Tag: grief

Categories
After

Happy Anniversary

Hi guys, welcome back. This was a big week for me for more than one reason. It’s hard to say one was more important or a bigger deal than the other really. More of the ying and yang of life, I suppose.

Monday was the first anniversary of Mister’s death. It was a weird day really. I mean in terms of how I felt anyway. The days leading up to it, the actually day itself, and now the few days that have passed I’ve really thought about the whole thing. By the whole thing I mean the anniversary of the death of a loved one. Obviously Mister was more than a loved one to me; he was my person, my twin flame. And it wasn’t like there was one bad day that ended this whole nightmare for us. So how are you supposed to feel on that day? What are you supposed to do to commemorate it, if anything?

I was lying in bed Sunday night thinking. And by “thinking” I mean that manic thing my mind does whenever I try to convince my body that it’s time for rest. I literally had such a range of emotions when I was “thinking” that I found myself not only crying but also bursting out laughing. Yes, actually laughing thinking about the whole bizarre nature of the day. Mister would’ve loved it. We had the best laughs at some of the most inappropriate times together, definitely about some of the most inappropriate things.

I mean, it obviously was the anniversary of one of the worst days of my life but was it “the” worst? Probably not. My Mister was gone sometime in the weeks leading up to that day and there are quite a few days of significance leading up to that day that, in my mind at least, were worse than that one. And to be completely honest, I think there have been one or two since that day that have been pretty bad for me. Which leads me to the question, what the hell is August 9th to me?

One of the first things that comes to mind when I think about it is “Congratulations, you have survived the past 365 days.” That was definitely the one that made me burst out laughing. All I can picture is the Publisher’s House Sweepstakes commercials where they show up at your door with the balloons and flowers, streamers flying around and loudly proclaim “Congratulations!!” That didn’t happen, in case you were wondering. What did happen was an afternoon of snuggling the most precious little preemie girl and an evening spent with my favorites who are always right by my side when I need them.

That thought led in so many different directions though. Okay so first of all, how has it possibly been a year already? I mean, on those days that the gaping hole of grief is calling so loudly to me, the days that seem to pass as entire months instead of one day, the days that I feel his absence so much that it seems the day will never end; how is it even possible that 365 days have passed.

And then that leads to, okay so I’ve “survived” 365 days. How many more days do I have to “survive.” Anyone who knows my love of math will not be surprised to hear that I actually sat down and figured some reasonable estimates out. See, that’s another thing Mister would’ve laughed at. He would know that I’m sitting here figuring out reasonable estimates of the days I have left based on math. And he would’ve teased me relentlessly about it.

So in 2020, the life expectancy of a female in the United States declined to 80.5 years from 81.4 the previous year. I suppose we don’t really need to get into too many details about why that is but I do feel the need to say that that is a shocking fact in and of itself. We lost almost an entire year of life expectancy in one year alone from this pandemic. Let that sink in. Anyway, back to topic, being approximately 52 and a half years old, that gives me approximately 28 years or 10,220 more days to get through without my love, to “survive.” But then again, I have made it through the first 365 so that’s something. Right?

Now let’s get back to the “how could a year have passed already?” question. How in the hell DID that actually happen. There were days that I thought I wouldn’t make it here to say this. But yet here I am, astounded that it’s been a year already. It’s made me reflect on some things I’ve been through in the past. I’ve been through some shit, guys even before any of this. The philosophy I’ve subscribed to in the past is, when you find yourself somewhere you don’t want to be just keep your head down and keep moving. Before long you’ll look up and realize that you’re not in that place anymore and you may actually love where you find yourself. So I guess without even being aware of it, that’s what I’ve been doing. I’m not quite ready to look up yet but hopefully some day I will be brave enough to again.

And how about the people in my life, the people that stick by the grieving even if we’re not always the most pleasant to be around? I’ll tell you right now that my circle was there and didn’t have to say any magic words or preform any special ceremonies. So that’s all I can give for advice if you love someone grieving. Just show up. That’s it. No special fanfare or speeches required. Just show up.

