Self-soothing

Over the years, I've learned a few things about how to deal with my migraines. I know when I'm most vulnerable to them and how to take care of myself to minimize them. When they do occur, I have a list of things to do to help ease the pain and get me to neutral ground. Unfortunately, when I have a migraine, I'm usually not thinking clearly and I don't feel very optimistic that anything will help me feel better. So it was invaluable to have Sandy coaching me, reminding me of things that have worked in the past, and offering to do things like massage my legs or run my bath water or fix me "heavy" carb-full food. She knew the drill, and she knew how to remain encouraging even as I dropped further into resistance and despair. Eventually, I'd act on one or more of her suggestions, and surprise! I'd feel better.

Remarkably, I've had few migraines since she died. (I feel the need to thank my homeopath here.) But resistance and despair are familiar companions when the pain of loss strikes hard. I don't have Sandy to coach me, but I've learned a few things about how to make the grief more bearable.

Yesterday, not feeling much connection to Sandy and having slept horribly (and feeling overwhelmed by a work task that lay ahead), I was sinking pretty fast. I forced myself to remember what I've learned since July, how to get through the day even if I had no hope of actually feeling better.

Here are some of the things in my bag of tricks for grief-heavy days:

The photos that Tina took in 2010 have been such a treasure.
This is the one I printed to be the centerpiece of the framed
photos of us through the years that I'm hanging over the dresser.

1. Accomplish something, preferably something I can finish completely and cross off my list. (I made end-of-year donations yesterday. It was an even better accomplishment because it had to happen soon, as the end of the year approaches rapidly.)

2. Surround myself with images of Sandy and with her voice, if possible. (I reread some emails, left my laptops on with their random-photo screensavers, and looked again at all the photos I've framed but not yet hung in the bedroom.)

3. Eat. (I find despair is overwhelming when I haven't consumed enough calories. Apparently, grief is hard work calorically as well as emotionally.)

4. Listen to music. (I often forget how much more soothing or inspiring music is than, say, NPR. I listened to the "make inspirational" playlist Sandy created. It wasn't finished, just a bucket for songs she came across that seemed to fit the category, hence the name "make inspirational." But I love it as-is.)

5. Move my body. (I hadn't gotten enough exercise the day before, and with little sleep overnight, didn't feel like doing anything. But I climbed onto the bike on its trainer and pedaled 10 miles in 45 minutes, stopping only once to drink some Recharge for a few seconds. Felt great.)

6. Go ahead and feel sorry for myself. (I screamed, pounded my fists, stomped around, sobbed. I'm amazed that the cats are unfazed when I do this, but it's become pretty routine for them now.)

7. Go to bed early; read aloud; assume Sandy's there. (I read some more Yuletide stories and settled into sleep much more content than I'd been much of the day.)

I slept much better last night. In fact, I slept 4.5 hours without waking, which is the longest stretch of sleep I've had since sometime in June. And today, I miss her, but I'm not despairing.

It seems a little nonintuitive to me that the days I feel most clearheaded are also the days that I am most optimistic that I'll find some way to get her back. I know I'm "supposed" to be coming to grips with the permanence of my loss, but why would I give up on this goal any more than I give up on any other? So I'm content to linger in my insanity.