The Transition from ‘is’ to ‘was’.

I remember how it felt to say ‘was’ instead of ‘is’ for the first time. It hurt. It hurt a lot. As that little word came out of my mouth, I could feel my face distorting with disgust as I said it. I remember looking down at the ground when I realised what I’d said. I said ‘he was’ instead of ‘he is’. This was some weeks after his passing, because up to that point I always said ‘is’.

Present day, to past tense. It’s crap. Put simply. Crap.

It’s hard to comprehend the loss of a loved one, and it’s all of these simple little things that make it all that much harder. It shakes the reality of what you’re trying to avoid, and before you know it, everyone around you is saying ‘he was’. It angered me to begin with, because I didn’t feel it was their right to say the word ‘was’. I felt that I, or one of his family members should have been able to say it first. It sounds terrible, but I became incredibly protective over how people worded things.
If people were talking to me, and mentioned the words dead, died or funeral, the only thing I’d want to do was punch them in the face. Did they not realise how much it hurt me to hear them say things like “when he died”, “at his funeral” or “I can’t believe he’s dead”???

Each one of those words was Hell. Even hearing his name hurt. I often said ‘he’ instead of using his name. Why? Because it hurt too much. I did not use the word ‘died’. I said ‘passed away’. When the word ‘died’ was said to me, it felt like a full stop. I couldn’t stand it. Even to this day, I dislike saying the word died, and much prefer to use the term passed away.

This is how I’d describe these words visually, as best as I can. Hopefully this will help to explain how a simple change of words, in my head, can make an incredible difference.

Died: Imagine someone holding a beautiful red balloon, and then picture them popping it with a knife while we both watch it explode. That is what it felt like when I heard this word.

Passed away: Imagine someone holding a beautiful red balloon, and then imagine them letting it go gently. As you see the ribbon pass through their hand, you can see the balloon getting smaller and smaller, as it floats off into the distance. You appreciate the beauty of the balloon for just a moment longer, and it’s not as harsh as seeing it explode right in front of you. This is what it felt like when I heard this.
Do you notice the difference?

Something to remember when you’re dealing with someone who is grieving;
If they are not using their loved ones name, then you shouldn’t either. If they are not discussing their death with you, then you shouldn’t bring it up. If they’re not talking about their funeral, then you shouldn’t ask about it. They should always be the first to initiate all of the hard topics. Chances are, if they’re not mentioning things that you think they should, it’s because they’re not ready to.

Just try to remember… while you may be ready for the ‘was’, they could still be struggling with the ‘is’.

Filling The Void

After being left alone with my own thoughts, and after choosing to become antisocial, I decided that I needed ‘something’ to fill the void. I regrettably returned to old habits that I’d let die some many years before.

What is your poison? Perhaps you were a smoker, and one that had successfully quit. Perhaps you were prone to more than one alcoholic beverage when you were having a bad day. Or maybe you drank too much when you had the opportunity to celebrate a special occasion. Maybe you were never happy with the amount of money in your wallet. Maybe you were tempted with gambling.

There are millions of other things that you could have been or perhaps you were one of the lucky ones who never succumbed to such horrible demons…

When you are sad, and looking for comfort in other things- Do not return to old habits, especially if they have addictive tendencies. I can’t stress this enough. I was at my lowest when I attempted to find happiness once again with the demons I’d left behind. The only thing it did was give me another reason to hate who I was.

All of your hard work will be undone- and the habit will be one hundred times harder to break this time around. When you’re grieving, you’re not yourself. You will convince yourself that what you’re doing is alright, because you feel the way that you do- You will look for any reason that you can to justify your actions.  In my case, I was more than aware of what I was doing, but I chose not to care about the consequences.

I woke up to myself after a few months of this repetitive ‘filling the void’ behaviour. Every time I wanted to escape, and return to those old habits- I’d simply remind myself of the following;

“This is my life. This is my choice. If I continue to live like this, my choices today will be my regrets tomorrow”.

