Shocked and Sad

My ex-husband died suddenly yesterday morning of a heart attack. He was 59.


When I was 7, I fell off the top of the slide and landed on my stomach.
It feels like that; I cannot get enough air. And it surprises me because he was an awful husband - abusive both physically and mentally. But we did make The Boy. And that was good.

My heart breaks for The Boy. He and his father were making their way back to each other after a long estrangement. He wouldn't have met The Girl if it weren't for The X.

My thoughts are all jumbled up.

On the one hand...I remember what a good father he was when The Boy was a baby. He took him everywhere; sewed him clothes (he was an expert tailor), and a little roll up changing table/bed,

and a baby carrier (we couldn't afford to buy one). I did not give that child a bath until he was 6 months old and we were visiting my parents in Alaska, because The X claimed it as his job. He was always proud of The Boy. Always. 

And on the other...I read the accolades about him on the current wife's FB page (she seems to be a lovely person and The Boy likes her) and cannot reconcile the person I was married to to the one she's married to. How The Girl speaks of him, as a friend, a protective uncle, is foreign to me. Someone said he must have been a great dad because look how well The Boy turned out. I confess that a FURY rose up in me because he didn't have one fucking thing to do with how The Boy turned out. (to The X's credit, he gave me the credit) He left before The Boy was 2 and was present for maybe 3 years total after that (I am being ever so generous). He stood that child up so many times I lost count. There were several years we didn't know if he was alive.

And yet...I am sad, which makes me feel like I'm intruding on The Boy's grief somehow.
Like I don't have the right to be sad and a bit angry - although at what or why I don't know.
It's not as if we talked every week. The last time I really talked to him was several years ago when he drunk dialed me (and told me he always loved me). I saw him at THE Wedding last June, but we didn't say much. Wasn't much of a chance really; they came right before the wedding started and left directly after.


Still. It seems unbelievable. 

More of the Same

A dear friend mentioned recently that she wished I was writing more blog posts.

Well, here goes.

As the calendar speeds closer and closer to the one year anniversary of my mother's death, I become both more agitated and more quiet inside.
I shall confess here to a little magical thinking - when the year is up... POOF! I will be able to take off my figurative "widow weeds" and move on.

The difference in the grieving process between my parents is so...well, different. Silly me for thinking they would be the same.

The edge of grief that is my father's death is dull and rarely causes pain anymore. Could it be because his, though sudden, was expected? He had an incurable cancer, there was no question it would kill him. Maybe it's because it's been 13 years.
Just yesterday, the song "Addicted to Love" came over the airwaves while I was shopping and it made me smile - because my dad knew and liked that song from his late nights watching VH1.

My mother's march to death was sad and slow and destroyed every bit of the person she used to be.
This grief regularly dropkicks me.
At the costume jewelry section in Kohl's, at restaurants where we used to eat, sometimes passing neighborhoods we used to drive through looking at houses.
Boston Terriers. Beaded Christmas ornaments. Cookie books. The smell of coconut custard. Jello salad. Barbie dolls. Old school script handwriting. Fabric stores. Tea with milk. When I'm driving (Your father would have gone then.).
Everywhere. Every day.

Rudderless

That's how I feel.

A rudderless, pall covered, grumpy, sad, orphan.

Sigh.

It occurred to me yesterday that this birthday coming up is the first since becoming an orphan. (Funny how I think of orphans as being young, but the term applies to anyone without parents.) It never entered my head until yesterday that this would have the potential for extra sadness.

But now that it has, it doesn't surprise me. The person who gave birth to me, who loved me when I was sick, healthy, mean, kind, stupid, or stunningly brilliant, is gone. It doesn't matter that she was gone before she moved up here.

The cord is truly cut now.

Of Anger and Grief

April is settling in to be a real humdinger of a month.

Tomorrow would have been Mom's 76th birthday. April 30th will be thirteen years since my dad died. A nice little grief sandwich.

Yesterday I ripped a friend's head off about the amount of money to be spent on a wedding present. Scratch grief's surface and anger is lurking, just there.
Wait...maybe that's just me.

It feels as if I am weighted down with sandbags, there's a lot of sighing.
Last Wednesday, I cried in my car all the way back from Whole Foods, after having teared up at any small thing all day. Thursday, cried while on the phone with the VA - because I had to call them about a form they re-sent. They'd already told me in January that that form didn't need to be filled out.
Sigh. (see?)

Closing bank accounts, the last year of  doing her taxes, each thing is has a finality that I didn't experience with my dad's death. She probably did though.
I wish I had known to talk to her about it.

Good Grief

In this article on grief in The Guardian, the following sentence jumped out at me: "After a month had passed by, I had the distinct feeling that I was supposed to "muscle through it" and move on, as if I were recovering from flu rather than mourning the passing of my mother."


That's how I feel. Stunned that seven weeks along, I have the damn nerve to tear up as I pass a Captain D's we ate at, or want to avoid the petite section in Kohl's because it makes me sad.
It's been seven weeks - I should be over it! She was gone a long time before she actually died. [I tell myself]
Still...

I miss her. 

Last night as I watched 50/50, the only part that made me cry was when the main character, Joe, told his demented father he loved him. Great heaping sobs. 

I still have not called the hospice group, but they send a letter every month with "tips" on grieving. 

Myrtle's daughter invited me to the CB support group on Thursday nights. 
And didn't go, even though I could have.

Maybe you have some insight she said. I got nothing, I said. 



To the people who find out that she died and get all apologetic like they shouldn't have asked - it's okay. You didn't know. I feel like I should say it some other way than - she died in December. Which is the truth, but they get so shocked and want to take back the - how is your Mom - question.
I feel bad, like I should be making it easier for them.  

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Here's another article - on introverts (not grief). I like the definition of shy vs. introverted:  "Shyness and introversion are not the same thing. Shy people fear negative judgment, while introverts simply prefer less stimulation; shyness is inherently painful, and introversion is not."

Maybe they should base insurance rates on whether one is introverted or extroverted:  "...[introverts] are less likely to take dangerous risks. Extroverts are more likely than introverts to get into car accidents, participate in extreme sports and to place large financial bets."

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For all us introverts, and my friend GA Boy, (who is a self-proclaimed Djork) here's It's Oh So Quiet: