Of Loss
I’m writing today from a disoriented space of transition. A liminal space. It is said that grief is such a place. The location of disorientation today is loss. It is a practical loss; yet, still a condition worthy of discussion for those in grief.
Prior to losing Dan, I would have criticized myself for being over-sensitive. I would have labeled myself with a pejorative name. I would have dumbed down the impact.
When my mother-in-law’s husband of 44 years died, she could not cry at the funeral. Days later she spoke of it.
I want cry. I want to wail, but no tears come.
Less than a month later her dog died and the flood of feelings broke loose like a damn being released.
When secondary losses come unexpectedly to someone who is already processing grief it can be complicated. When my practical loss tries to creep into my mind in this moment, the words wait to come forth, but my judgment holds it back.
Today I understand why.
It was April 24th when I lost my phone on the Light Rail in Seattle. With a strong recollection of putting it into an inside pocket, about 5 minutes into the ride I realized it was gone. Meanwhile, the train blasted forward, 1 hour in the opposite direction.
I’m grasping for a metaphor that will describe how this loss comes back to me over and over. It comes to me right now as I am unable to utilize its simple functions that I use automatically and often.
Definitely not the same as losing a beloved pet after losing your person, but loss nonetheless.
The reality is more than inconvenient. I am lucky to have folks who care about me and are expecting my arrival. This is layer one.
Layer two through 200 are the dozens of practical functions that I rely on when traveling such as simple communication and car rides through Lyft, just to name a few.
Today is Day Four.
Not sure how many days it will take for the tiny replacement device (which arrived on April 27th) to operate with the same ease I barely acknowledged before I lost my faithful phone.
This morning, when writing this blog, I tried to send a photo to my email and then download it into this post. Google does not recognize the replacement and locked me out (sigh).
Yet, loss is a normal function of life and in spite of its discomfort I am glad to be awake to it.
And . . . a heavy fatigue fills my body.
Beneath the warrior spirit in me, a build up of weariness peaks on Day Four.
In spite of giant kindnesses which gave me a device that quickly allowed the simple gift of phoning out, and receiving calls, there’s a forest of protections which arrive as barriers.
With each barrier, the weariness in my body increases.
I begin to wish I never used the phone as fully as I do: Apps for this and that, camera functions, photo acquisitions, car rides, music, banking, shopping . . . on & on.
Layer upon layer of reminders of this practical loss. Layers that sit atop the original loss:
The loss of my person.
Death made itself known to me over time and included loss of emotional support and companionship, the loss of my identity as a wife. It took away future history and increased feelings of loneliness and isolation.
Losing Dan changed the couples-based events we enjoyed, altered relationships in our mutual friendships. Death presented me with the sole responsibility of household tasks, finances, and navigating our formerly “shared” responsibilities such as banking and home repairs.
The loss of my person left me wondering, “Who am I now?”
There’s an old saying that goes, “Everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about.” It’s true—we are all human beings experiencing the roller coaster of life with its highs and lows. We are all going through respective triumphs and struggles—between losses, past traumas and the like. –Unknown
If you are feeling secondary losses, even years after your person died, I’m thinking of you today. Sending you a {{{virtual hug}}} through the airways and reminding you (as I am reminding myself), this, too, shall pass.