 
It was something that came to mind many times throughout the day, and it was the little things in which I found my happiness again.  It was things like turning the television off, and finding a nice spot outside in the garden to sit. It was about being grateful that I was there to enjoy the sound of the birds in the trees, the sun on my face, and the cool breeze in the air.

It was about going for a drive with the windows down, seeing the open road ahead, and enjoying the freedom. It was sitting on the soft white sand of the beach, watching the waves crash against the rocks.

It was going to a boutique café and sitting at the nicest table, and ordering a slice of the most meticulously decorated cake that I’ve ever seen in my life, and trying a different type of coffee that I’d never had before.

It was remembering that I was alive. As much as I hated how I felt at the time, it was remembering that I still had my life to live, and that I was the only one responsible for my happiness tomorrow.

Losing Interest…

I wasn’t ‘me’.

I knew ‘me’ would take a long time to return again… If it was going to return at all.

Below, is a list of changes that I noticed. The things I lost interest in;

Routine:
Instead of waking up at 6am and going for my morning walk, I’d sometimes wake up 4am and watch some mind numbing television. Sometimes I’d wake up and stay in bed until 11am, and just stare at the ceiling.  Some days I wouldn’t get out of bed at all. There was nothing worth getting up for some days, so I didn’t even bother.

Eating Habits:
I Initially craved for nothing, and lost all interest in my favourite meals. My appetite returned over time, but I had no interest in eating meals that were his or our favourites. I think that was the guilt feeling- not wanting to enjoy it because I knew that he couldn’t. The thought of me eating at our favourite restaurant without him was enough to make me feel nauseous.

TV & Movies:
Shows that I’d watched religiously for many years meant nothing to me. Favourite movies no longer interested me. Sitting down on the couch and concentrating on something for that amount of time didn’t interest me. I remember sitting on the floor of our lounge room and pulling DVD’s out of the cabinet. Movies that I once found humorous or amusing didn’t trigger a single thing when I looked at them. No matter what was on the TV, I always lost focus.

Music:
I’ve always loved music- Heavy Metal, Rock, 50’s Rock and Roll, and pretty much everything. Going to every concert that I’ve wanted to go to, and making the effort of buying the merchandise and all the rest of it. I remember looking through newspapers and seeing that my favourite musicians were touring. I didn’t care. My car would be full of my favourite CD’s. Music is something that always soothed my soul, no matter what my mood was. If I was happy, I’d listen to music. If I was upset, I’d listen to music. I tipped all of my favourite CD’s onto the floor of my room. Not one of them appealed to me. I’d pick one up, I’d put it down…

My Belongings:
What was once a neat and tidy bedroom, soon became something that resembled some sort of disaster zone. Clothes would be thrown in a pile on a chair, while my cupboard stood there in shambles, with clothes spilling out of it. I didn’t care. Dusty shelves? Good. It can stay like that. That load of washing that needs doing? Yeah… not today. I didn’t even open my mail for weeks. That was a pile that just kept growing. I didn’t care for it. I’d drive my car sometimes knowing full well that I may not have enough petrol to get me from one place to the next. I didn’t care.

People:
I stopped caring about people. I stopped replying to text messages. I stopped picking up the phone. I’d see my phone ringing, and then pick it up and place it face down. I didn’t listen to voicemails. I didn’t read all the texts that I’d receive. I’d delete half of them without reading them, depending on who they were from. I stopped asking my parents how they were. I stopped asking how their day was. Putting it simply- I didn’t care. I didn’t have it in me to care about anyone or anything, so I saw no need to pretend to take an interest. I’d give short answers to most things, trying my very best to discourage long conversations with people who I had no desire to talk to.

Me:
I stopped caring about me. I stopped caring about how I looked, and how i presented myself. I remember walking into the bathroom, and standing infront of the mirror. Looking at my face and looking at all of my imperfections. Looking into my own eyes, and hating what I saw. I hated it because I knew what those eyes had seen. I wondered if people saw the same face that I did when they looked at me. Everything that was once part of my daily routine was gone. I’d stand in the shower and not remember if I’d just washed my hair or not. I’d stand there for 20 minutes staring blankly into nothing,while the water would just run over me.

