Irritations And Emotional Triggers

A piece of me died on the 8^th April 2010.

The thought never left my mind- “he’s dead”.

It’s a strange thing, to be sitting down, amongst friends enjoying a cup of coffee at a café, and seeing life go on. Seeing them laugh and chat, talk about their husbands/partners and all other ‘normal’ topics of conversation. A small part of me genuinely cared for their stories. The larger part of me wanted to tell them to shut up, get over it, and be grateful for what they had.

A majority of my friends were incredibly mindful of those sorts of things. They knew that I still cared about their relationships, but they knew I had a very low tolerance to some certain topics. Long story short, if my friends had said that they miss their spouse after not seeing them for a night or two while they were away for work, this would upset me.

Were they honestly that inconsiderate to tell me that they ‘miss’ their partner? For one night? They’re upset because their partner is taking too long to reply to a text message? Seriously… For  a second… think about how that makes me feel.

A few caught on to what was a wanted conversation and what was not- some would start telling me a story, and then they’d realise where it was going, and quickly change the topic. I could not help the way I was reacting to certain things. My reactions were automatic, and in most cases, were unable to be filtered. In simpler terms, I could be talking one minute, and hear a simple word or sentence that would trigger me to get upset, and then I’d lose it. I never had enough time to compose myself in the early stages, but it improved over time.

Apart from conversations about how people’s partners were, the other thing that was annoying for me was seeing it. Walking in to someone’s home, and seeing happy wedding photos, or seeing hand written notes stuck on the fridge from one another.

It was the visual things that were worse. I avoided social gatherings for quite some time, as it hurt too much to see everyone together, and even though I was assured that If I went with some friends, “I’d be fine”… No. I didn’t care for it. I didn’t want people coming up to me and putting a hand on my shoulder, and giving me a hug and saying “I’m so sorry”. No. I didn’t want to feel uncomfortable, and I didn’t want other people to feel uncomfortable about me being there and not knowing what to say. So, I avoided many things. I decided to ultimately remove myself from the situation.

Little things like going to shopping centres were the same. I’d see couples walking hand in hand through the mall… Seeing a middle aged couple with children, and wondering what could have been… Seeing elderly couples enjoying a quiet coffee, and holding hands across the table. I remember having about 2 sips of a coffee at a café once, before I just got up and left because there were just too many happy couples there.

I was aware that people weren’t purposely rubbing things in my face, but it sure did feel like it sometimes. This was depending on the kind of day I was having… some days were worse than others.

There are so many triggers that can happen on a day to day basis. It was only after I sat down and actually thought it about, they certainly were everywhere…

It was walking behind someone with his hair, his height and his build.

It was seeing someone in the distance that smiled just like he did.

It was hearing someone laugh, laughing just like he did.

It was catching the scent of the cologne he use to wear as someone walked by.

It was hearing his favourite song on the radio… then seeing an empty passenger seat.

It was seeing someone walk past wearing the same shirt he wore on your first date.

It was seeing something in a shop that I knew he’d love.

It was remembering a funny story, and wanting to tell him because I knew he’d laugh.

People always tell me to remember the good times. That’s the most painful bit.

Remembering how happy you actually were.

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’.

Things that people will say

After losing a loved one, people often try and provide comfort with their wise words. Some, better than others. These are a few of the common examples that were repeated to me often.

“I’m sorry”
It’s a cliché thing to say, and I’ve often said it myself- when you don’t know what to say, this is usually a safe option when other words fail. I believe it’s said because you’re genuinely sorry for that person’s loss, and for the person who has passed away.

“You’re so strong”
This is something that annoyed me as it was said so often. I was very good at hiding my tears, and putting on a brave face when I needed to. I was strong for those who needed to see it, and I could be an emotional wreck behind closed doors. Over time, I learnt to look at it from another angle- I dealt with my grief drug free, and provided myself with positive outlets to keep my mind stimulated and focused on good things.

“He’s in a better place now”
I understand that it’s another thing that’s said. Without dragging religion into this, people have different views on where people end up after they leave this world. I think everybody takes comfort in knowing that their loved ones are looking down on us from a greater place. Speaking from my own experience, I would often respond with “yeah…”. But it’s not something I dealt with lightly. The point was still that they’re not here on Earth, with you, with their family, enjoying their life, and having the opportunity to grow old.

