Homesick

Grief is exhausting. I learned quickly that I had limited energy and very few resources to draw on after Sandy died. I adjusted my goals accordingly, and just accepted that I wouldn't get much done.

After many months, I was able to handle my regular work schedule, steady exercise, and some social activity. I foolishly assumed that the trajectory would continue apace and I would feel up to a robust, fast-paced schedule soon. Nothing else about the grief process has been linear, so I've no idea why I thought regaining my energy would be. At any rate, I was wrong.

What's thrown me off is that the nature of the fatigue changed. It was easier to understand exhaustion when I spent much of every day with actual, physical pain in my chest. Now I sob only a couple of times a day, and the storms often pass without leaving me too disspirited. I've racked up several long bike rides, marathon gardening sessions, social gatherings, and other milestones that usually signify a return to health for me. But I'm still having trouble catching my breath; I still collapse in front of the TV with cats and puzzle books for hours every evening; I still find myself puttering instead of going to bed at night, and my sleep is hard and thick.

I'd started looking for physical reasons for my fatigue. I tweaked my diet, attempted regular sleep habits, changed exercise patterns, did more yoga. I worried more about what my echo is going to show (and I won't know until next week, though the tech made happy noises). But the last couple of nights, my dreams have emphasized my grief and the tension that comes from traversing dangerous terrain. This morning, I heard myself saying to the cat, as we gazed at the rain out the living room window together, "I'm so ready to go home now."

Our trip to Spain in 1999 was full of adventure, stress, triumph,
and wonder. We spent a little time in Madrid, but mostly we
were in Sevilla and Granada. The weather (snow at the Alhambra!)
tested us, as we'd packed for sunny - not snowy - Spain. We used
our halting Spanish to purchase a length of wool fabric and
have it cut for use as scarves/shawls/hand warmers, and we
were incredibly proud of ourselves. We enjoyed the trip, but
we were very happy to get home to our familiar neighborhood.

That's when I recognized this current fatigue. It's the weariness of homesickness, of traveling through lands where I don't know the language or the culture. I've often enjoyed travel, but many aspects of it create a tension in my body that only eases when I return home. That tension comes from missing routines and rituals of daily life, from lacking control over things I take for granted ordinarily, from having to be ready to adapt and change plans whenever anything goes wrong. I love seeing other places, but I especially love appreciating the comfort and familiarity of home when I return.

And that's what this feels like. Whereas the fatigue last summer and fall was often a result of the effort I put into resisting what had happened, this is more the weariness that comes from a long, unwanted journey and the longing for normalcy. Even more tiring, I know that I can't go home. I may be able to create a new home, but I feel a kinship to immigrants a few centuries ago, people who left all they knew and loved for a new land before there were cellphones and jumbo jets to let them easily move back and forth. I have to make do with memories and the equivalent of long letters sent from overseas. There are pieces of my homeland to give me comfort (Rainier cherries at the grocery store last night!, bike rides with friends, the cats), but no one can give me the home I crave.

I think my exhaustion has increased over the past month, as I've been simultaneously reliving our lives a year ago and trying to face the challenges of 2012. This morning I made a note to myself to see my therapist more frequently in the next several weeks, until Sandy dies. I scratched it out and wrote "until the anniversary of Sandy's death" but the error was telling. In my mind, in my body, Sandy is dying, but I already know how it's all going to play out and I can't do anything to change it. I am helpless. I want to go home.