Some of these routine things have returned over time, and some have not.

It was, it has been, and in some regards it is still a very slow process.

The Grief Diet.

Food.
I didn’t want it.
I didn’t crave it.
…My body needed it.
…There was nothing that I wanted to eat.
My mother prepared some of my favourite dishes for me in a hope that it would encourage me, but nothing seemed to work. I held some food in my mouth, chewed it a little, and tried to swallow it. I never seemed to get past the stage of chewing it before it would tumble out of my mouth, and back onto the plate. I felt as though I was being ungrateful, but there was nothing I could do about it.

This is what happened each day, for each meal, for the next 2 weeks or so.

The loss of appetite was enhanced by the overwhelming feeling of guilt. I explained earlier that I felt guilty for every little thing, and I think that sitting down and enjoying a meal was one of them. Shock was still settling in too, and when that happens, you’re certainly not yourself.

It took many weeks for my appetite to return. People had been dropping pre-prepared meals off at the house, and our fridge and freezer was full. The first meal that I ate was lasagne. I remember eating it in the kitchen away from everyone else. I actually cried while I was eating it. I’m not sure if that was the guilt thing coming back, but I sobbed the entire time that I ate it…

I soon went back for seconds, and that was closely followed by a third helping. After that meal, I was back on track for putting some weight back on. I can’t remember how much I’d lost exactly, but it was enough that my clothes hung off of me, and people would say “wow, you look great!”

Yes. That’s a way to lose weight. The grief diet…

Has anybody experienced the opposite of that? Perhaps you, or someone you know, chose to comfort eat and perhaps went about it another way. Perhaps there was no affect- Perhaps others were able to keep to their routine…

Why I said “No” to Grief Counselling.

The Grief Counsellor was introduced to us when we were at the hospital. He’d pick us out from where we were standing and would say things like “And you must be his partner” or “And I take it that you’re the brother?” etc. His way of addressing us was irritating to say the least. But it’s what he said next that I didn’t like.

“This was his journey…”

“You should be grateful that he died here, and not in some sort of horrible car accident. Just think, if he was in a car accident, he’d have looked much worse than this”

“It’s ok for you to move on and be with someone else, you’re only 25- he’d want that”

He said other things too, most of which I’ve chosen to forget. I understand that they must say things to cover every type of ‘loss’ situation but it was like listening to someone read from cue cards. I struggled to make eye contact with him throughout his talk as he made me furious.  I had to bite my tongue the entire time and the few times that I did manage to look up, I made sure that I gave him the foulest look of Hell. I really wanted to tell him to shut up and get out, but I knew that I couldn’t.

He rambled on with his “journey” and “life” speech for a few more minutes before he made his way around to each of us to give us his business card.  He put his hand on my shoulder when I didn’t respond to his handshake and left his card on the little table that was next to me. I turned my head away as he said goodbye and left the room. As soon as he left, I looked at everyone- They had all thought the same thing as I did. “What an idiot!”

I understand that these services are made available to us to make the transition to our new life easier.  I understand that the GC was just doing his job but I didn’t like the way that he spoke to us, or the things that he said. I’d like to think that other GC’s perhaps handle themselves differently, and (I hope) have different approaches with these incredibly personal situations.

It was for this reason, and this reason alone that I chose not to seek any grief counselling. I didn’t want to hear about these supposed “journeys”. I didn’t need someone to look at me, and fill me with their ideas of how this was “meant to be”. It meant nothing to me and for the most part I found it insulting to say the very least.

I didn’t want any advice from anyone unless they were, or have been in my exact situation. Because only they would know how it feels.

To the person that’s walking in my shoes:

I am certain that counselling can have some amazing benefits. But, it comes down to the individual. Had this person been different, I may have been more comfortable talking with someone about it, and maybe finding good ways of dealing with certain things, rather than finding things out for myself, though I’ve not regretted the way of which I handled anything.

Grieving is a very personal thing and only you will know how you feel- so don’t let anybody tell you how you should be feeling. Don’t let anybody force you into seeking counselling. On the flip side of that, don’t let anybody tell you that you shouldn’t seek counselling. It’s up to you and you alone. Only you will know how you feel.

