The physical aspects of grief

Right away, I noticed that the pain of grief was physical, often unbearable. And that grief is exhausting even when I'm not crying for hours; I'm just easily fatigued and rarely actually feel any genuine energy. It's hard to get enough breath into my lungs, hard to keep moving.

Okay, so grief presents physical challenges. What I didn't recognize at first was the reverse: when I am physically vulnerable, the despair is worse. When I realized I felt better after eating, I made sure to keep up a steady stream of calories. But when I had a cold, the grief was worse. When I'm tired after a bike ride, I can't imagine how I've continued living without Sandy. When I get fewer than nine hours of sleep at night, the next day is usually a harder one. When my muscles are sore, grief gets more intense. Not exercising is just as bad. Basically, I'm only barely managing to function through my grief, and I have no reserves.

Around the time we took this hike last year,
Sandy was phonebanking for the Suzan DelBene campaign.
She had more energy then than I have now.

Recognizing this, and respecting it, I'm learning to set limits even as I venture further out into the world again. Tonight, I was phonebanking for Prop 1, a car tab fee for the city of Seattle that will fund better transit, safer streets for peds and cyclists, and pothole repair. It's a good thing, and it's worth spending a few hours talking to strangers. I also knew it would be a little test of my energy levels. Started out doing pretty well, and I had some fun conversations. But as time went on, I started fumbling over words and it got harder to be friendly. I bailed 2 hours in, though we were scheduled to call for another 45 minutes. I took care of myself, and it felt good just to own my fatigue and head for home.

On the bus, I saw a woman get on who seemed very familiar. I played around with the sense I had of her in my head, and finally realized she was the nurse we had the last day Sandy was at the hospital. She was the one who trained Laura and me to use the strap to help keep Sandy steady as she walked; she taught Sandy how to pivot to the commode. I really liked her. But I didn't dare talk to her because I knew I would start sobbing. I'd been feeling the vulnerability, sensing the tears welling in my chest, before I even boarded the bus. I was tired; I was hungry . Ordinarily, I'd have boarded the bus looking forward to getting home and telling Sandy all about my calls, all about the other volunteers. Knowing that she wouldn't be physically present hit me hard.

Knowing what I now know about the physical influences, I've made myself some Annie's mac and cheese, I'll settle in for some of the TV shows Sandy and I watched, and I'll go ahead and have a good sob. And next week, when I phonebank about a different initiative, my energy will hold out just a few minutes longer, because this is a process. And like it or not, I'm starting to regain my equilibrium.