Who am I?

I'm emotional. I'm paranoid.  I'm disorganized.  I'm late.  I forget.  I'm confused.  I stumble over words.  I talk too much.  I withdraw and don't talk at all.  I cry.  I cry.  I cry.  I feel alone.  I'm a mess. Clutter follows me everywhere.  I can't focus.  I can't remember.  I can't think.

My whole life was all about my kids.  They were "it" for me from the second I discovered that I was pregnant with my oldest child.  All I ever wanted to be was a mom - their mom.  And then Greg died.  And part of me was gone forever.

And now I need my other sons beyond reasonable expectations. They have kids and they are crazy busy - soccer tournaments for my oldest son's youngest daughter that last all day from 11:00 in the morning until 8:00 at night - The youngest works on Saturday and spends Sunday chasing two sons who are playing flag football and practicing in preparation for baseball games that will begin soon.  I am grateful for text messages and phone calls on the way from one place to another. 

I need for this fractured shoulder to heal (Did I mention that I fractured my shoulder?) so that maybe I can get to a game or two, see my sons and grandkids - and preserve my sanity. 

Life is hard.  I pretend it's not that hard, but Interstitial lung disease - pulmonary hypertension - require more and more oxygen - they make my world smaller - make it harder to breathe - increasingly harder to leave the house - harder to connect with my family - harder to connect with the world.  

My therapist told me shortly after Greg died, that Grief kills.  I didn't believe it then... but I sure do now.  I'm a believer. 

Hallucinations?

I'm losing my mind.

I saw Greg two nights in a row in the middle of the night.  The bedroom door was open just a little less than half - and I saw him in the doorway. 

His head was tilted to the left, facing into the room, the left side of his forehead resting on the edge of the door, facing me - his right arm was bent at the elbow, his palm on the front of the door - his left arm was on the back of the door. His eyes looked so sad.

I was awake.  I'm sure I was awake.  Was it an hallucination?  Maybe I was in that in-between state, but I wasn't asleep.  I was awake enough to cry at the sight of his sadness.  And then I would close my eyes for a while and try to sleep. Every time I woke up and opened my eyes, he was there - until about 4:30am.  At 4:30, he was gone.  I got up and shut the door almost closed - and went back to bed.  I didn't want to shut him out, but I couldn't stand to see him leaning on the door again.

How many ways - and how many times can your heart be broken?  Every time I think I've survived every way Greg's death could break my heart, another one presents itself.

Is there a limit?
 

19 months

I just finished my taxes.  For 2016.  Well, not really finished. My part is finished and the stacks of paper are now visiting the accountant along with some reports that tell about things that accountants care about.

While said accountant is determining my financial status for 2016 and the status of our company (business taxes are no joke), I'm starting on 2017.

"How did you get into this mess," you ask?

Well, in April of 2017, my 2016 taxes were due.  My life was in turmoil in April of 2017 due to the then-obvious drug addiction of my sweet, sweet son.  We decided to file an extension, making the taxes due in September.

Greg took his life on July 4, 2017.

Taxes, and paperwork, and deadlines became unimportant.  Did I say unimportant?  They were more than unimportant.  They didn't exist in my world.  At all.

Eight months later - before I was able to pick my head up and see "life" and all its responsibilities again - I was diagnosed with stage 4 lymphoma.  Six months of chemotherapy followed.

It's now been 19 months since Greg died - 11 months since I was diagnosed with cancer - almost 6 months since I finished chemo.  My life is ruled by numbers.

Chemo brain is a real thing. It creates a fog - an inability to remember - to pay attention - to focus.  Grief brain is worse.  It shuts out the world - voices - feelings - the ability to be present.  When they collide at certain times during the month, the inside of me is out of reach - surrounded by an invisible lifeless cloud.

On the days in between, I try to do the things I need to do - like taxes.

Grief robbed me of the ability to do adult responsible things - like taxes, pay bills, eat.  Very often, it still does.  There have been days that I wouldn't have eaten if it hadn't been for Michael.  I wouldn't have taken my medication.  I wouldn't have answered my phone.  

I could feel hunger.  I knew I needed to take my medication.  I could hear the phone ring.  I just wasn't capable of doing anything about any of it.  Michael cooked - handed me my medications - told me who was calling - and answered my phone when needed.

He still asks me every day, "Did you take your pills?".  Sometimes I forget.

"Not yet," I tell him, "but I'll take them now".

He has an alarm on his phone.  Ten minutes later he asks patiently, "Did you take your pills?"

"Oh!  Sorry!  No, but I'll take them now."  And most of the time I do - otherwise we repeat the process until I take the medication.

I'm a little more responsible now.  I'm paying bills - I set up everything I could on "auto pay" and set alarms for the rest.   I can work on taxes some days.  Some days the logic is beyond me, but I try not to beat myself up.  All I can do is take a break and hope it goes better next time. 

This is a process, I guess, but it feels like there's no end in sight.