“He’s not suffering”
Granted that this is said to the family who have had to watch their loved ones battle illness over long periods of time, I can understand why this is said, but it’s still not anything that I can just say “yeah, you’re right, I feel better now, thanks!”. It could just be in my cynical nature to automatically find the downside of every comment ever made…

“I know how you feel”
This is one of the blue ribbon winners when it comes down to “the worst thing you can say to someone who just lost their partner”. “I know how you feel”. This was said to me on a number of occasions, and I had to fight very hard to resist the urge to punch people in the face when they said this to me. With the exception of the few people that said this to me, who were actually widows. Unless you’re a widow, please don’t say this to someone. The same thing can be said for any loss- Unless it’s literally the same loss, losing the person same way, just remember, you don’t know it feels.

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…

The Other F Word. (part two)

I sat down with his family in the front row of the chapel. I turned my head past my shoulder as I heard people enter,  seeing who sat where, and giving the awkward smile to those who managed to give me some sort of small wave before they took their seat.

I stopped looking around once that I saw that my family was seated some rows behind. I knew that they’d be there ofcourse, but it was still comforting when I saw them.

Once everyone was seated, the service began. The Eulogy was written by his father, and he did an amazing job. I was able to share with him, the story of how we met, and I was able to include some of our fondest memories.

The service itself was short and sweet as my boyfriend would complain about services being long winded and unnecessarily dull – so we made sure that it was short, sharp and shiny! We threw a few jokes in too, just to make sure it would be to his liking.

His sense of humour was something that was carried throughout the service- and then into the evening when we held the memorial service for extended family, and friends.

The Memorial Service was beautiful- If I can even use that to describe it. It was a very relaxed setting, and we were surrounded by the people that were nearest and dearest to him.

The majority of people that were there were old school friends of ours. I remember stepping back, while I was sipping my drink, and just looking around, and seeing who was there. Making people’s faces out from the shadows as they socialised with one another.

My initial reaction was: “it’s like a really morbid school reunion…”

The things people said to me were much the same throughout the night-

“I’m so sorry”
“I can’t believe it”
“You’re so strong…”

I was sorry too… I couldn’t believe it either… Strong? Sure… You didn’t see me this morning when I was looking at his body in a coffin, and screaming…

It was the last thing that was said to me that always annoyed me the most.

And one thing, to this day, which still does- “you’re so strong”. For me, at the time, it was like a polite way of saying “wow, you haven’t killed yourself yet? Well done!”

The night was good (it ran smoothly), regardless of things that were said, which annoyed me- (it was bound to happen). When the service finished, and we were standing outside ready to leave, it was like a huge weight had been lifted… We had said all that we wanted to say- Everyone had a chance to say goodbye, and reminisce about some amazing memories…

The Other F Word. (part one)

“A ceremony or group of ceremonies held in connection with the burial or cremation of a dead person”

 

Funeral.

 

It’s a shame that the first three letters of this word have absolutely nothing to do with the actual meaning.

 

The funeral Director told us that we could go inside whenever we decided that we were ready. We stood outside torturing ourselves with idle chat for a few minutes trying to post pone what was ahead. After a few moments, we made our way into the chapel. We all knew what was going to be in there…

I let his parents and his brother make their way up first, while I gathered my thoughts for a few seconds. I looked down at the little blue box that I was holding in my trembling hands- my last gift to him. A baby blue box, tied neatly with a blue and white ribbon. Inside  were some things that I so badly wanted him to have. I made sure that every little thing in that box was something he’d hold dear to his heart. I filled it with things that I knew would make him laugh and smile. I also placed a letter in there that I had been writing over the past few days- I wanted it to be perfect… I would have ripped out my own heart and put it in that box if I could have…

I walked up the step, carrying that little blue box, and stood next to his brother. It took me a long time to look at what was right in front of me. I remember looking above the coffin and just seeing what was below, in my peripheral vision. I knew what it was. But still, I chose to ignore it for as long as I could.