My advice would be to make an appointment with a GP and see them if you feel up to it. They will have resources and contacts available for you for if and when you need it. It took me about 3 weeks to see one and I’m glad that I did it. It meant that they were aware of my situation and it was on record for any future reference.

During our appointment, we discussed how I was coping mentally, emotionally, and physically, and we also discussed the options of anti-depressants. I told her the truth. If you decide to see a GP, please be honest with them. Tell them exactly how you feel- They’re there to help you and the only way they can help you is if you’re 100% honest with them.

I am here to share my story and how I have dealt with my loss. I cannot stress that enough that everyone grieves differently and that there is no right or wrong way to go about it and that any advice that I give is not a “professional opinion”.  But what I do know is what I have learnt, and looking back now, what I wish I may have done differently.

The first night.

I was too upset to be tired. I couldn’t come to grips with what had happened. Again, my mind ran wild with my thoughts. Why him? Where is he? Is he in Heaven? Is he ok? Did he know that I loved him? Did he know how much he meant to me? Did I make him happy? Did I do everything right? Was he happy? Did he know how much I’d miss him? These were all the questions that were driving me crazy. I hope that I treated him well. I hope that I made him happy. I hope that I was everything that he could have ever wanted. I hope that I made him as happy as he made me…
The guilt was overwhelming. I felt guilty for living. I felt guilty for taking every breath that I took. Every little beat of my heart. Everything- Every. Little. Thing. My brain was running on overdrive, and I couldn’t just ‘relax’. I tossed and turned for many hours, flipping my pillow over each time. Every time I shuffled my head across the pillow to get comfortable, I could feel the cold parts where my tears had soaked through the pillow case.

I rubbed the tears from my eyes, and then rubbed my hands over my face as I stretched out my body. It was when I did this, that I was completely mortified. I could smell that ‘hospital smell’. I sat up straight away, and picked up my hair from over my shoulders  and held it under my nose. Hospital smell. I picked up my pillow, and brought it up to my face. Hospital smell. I threw the covers off of me, and turned the light on.

I picked up the clothes that I’d worn to the hospital and bundled them into a pile. I carried them outside, and threw them into the bin. I never wanted to see them again. I walked back into my bedroom, and ripped the sheets from my bed, along with my quilt and pillow cases, and threw them all into the laundry. I knew what I was doing- getting rid of that hospital smell.

Once my bed was all undone, I had a shower. I’m not sure how long I was in there for, but it would have been a while. I washed my hair 3 times with 3 different shampoos and conditioners. I washed myself with body wash and soap, several times. Looking back, I’m sure that most of it was unnecessary but I felt the need to do it anyway. I wanted any trace of the hospital smell gone. I figured a concoction of anything and everything should do the trick.

I didn’t bother making my bed. I just threw on some extra warm pyjamas and threw myself down on my bed like a rag doll. I didn’t bother to look to at the time. I didn’t want to know how long I’d been awake for and how long my mind had been annoying me for.

Somehow through the morning I managed to get some sleep. It wasn’t a long sleep or a good sleep, but it was something small that my body needed.  When I woke up, my initial thought was “wow that was a terrible dream”. I rolled over and saw that my bed was a mess. No sheets, no quilt, no pillow case. Then something else clicked. I had a shower. My towel was thrown on the floor. I dropped my hand down the side of my bed, where I felt around on the floor for my phone. I saw that the little indicator light was flashing, so I knew that I had a message or two. Wrong. 30 something messages, and 15 or so missed calls. I immediately dropped my phone. Yep. It hit me. It wasn’t a dream at all. I had just woken up to my new, aching reality.

Two little words… (part two)

It was a hard thing to do. It was a few little steps that I longed to take, but at the same time, I wanted to hang back for as long as I could. Only to avoid the inevitable. I wanted to see him so desperately. But I didn’t want to see him in that state. I knew it would hurt, but I never knew just how much. I understood that he was gone. But seeing it… it would be different.  Hearing bad news is one thing- Seeing it for yourself is certainly another.