The day came and went. Now here we are, 4 days into the second year without my love. Now I have to say “My husband passed away a year ago” instead of wherever I was at before; a few months ago, a few weeks ago, a few days ago. I feel like it puts me in a whole other judgement zone for how my grief is progressing. Not that I let that be a concern of mine. I still think this is appropriate grieving; possibly with an identity crisis thrown in, but still appropriate grieving.

Regardless of the day passing, my week and my life have continued on. My beautiful new granddaughter has been discharged from the hospital after only 17 days despite being 6 weeks early to the party. And I made reservations to head to what was our home away from home for so many years for 2 weeks over my birthday. It will be my first trip back without Mister so I may have to call ahead to make sure there are enough tissues on island to deal with my blubbering self. Also, if we could all do our parts to curb this pandemic so that getting to and from some of my favorite people and places will be a little easier, that’d be great.

Categories
Now

Life

Hi guys, welcome back. There’s so much exciting news to share that I decided to update you all about what’s happening in my life right now and to hopefully tie it together with a post I had prepared about loneliness. Weird, right? Well I hope by the end it all makes sense, that you all can understand a little bit better, or maybe you will feel seen and heard through my words.

As most people that know me already know, one of the brightest lights I have in my life is my 3 year old grandson. He barged into the world 6 weeks early, all too eager to join in this crazy family. So with my daughter expecting baby #2, a little girl, due on September 3rd I can honestly say that I wasn’t all that shocked when my phone rang at nearly midnight just about a week and a half ago, also 6 weeks before her due date. It was just like my on call days, woken in the middle of the night to quickly dress and hop in the car. As much as I loved being called in for a good STEMI (yes, that really is true) I think I had something even better to be on call for, a new grand baby.

Little miss made quite the entrance the next day. Everyone is doing well. Baby girl just needs to get the hang of eating and gain some weight, which is in progress. She ended up being delivered about an hour away from home due to her gestational age which has added in to all the juggling of said adorable little family. Bub had a cold for the first few days of his little sister’s life which he has oh so graciously passed on to Nana now. Anyway, you get the idea. We’ve had a lot of moving parts, mostly amazing and incredible, which have kept me busy and distracted.

Here’s a little aside, family is really everything, guys. Everything. It’s also what you make of it. People don’t have to be blood to be your true family, the ones that you are bound to and meant to spend your life with. So if you have these people, your people, cling to them and never let go. Do whatever you can for them to help make this life a little easier.

So let’s get back to the original intent of this post, loneliness. This goes back to before Mister had passed away. It’s part of that long dragged out grief that I’ve talked about, when your loved one is slowly disappearing before your eyes. It’s the slow motion tragic accident that you’re forced to stare at as it happens but are powerless to stop. I know I’ve eluded to his change in mentation before. I honestly think it’s something better explained over time, small stories one at a time, rather than dropping the whole bomb on you all at once. It’s just too much.

Some time around May of 2020, about 3 months before he passed, I was in the kitchen and I heard him crying in the living room. I rushed in with my fight or flight in full swing thinking he was having a seizure. But there he was just sitting on the couch bawling his eyes out, tears streaming down his face. It still tears my heart out thinking about this whole thing. I rushed over to him, wrapping around him like I had done a million times before and asked what had happened, what was wrong. He could barely get it out through the tears but finally just said “I can’t remember your name.”

Now this was not the first instance that we had had with his memory but this was definitely the deepest cut as yet. I gently tried to comfort him, thinking that if I coaxed him a little, helped him a bit, gave him some clues, surely he was going to remember my name. I said “Mister, it’s okay if you can’t remember my name. You know who I am, right?” His response, “you love me and you take care of me.” How’s that for the saddest, shortest story you’ve read all day? I’ll unfortunately never forget those exact words. I expected “my wife”, “Ousseau”, something. What I got was correct but it was still like a dull rusty knife to the heart. All I could do was comfort him. Tell him that he was correct, I did in fact love him and took care of him.

There were good days and bad after that with his memory. Sometimes more like good minutes and bad minutes. But one thing was for sure, my husband was disappearing. As his level of care increased, the more he needed me, the less he was there if that makes sense. I missed him so much every single day even though he was right there in front of me. I felt lonely. Alone despite my amazing kids, their spouses, my grandson, and my few friends who showed up at the end. I had support and love but felt so utterly alone.

