers (Joe).  By 2009, 5 years after my Mom died, the numbness was starting to wear off and I was ready to start living again.  But I still hadn't done any work to reconnect to myself.  

Joe busted through the walls, threw open the door of my heart, and flipped on the lights.  He saw past all the noise, and invited me into a relationship filled with mutual respect, love, humor understanding, and spirituality. He saw me.  We said yes to life together, in every way, and joy became real for me, and it felt like (finally) I was on the right path.  He helped me to heal what was broken.  

Fast forward to 2 months ago, March of 2020, I lost Joe to Stage 4 carcinoma.  He was 56 years old.  The bottom has dropped out again, the metaphorical walls of our house have fallen down.  And now I'm left in the smoking rubble with our 4-year old, to face my old companion grief.  

Here we are again old friend.  But I warn you, it's different this time.  I will not run.  I will be still and listen.  This time I will not be broken.  I will break open instead.

Elizabeth Lesser wrote an entire book on this concept, called Broken Open: How Difficult Times Can Help Us Grow.  I highly recommend it.  In it she says, "How strange that the nature of life is change, yet the nature of human beings is to resist change.  And how ironic that the difficult times we fear might ruin us are the very ones that can break us open and help us blossom into who we were meant to be."

Translation: even the shittiest feelings lead to meaning and growth, probably even more so than the pleasing ones.  That's the silver lining here.  

But I've been here before, and now I know we don't get to find the meaning, unless we wade through the muck. So this time, I'll sit in the muck and respond to each emotion that nudges.  That's the work I need to do, and it's not fun, it's not joyful.  Frankly, it sucks. 

I think the trick is to feel what you need to feel when you need to feel it, but try not to shape-shift the feelings that bubble up into joy, or anything that isn't true for you.  If it's joy, great, if it's not, don't make it seem like it is. 

Just like the lotus flower that starts as a seed in the murky mud at the bottom of a pond, then grows towards the light; it can only appreciate the joy of sunshine on its petals, because it once knew the cold depths of the darkness.  That is gratitude.  Don't cheat yourself out of the muck (I point my finger at myself here).

I'm not a therapist or a spiritual guru, or anyone really, but a regular person in acute grief.  But maybe, like me, you need these words...

• We have permission to choose the emotions that come, whatever they may be.  We can trust that they are there as an invitation to something more.  So let's be open to sitting with them, uncomfortable as they may be, so that we can find meaning in all of this pain.  Otherwise what is it all for?  

• Let's agree to seek professional help and community with each other when the bottom drops out and we can't tell which way is up.  

• Let's be graceful with ourselves, we're all doing our best. 

• Let's choose to explore the depths of every emotion, even if they aren't the pretty ones.

 Put that on your tshirt!

Today it's sadness I sit with, yesterday it was anger. There will always be time for joy...tomorrow.

FOLLOW ME

Do you remember what I said to you in the hospital that night?  It was the night we realized you'd be going home on hospice the next morning. 

We were crying together, just sitting there in disbelief.  I could feel a realization stirring in the pit of my stomach, thick with fear.  My throat tightened and there was panic in my voice. "You're going somewhere I can't follow." It was all I could get out, but it hurt to say.  It was true, and it physically hurt to say.

And with those words all the strength I had within me, all the hope I had been carrying for 10 months since your diagnosis, all the brave faces I put on and the "we'll get through this," the logging and advocating with doctors, the prayers and faith, all of the holding it together for the both of us...it was gone.  I laid myself next to you, deflated - exhausted - hopeless.

I fell onto your chest wailing like a child, sobbing uncontrollably.  You stroked my head and whispered "You will be OK. I love you."

But I'm not OK.

I have been going through some old e-mails between us - so much love and so much excitement about the life we had created together and the forever we were looking forward to living.  

On October 7, 2019, just a month before your first emergency hospitalization (before shit hit the fan) we exchanged the following:
   
     Me:  I just applied for this job.  Have no idea how much it pays, but what if I got it? Would you be willing to move to Austin? 

     Joe:  Yes! I would follow you to the ends of the Earth! Chase your dreams Jen Jen! I will carry  your luggage.

     Me:  I love you! 

Man! We had it good didn't we?

Dying was your new journey.  And I wasn't invited.

From the time you left the hospital to the time you passed (just two weeks), I followed your lead and watched you prepare to leave.

In those last days I feel like we walked to the edge together, right to the edge of it all.  We held hands and looked out on what was to come.  You said it was beautiful.  You were so strong and unafraid - so you.

I would have followed you right off the edge.  If you said "jump, I'll catch you," I would have jumped.  Is that why you waited for me to run that stupid errand?  I was gone less than five minutes before I got a call that your breathing had changed, and I had better come home.  You were gone by the time I got there.

You knew I would beg you to stay. You knew if given the chance, I would try to follow you somehow, and you knew it would tear me apart.  Instead, ever my protector, you let me walk out the door.  You let go of me and transitioned on.

Now I spend my days chasing you, chasing your scent in every piece of clothing, every hair brush, every item left behind.  I look for little traces.  Maybe if I reach far enough, love hard enough, I'll get to you somehow.  But no...just empty shirts, shoes left where you kicked them off in the kitchen, and a jacket hanging on the hook by the front door.

But you're there aren't you, sitting just beyond my reach?  Maybe we’ll laugh about this someday, about how silly the physical world is - how dull yet painful our human experience is – how short and limited and fragmented compared to the expansiveness and light of eternity.  I hope so.

Until then, find a bench nearby, a nice place to watch over me and your boys.  We will remember our promises to you, to use our time here wisely, love each other, and live the way you did - all out.

And when my time comes JoJo, meet me at my bedside.
Tell me it's time to jump.
Tell me you've come to catch me.
Remind me that you've been with me the whole time and you're sorry you had to leave without me. But you're here now.
"Follow me JenJen," you'll say..."I will carry your luggage."