I'm better (but not well!)

One of the books I read said that by six months, most widows have returned roughly to their previous level of happiness. We were about eight weeks in when I read that, and at the time it seemed inconceivable that I would fall into that group. I suspected I was more likely to be one of those who was assigned a clinical label for prolonged grief.

Well, today marks five months, and I've realized that most days I have, generally, returned to my natural level of happiness. I'm a bit more irritable and impatient, still prone to sudden bouts of teariness and pain, but most of the time, I feel like myself. By nature, I'm optimistic, quick to smile, and often laughing. I don't laugh as much, because our shared sense of humor was often what prompted me to laugh. And I'm not yet back up to my usual level of sympathy and compassion for others; I remain too aware of my own pain and loss for that. But generally, I guess I'm doing okay.

There's a qualifier to that: I'm doing okay when I'm alone. I natter all day at Sandy, whether I feel her presence or not, and I let waves of pain and despair wash through me whenever they occur. My life is pretty much like it was last year (except for oncology appointments) and the year before (when Sandy worked long hours), with the exception that I'm doing much more alone, as my default do-with person isn't here to do things with.

It's when I'm with people that the wound feels raw. I'm a social person, and I'm usually fed by conversations and social interaction. So I've tried to figure out what's going on. One thing I've noticed is that I don't feel I can continue to talk to Sandy when I'm with other people. Also, I'm usually being social away from home, which has become a sort of safety zone for me, a nest of security. And it just feels odd to see some people without Sandy, drawing my attention to her absence.

And then there are people I'm fine with. I've been curious about what the difference is. Some of the people I feel most comfortable with are people I rarely saw without Sandy. I've concluded that I feel better hanging out with people who are comfortable with my not being okay, who are okay with my grief but also don't expect me to be upset all the time. It's subtle. And I don't know how much of it is actually people's behavior, how much is the nature of my relationship to them, and how much is me projecting weirdness.

Sandy never welcomed my saying she seemed to be feeling
better, afraid of giving up her status as ill prematurely.
I am the same way - and apparently it translates to the role
of grieving widow as well.

I was thinking about this last night, thinking I should write here about the fact that I'm basically okay most of the time, and felt myself recoil at the idea of announcing that. It was a very familiar feeling. Both Sandy and I reacted strongly if we'd been ill and the other one noted that we were feeling better. We'd have to come back with, "I'm still pretty miserable, though. I'm not well yet." We finally learned to preface our comments with the acknowledgment that the illness was still there: "I know you're still sick, but I'm glad you seem to feel at least a little better."

It's a reaction born of the fear that someone will interpret momentary improvement as permanent progress. And with that comes the expectation that you're fine, don't need any more sympathy or special concern, can handle whatever responsibilities you'd ordinarily be expected to deal with.

So, for the record, I'm doing better. Most days. I'm not curled up under the covers whimpering, and I haven't gone off the deep end psychologically. I'm functioning, thinking clearly, and beginning to see some progress in my sleep patterns. But I miss Sandy desperately, think of her nearly every minute of both my waking and sleeping hours, and am still looking for some way to bring her back bodily into my life. I'm better, not well. I still need sympathy, special attention, and patience for my self-involvement. But I'm apparently moving through grief more normally than I expected to.