Thumbies, Bills, and Rollercoasters

Grief seems, so far, to be an unending rollercoaster ride. Just when you think you’ve reached a point where you’re feeling okay you find yourself plummeting to the bottom of the hill and into a dark tunnel. I spent a couple of days feeling sort of calm, not good, not happy, but okay. Then last night it all fell apart and I found myself doubled over and wailing and screaming as if I’d just lost him. It took a while but it passed, but I know that devastating, acute grief will come and go and all I can do is allow myself to feel it. So many people assure me that he’s here with me, watching over me, his spirit is ever present. I tell myself that as well. One of these days I will look at a photo or think of a memory and I’ll smile, but I’m not there yet.

I’ve been on the rollercoaster again today. It was fairly up for most of the afternoon, I think of it as the part of the ride where you’re going up and down the tiny hills, it’s a little bumpy but mostly even. The day was feeling a little brighter when I got the call that my Thumbie, the necklace I’d ordered when I was making Jeff’s arrangements, had arrived. The memorial jewelry I’ve seen when assisting with funeral arrangements for others was mostly focused on vials that would contain a sprinkle of your loved one’s ashes. These are still available (and with dozens of new styles to choose from) but I didn’t really feel like going that route. Instead I opted for the Thumbie, where they take a fingerprint from your loved one and make a cast, and then can make jewelry with the fingerprint. I’d encourage anyone who is faced with a loss to consider these, the higher end pieces can be quite expensive but there are a lot of really affordable ones too. In the end will having a necklace with his thumbprint help me through my grief? Well, probably not a lot. But it was nice this afternoon to reach up and touch it and think of him.

My rollercoaster car carried on smoothly for a while longer, until I arrived home to find a bill from the ER visit, from that night, advising that his treatment took place after his insurance was terminated so they were asking for all the cash. Yikes. There goes my coaster car down a steep hill into the dark tunnel of anxiety and worry. Um, no, ER treatment team, he had active coverage right up until he died, which was certainly not prior to his being admitted. I was there, I know. As I recall the ER admissions clerk had assured me I didn’t need to give her any info because he was on file, which I regret not asking about now. I’m going to suspect they couldn’t have up to date data, as he hadn’t been to the hospital or to any physician since he’d changed jobs and insurance a little over a year ago. So I will send their huge bill back to them with the most recent insurance info included and see what happens next. Fingers crossed.

The lesson to be learned here is this: if you go into the ER (or anywhere) don’t assume they have everything they need already. Or at the very least, if they say they’ve got something on file ask them to verify to you what they do have. Might save some work later on.

And as my ups and downs even out again to a relative calm again I’ll go back to reading, and I’ll talk to him. I talk all day, constantly. To his photos, to the air, to the presence that I sometimes think I can feel around me. And I’m still periodically experiencing the feeling that this is all a bad dream. I wonder when that feeling fades. I wonder if that feeling ever fades.

I realize that’s something I’ll find the answer to on my own, with the passage of time. For now I will just hold on to my heart and feel his thumb pressed against my finger.


(cross posted from Kything NaturesZen)

And another thing

All of the people telling me my husband is with me in spirit, or he's always there in my memories, or he's in Heaven watching over me, and say they hope that comforts me.

You know, I appreciate the sentiment, and I really do appreciate that you are all trying to comfort me, and say something that will be helpful and healing and kind. And I will always graciously accept the thought and thank you for it and mean it. I really and truly do feel thankful for you, for any words you have for me at this time. Thank you.

But really? That is not in the least comforting. Not even a little. I know this is grief speaking, and it probably makes me grumpy and angry. (Well yes, for sure it does.) Yes, he's with me in spirit. Yes, his memory is always with me. I don't want to sit here with memories, I want to sit here with my husband. I want to put my arms around him, I want to cuddle up next to him, I want to kiss him on the cheek or feel him come up behind me and wrap me up in a big hug. Yes, he will always be a part of me, but knowing that doesn't fill the void that his physical presence left. It doesn't make my stomach stop hurting, it doesn't help me feel comforted in the face of panic attacks and convulsive sobbing.

And I don't even know how I feel about the afterlife concept. I know my husband didn't believe in it at all. His goal to live each day as completely as he could was based in his belief that this life is all you get, once it ends that's that, so to speak, so you should make the best of the time you have on Earth.

I'd love to think he's gone on to a new experience. I'd love to think he's waiting for me and one day I'll join him. My pagan / spiritual / eclectic new agey world view really wants to hold on to the belief that a person does have a 'soul' and that the essence of being goes on after physical death. But it's unknowable. I can see now, more than ever, why people need to be comforted by religious beliefs. Hell, I can see why people go to psychics and try to make contact with the other side... it's too hard to let go. You want there to be some tiny little spark of hope that life is eternal and your loved one is there, that their consciousness is there, the awareness and personality is still there, just in different form. You want to know that you will be reunited with them. The alternative is unbearable.

Today was just another bad day. Filed for his Social Security death benefit, (just the single payment, I am too young to receive spouse benefits) then I came home, crawled under his bathrobe, and have spent most of the time I wasn't trying to sleep crying or eating cookies.

Still the well wishers send me their prayers, and their hope that I'm doing okay. Maybe someday I will be. Not yet.