 

His father knew what I was doing, and he came and stood next to me. With his arm around me, he said “you have to pull yourself together”. I looked up at him, and then my eyes followed his…  then I saw what he was looking at. His eldest son. My boyfriend. Lifeless. Dead.

 

Without even thinking about it, my body automatically went into meltdown. I could feel my heart throbbing. I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes. I could feel myself running short of breath. I looked up at his father one more time and tried my best to mutter out one simple word. I couldn’t do it. I tried to form a word. Just one word. Nothing. All that came out was a blood curdling howl. In my entire life- I had never… ever cried and screamed as much as I did at this moment. There were no words to describe how uncontrollable it was.

 

I was so shocked with my reaction that I immediately walked out. I quickly stumbled outside, where I sat on the ground, placing the little blue box beside me. I put my hands over my mouth to stop myself from screaming, and it took every ounce of my will to make me stop. I had to remind myself to breathe. I thought about how hard it must be for his parents and his brother, and I knew that I had to pull myself together and get back in there. After a few minutes, I dusted myself off and made my way back inside… I stood next to his father once again, where I muttered out a “sorry”. I felt so bad for reacting that way, but I couldn’t control it… I think he understood.

 

I composed myself after a while, and took a few deep breaths. I held that little blue box in my hands one last time before I placed it in the coffin beside him. I loosened the ribbon a little once I’d placed it by his side, so it would be easier for him to open. Sounds stupid, I know… I knew he wasn’t going to physically be able to open it.

 

We stood there in silence for a few minutes until we could hear the cars pull up outside. We heard people’s muffled voices as they walked across the gravel, making their way towards the chapel. We took that as our cue to leave for the moment, so we stepped away from the coffin, one at a time, and told him that we’d be back soon…

 

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.

The long drive home.

My parents picked me up from the hospital. I knew they didn’t know what to say, and neither did I. Those two little words made another appearance when they wrapped their arms around me. I was surprised that I still had any tears left to cry.

A cold breeze greeted me as the hospital doors opened. The clean air was amazing, and much different to the ‘hospital smell’ which I longed to forget. I sat in the back seat of the car, and buckled myself in. The silence was deafening. My parents picked up on the awkwardness and fiddled around with the radio to try and find something to listen to. I appreciated the fact that my mother kept changing the station if a love song or a sad song was playing.

I sat with my head resting against the window the entire way home, looking at the colours of the headlights fly by. The further we got away from the hospital, the worse I felt. I was screaming to myself in my head saying “TURN AROUND, TURN AROUND, I WANT TO GO BACK!!!”. I knew that mentioning it would only make things more painful. And ultimately, I knew there would be no point… as much as it hurt.

Occasionally when I looked up at the rear view mirror, I’d catch my father’s eyes meeting with mine. As soon as our eyes met, he’d look away. I didn’t blame him. I’d hate to think what he would have been looking at. Not a single word was said for the entire trip home, between anyone.

I don’t remember walking from the car to my bedroom, but somehow I made it there. I called out to my parents and said goodnight, and closed my bedroom door. There was no such thing as sleep. There was no such thing as tiredness or lethargy. There was nothing. Numbness perhaps, and not much else.

I passed the time by re-reading text messages that he’d sent me, and going through some photos on my phone. It didn’t take long to regret that decision. My phone was constantly buzzing with messages, and missed calls. I only replied to one person, who was in contact with me throughout the entire ordeal. I left her in charge of contacting everyone who needed to know what had happened.  It was one less thing that I had to think about.

A few hours had passed, and it was about 4am. I’d not eaten anything, or had anything to drink since 1pm of the previous day. I stumbled out of my bed to the kitchen, where I poured myself a glass of water. I think I managed to swallow a mouthful, if that. I saw that the light was on outside, and as I peeked through the curtains, I was surprised at what I saw. My parents were sitting outside with their arms around each other. Even more surprising, my father was smoking cigarettes. Something he’d given up years ago. I decided to let them be.

They say a picture paints a thousand words. As I walked down the hallway back to my room, I wandered what the look on my face must say. I could summarise it with one word. Hollow. From that moment on, I knew I did not like the person I was becoming.

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.