In the beginning of the after I know that I was in shock. That just made me laugh out loud as I typed it. I mean, DUH!, I knew it was coming but yet still couldn’t believe it. Even as the one year anniversary is rapidly approaching there are still times when it seems unreal. But especially back in the early after, I felt alone. There were people all around me all of the time and yet there I was, alone. The firsts started; my first birthday as a widow, my first Thanksgiving as a widow, my first everything as a widow. Again, my amazing support system was right there holding me up through all of it. So why did I feel so alone? And how do you explain to people that love you so much and are doing everything in their power to make you feel included and not lonely, how do you explain to them that you feel so alone literally all of the time?

I can honestly tell you exactly when the shift happened. Not the date or day of the week or anything like that. But the instance, that I can tell you. I was standing in the kitchen with my son. We were talking, well we were talking about the fact that I finally felt certain that they didn’t need to worry about me. That’s a whole conversation for another day. But as I talked about this with him, I decided to try to explain how lonely I felt all the time. As I talked and looked at this amazing, supportive, responsible adult that I’d like to think I had something to do with how he turned out; I realized that I wasn’t really lonely after all. I don’t think I ever was lonely. I just miss him. I miss him so much, all of the time, every single nanosecond of every single day. And I probably always will.

I think in the beginning, whenever that is for anyone’s grieving process whether it’s the day their loved one dies or the day they start to disappear, I think we’re so distracted by the loss that we can’t stop staring at the gaping hole left beside us. I think staring at the gaping hole is so consuming that you can actually feel it, this giant emptiness and it makes you feel a million miles away from everyone. That giant gaping hole creates an abyss between the grieving and life itself. As I’ve learned to navigate my grief I’ve learned that you can’t let that abyss stay between you and life. I’m trying to keep it beside me, knowing and acknowledge that it’s there but allowing people close to me maybe on the other side.

So now I can be in the NICU holding my newest grandbaby and not feel alone. I can have a sleepover with my #1, watch silly movies and sing songs and not feel alone. I can do pretty much anything and not feel so utterly alone anymore. There will always be days when I start to gaze a little longer than I should at the gaping abyss and I think that’s fine. I want to, really. Some days I need to feel it to remember the size and strength of our love. So for the time being my plan is to keep on keeping on with all of my loved ones on one side and the gaping hole, what is left of our great love is on the other.

Categories
After

The monster in carpal tunnel clothing

Before I get into the story of “the day,” the one when everything changed, I have to backtrack a bit to another story and some background info. This one is the story of carpal tunnel, or maybe it’s carpal tunnel, or most likely it’s carpal tunnel but it doesn’t really matter.

I’m not sure exactly when but early on in his cardiology career Mister was diagnosed as having a cervical rib. Way before we were a couple and just coworkers I remember talking with him about it. It’s basically just an extra rib that comes off a cervical vertebrae, so in the neck just above where most people’s first rib is. Unfortunately it can cause something called thoracic outlet syndrome which can manifest in different ways depending on what is getting squished up there in the neck/shoulder area by that extra rib. His was neurogenic meaning a nerve was getting pinched causing numbness and tingling down his arm, sometimes all the way to his thumb. And of course this was on his right side which was also his dominant arm. Surgery was discussed but he felt the risk associated with it was too much. So he opted for physical therapy and learned over time how to cope with it.

During this work up he was also told that he had mild carpal tunnel syndrome in that wrist. Not bad enough to warrant surgery but just to be aware of it. So that was also always there in the back of his mind.

Healthcare in general is an extremely physically demanding field. Our’s in particular is even more so. Long hours on your feet standing on hard floors covered head to toe in sterile garb while wearing lead skirts and vests underneath is not for the faint of heart. Add in long hours sometimes without breaks and sleep deprivation from call ins at all hours of the day and night and it’s not hard to see why people in our field are always looking for ways to ease one pain or another. New shoes, new orthotics, new lead, better belts to keep the lead off your shoulders, massage therapy; you name it and a Cath lab person will try it for some relief. Just like nature’s evolutionary process, we learn to adapt to our environmental situation in an attempt to be more comfortable, have less aches and pains.