I followed behind his family and I tried to find something else in the room to focus on, trying to avoid what I knew I’d see soon enough.  After a few minutes, we came closer and stood around him where we each had our own little space. With his parents on one side, and his brother and I on the other, we all took a seat. There were moments of silence. There were tears- and plenty of them. It was hard to believe what we were seeing right in front of us.

I tried to think about what he would want. I didn’t think that he’d like to see us scared of him, and not wanting to get close. With that in mind, I took his hand and held it between the two of mine. His skin was still warm. I would have sold my soul just to have him squeeze my hand back. To look at him, and see his eyes open. I would have given anything. I wanted nothing more than for him to sit up, and talk to us. Explain that somehow, there had been a mistake, and that this was all just a dream. Much to my disappointment, nothing happened.

When I wanted to step out for a breather his brother would hold his hand, and when I’d return, we’d swap again. It was a system that needed no explaining- It just came naturally. We both gave each other enough time and space to have our moments. Moments of which, were held with the utmost respect.

We all took it in turns, stepping aside and letting each other have some time alone with him. After a few rounds of that, his family stepped outside and I knew that it was my time to say my goodbyes alone. I was lost for words. I tucked my chair in closer, and still held his hand in mine. I told him so many things. I told him that I loved him, and I would have said that countless times. I thanked him for the wonderful years that we shared together. I praised him for making me feel the way that he did. He was my everything- and I made sure I said all that I wanted.

A considerable amount of time had passed, and it was now time for me to leave, and let his family say goodbye to him. With that in mind, I held him in my arms one last time. I told him that I loved him one more time. I ran my fingers through his hair for the last time. I leaned over him and gave him our very last kiss. I never said goodbye.
I said “I love you” and left it at that. It was too early to say goodbye. I walked out of that room still as numb as I was when I had entered.

Two little words… (part one)

I knew that a lot of time had passed since I’d seen the surgeon last. I knew because I didn’t take my eyes off of the clock. It was one of those situations where no matter where I looked; I’d be met with people’s equally as concerned and saddened faces. Everyone that was there was there for the same reason.  They wanted answers, and they wanted to know that their loved ones were alright. Eventually, after a long wait, the surgeon made an appearance. As soon as I made eye contact with him, I knew what he was going to say. I think without even saying it, he could tell that I already knew, too.

Two little words was all it took. Two little words that broke my heart. Two little words that changed my life forever.

“I’m sorry”

The thoughts that ran through my head at that moment were unlike anything I’d ever felt before.
I felt as though I was drowning. I was drowning in sadness, anger, frustration and disbelief. The emotional pain that I felt was more intense than any physical pain that I’d experienced in my 25 years of life. There were literally no words for how much it hurt. It was incomparable.

I immediately felt ill and excused myself as I ran to the bathroom. No sooner had I pushed the door open and I had already laid my fist into the nearest wall. The anger that consumed me at that moment was toxic and I didn’t know how to deal with it. I decided that punching the closest thing to me was a good idea. I remember looking down at my hand and seeing how much it was shaking, and watching the graze appear across my knuckles.  It hurt but it didn’t bother me. In a weird sort of way, it was warmly welcomed, as it created a brief distraction from the real pain that I was feeling.

After I had a good scream, yelled a little, and managed to stop crying for just a minute, I made my way back to the room where I was once again with his family. We managed to splutter out a ‘thank you’ to the surgeon, and the surgical team who tried their very best to save his life. I know that they worked tirelessly and did all they could. There were no bad feelings towards them, whatsoever.

We walked down the hallway with the surgeon, until we came to a point where a curtain was drawn shut. He stepped aside and told us to take our time saying goodbye.

It was then that I realised that I would never again hear his voice. I knew that I would never again be held in his arms. I knew that there would be no more beautiful memories made. I knew that the journey that he and I had shared, was over. There was no more ‘us’. There was no more him.There was quite literally nothing else.

I knew that as soon as I walked behind that curtain, I would never be the same again.