Planning for one

I've long been interested in psychology, especially my own. I have many notebooks full of journal entries that attest to how fascinating I find myself ( I'd never ask anyone else to suffer through them). The past eight months have provided plenty of fodder for my musing.

When I thought Sandy had had a stroke on the 16th of June, I watched my calm and efficient reaction with interest. I was freaking out, terrified that her confusion and inability to speak would be lasting, and that the entire nature of our relationship and our lives was changing. At the same time, I was crafting and carrying out a plan that got her the medical attention she needed — and the reassurance we both sought — quickly. My fear was visible; the nurse seemed surprised that I was shaking. My anxiety eased as Sandy became more herself with every passing hour.

When the confusion returned the next day, I recorded our conversations, wanting to be sure I could demonstrate what was going on in case she was fine by the time we saw someone. Meanwhile, I called the doctors, got Sandy fed, and then decided we needed to go to Urgent Care. I set my fear aside, confident at first that she'd return to normal soon, and went right into plans and action.

That was my pattern for much of the time she was in the hospital, at home, and in the hospice. New developments scared me, and I'd let myself feel the fear, shed my tears, and then work on new plans and put them into place.

After she died, I couldn't plan more than a day at a time, sometimes only an hour or two. I retreated into memories. When I looked at my reactions, I was puzzled. I saw no path out, no way the darkness could fade to light, no good in my future unless Sandy returned.

The pain eased when I felt her with me, especially after a visitation dream. But with less pain came greater disbelief. How could she actually be gone, when I'd just been spending time with her? I read all I could about grief, trying to understand my reactions, but honestly, I didn't recognize my own psyche anymore.

I've experienced many challenges in my life — huge emotional upheavals — but I've never stopped like this before. Never looked around and not seen a path forward. For the first time in my memory, I don't have a longterm plan. It's not that I always follow my plans; they change because life requires it or my interests and goals change, but I always have a longterm plan. Until about July 14, when the last hope I had for Sandy somehow overcoming the cancer vanished with her desire to consume liquids and nutrients. Then, poof. I became a Woman Without a Plan. No wonder I haven't recognized myself. 

I have a to-do list without any overarching goals, except to get everything organized so that it's not a mess for someone to have to handle when I die. I have no long-term financial goals or plan; I don't even have this year's garden strategized, let alone a broader vision for the yard.

The plans I had were all plans built for two. Making new plans means admitting that I'm alone now. And I'm not quite ready to do that.

In this park in Barcelona, we couldn't find anyone to take our
picture together. So I took a photo of Sandy with her arm out and
then she took one of me. We left space for each other in our lives
even when we weren't physically together.

But I have been noticing some changes lately. Twice in the last week, I've slept for six hours at a time. (It's not a steady trend; the nights in between, I was awake every hour or so, but it's welcome progress!)

I haven't had a visitation dream in a couple of weeks, but I've had regular dreams that included Sandy, dreams in which we were ourselves, out in the world, meeting life's little challenges together. These dreams don't elate me like the visitation dreams do, but I wake from them feeling less alone.

Other dreams in the past couple of months have clearly been messages from my subconscious. One was an elaborate metaphor that let me know that my likelihood of committing suicide had decreased. (In the dream, I had to write a legal paper defending the right to suicide but all the resources I needed — all the source documents to support my argument — were missing.) 

In a dream last week, I was touring a hospice facility with Sandy and someone who needed hospice care. An administrator asked questions about how Sandy's hospice experience had been, so I wasn't in denial about our history. The dream was full of details, including my recognizing one of Sandy's hospice nurses, only to realize it wasn't actually him. But the point of it all seemed to come as I left Sandy and the patient to the tour, knowing that they were in good hands, and actually had the thought, "I'm not dying. I can go explore the neighborhood."

I've always appreciated how unsubtle my metaphor dreams are. (Back in 1992, when I was having a rough time, I woke with the words, "Be gentle with yourself," echoing in my head. Not a lot of room for interpretation there.)

Now as I look at my dreams, and at my responses to things that come up during the day, I think that I am slowly coming to separate my fate from Sandy's. I'm not happy about it, but it's evident now that the world didn't stop when Sandy died. And apparently, I can live without her (or at least, without her physical presence); I have for six and a half months.There are days that I truly enjoy, even knowing full well that she's gone. 

What remains a roadblock is the word never, and all that it implies. That's the word that preys on me when I'm vulnerable, stunning me once again with the knowledge that Sandy died. That's the word that makes it so difficult for me to make plans. I keep circling back to the belief that the only way to overcome that word is to get her back. A therapist I had twenty years ago was annoyingly consistent in reminding me that beliefs are not facts. So, if Sandy doesn't return, I assume I'll continue experiencing subtle psychic shifts until my beliefs change and I'm able to find a path through even that thicket. And when that happens, I'll make my plans.