So that’s what he did. Stretching exercises to keep that space in his neck open. He found hard soles shoes made it worse so switched form Merrill’s and Dansko’s to sneakers and then eventually to Croc’s. His crazy colored Croc’s became a signature “Mister-ism” which so few people knew the story behind.

Before he took his last position in Massachusetts he did some locum work in Hannibal, Missouri. Don’t worry, there are plenty of stories to come about we New Englanders heading out on a road trip, Baxter in tow, to spend some quality time in the great state of Missouri. Anyway, he mentioned to me a couple times over the course of that summer that his carpal tunnel was acting up. He had some numbness and tingling in his right arm again but it was the pain in the center of the palmar side of his wrist that definitely pushed him toward the carpal tunnel. As usual, he just coped with it when it would flare up. It never seemed to last long and a lighter work load mixed with time off between assignments seemed to keep it manageable.

So I guess it came as no surprise that when he started his Mass job that the symptoms worsened. He was working more and busier when at work. He found a neurologist and had an EMG which is a test for muscle and nerve function. Like all physicians, even the ones in specialties, he had already diagnosed himself before his appointment. Hearing the neurologist say that based on the EMG that his carpal tunnel space was very tight was exactly what he expected. They talked about the fact that his numbness distribution wasn’t exactly consistent with carpal tunnel syndrome but he chalked that up to possibly the cervical rib. I mean, of course, right? So he was referred to an orthopedic surgeon for a quick ligament release and then we’d be on our way. Easy Peasy.

We scheduled his surgery on the Friday of a holiday weekend so he’d have an extra day at home to recuperate. He had a great surgeon and was scheduled first case of the day. Everything went without a hitch and we were out of there before 10 am. The early winter storm with sleet and freezing rain made the drive back to Maine a little more interesting but overall the whole thing was a breeze and we were back in Chipmunk Lane to recuperate by the middle of the afternoon.

In my mind and I’m sure his, we had made it past this hurdle and were in the clear. We could proceed with life worry free, right? His incision healed, he was back to work. Everything was right back on course. Except for that one minor detail, the only one that actually really mattered. His carpal tunnel symptoms weren’t any better. So we were left wondering, was this his cervical rib? Would PT help? All the while this terrible ugly monster had started to whisper to us “hey morons, over here.” We just couldn’t quite here him yet. It wasn’t much longer before he reared his ugly head.

So on that fateful day, my punch in the face day, as I listened to him describe his seizure all I could think was that it had to have something to do with his surgery, which was only 4 weeks prior. It was what’s called a focal or partial seizure. It’s not the kind most people think of when they hear the word seizure, not the kind you see on tv when a person falls to the floor convulsing. A focal seizure affects just a small part of the brain thus causing symptoms very specific to that region.

He was at work getting ready for the Cath lab cases for the day as he was the doctor on call when it started. His hand flipped over palm up and started to contract all on its own. His hand just kept opening and closing, like he was trying to grab something, over and over again. He told me he stared for a few seconds and then just stood up and started to walk toward the Emergency Room all the while staring at his hand making these bizarre completely involuntary motions.

You see, the thing is guys, he said he knew as soon as the seizure started what was happening. He knew the second his hand started to move on its own that he had a tumor in his brain. Before he had any imaging or a neuro consult. Let that sink in for a minute. However long that walk was, 2 minutes, 5 minutes, whatever, he spent the whole time knowing what was coming, anticipating that hammer that was coming down after his scan.

When I talked to him on the phone and he told me about the seizure my mind went straight to his surgery. I asked him if it could somehow be a complication of it. Even though he answered emphatically no, I still spent the two hour drive to him trying to connect the two things, two last hours of blissful ignorance.

That’s where I’ll wrap up the story for today. Mister in the ED knowing, me driving to Massachusetts not knowing. This all will lead us into the story of “The Hardest Part.” Depending on if and how well you knew my husband, that story may surprise you.