Grief Can Be A Series of Sucker Punches

Some weeks I can be floating through life - happy, in love, engaged, centered and grounded. When memories surface, I welcome them, sit with them, and move forward. But other weeks - WHAM. Grief throws me a series of sucker punches and it takes all the strength I have to remind myself that this too shall pass.

I have no idea if sharing what that looks like makes for good blog reading, but if it could be helpful for even one other person, it's worth putting out there. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that it will help me move through the pain. Perhaps that is selfish. But thankfully, to read or not to read is a choice.

The order in which these blows were thrown escapes me, but that doesn't really matter. At some point, they all blend together to form a perfect storm of meltdown material that will not relent until I let it out. A tide of triggers that slowly breaks me down.

*punch*  

Sometimes it is a post or story in which someone else pinpoints exactly how I felt or am feeling. Like "A Grief Anniversary." A raw message to others, it attempts to explain the inexplicable. To give those who have not lost their "person" an idea of what it's like. How the pain doesn't go away. Why the platitudes offered to the bereaved often don't make any sense. The phenomenon of people wishing you wouldn't be sad, primarily so they don't have to feel uncomfortable. "And by the way... what's wrong with sad?" ... "What you don't know is that all of the losses touch each other. Suffering a loss today can bring up a loss from decades ago. And it feels real. It feels current. It's one big steaming pot of loss. What you don't know is that it's always present for me."

*punch*  

Sometimes it is a location. I had a work meeting last week that ended up being at a new coffee shop that happens to be next door to the funeral home we used. Sure, I drive by it all the time. But it was entirely different sitting across from a stranger trying to pay attention to the conversation when out of the corner of my eye I'm sent straight back to the past. A tragic yet somehow beautiful scene plays out in the back of my mind while in present day the person I'm meeting with is telling me that he doesn't really have a personal connection to cancer.

*punch*

Sometimes it is a movie full of scenes that bring me right back. This time it was The Theory of Everything about Stephen Hawking and Jane Wilde which depicts his declining health and their unique love story. Trying to make sense of why an incredible mind with so much to contribute to the world must be plagued with disease. Watching his fierce determination to function as normally and independently as possible, despite his body's unwillingness to cooperate. Relating so intensely to the way love sees right through obstacles - it won't be shaken or deterred by physical limitations and undeniable mortality. In my recollection of one scene, Jane stares out the kitchen window while doing dishes, her back to Stephen. He is physically and audibly struggling to get from the dining chair to the wheelchair or vice versa, but she wills herself not to turn around again. Her jaw clenched, fighting against every fiber in her being that longs to help, she respects his pride and stands by idly as he battles alone. So many times I yearned to remove every possible barrier, but had to sit on my hands or bite my tongue so as not to overstep. And just like that, I was transported back to the highs and lows that accompany caregiving.

*punch*  

Sometimes it is a reaction to pictures. I was using the "faces" feature of iPhoto to put together a collage for someone, having nothing to do with Ruben. But the face finder isn't always accurate, so it mistakenly identified a few pictures of him when I was searching for someone else. I proceeded to go down that rabbit hole. I allowed the program to surface over a thousand images of Ruben's face, pulling from the countless pictures I have of him ranging from childhood to a few days before he died. Some made me grin from ear to ear. Others made me tear up. Some made me laugh out loud. Others are still haunting me. The progression through our time together - from full rosy cheeks and bright eyes to a hollow, gaunt and jaundiced face angered me.

The Many Faces of Ruben Garza (primarily 2009-2011)

Fucking cancer. Stealing the life out of someone's body right before my eyes. And how did I not realize? Or did I? When you live with someone day in and day out and love them with blind and endless depth and hope, it is impossible to see the progressive deterioration. And I count that as a blessing. But years later, it seems clear as day. Now I see what friends saw who only had the joy of being with him once every few months. The pain and tears in their eyes those last several weeks as they realized and started to expect and accept the inevitable. That which I'm still coming to terms with today. I worked hard to avoid anger and despair. To be grateful for every moment I had and to focus on the positive. But I have my moments.

*punch*  

Sometimes I seem surrounded - personally and professionally - by cancer's devastation. So many stories. So much loss. And there's no nice way to say it. It pisses me off. It infuriates me. It temporarily robs me of hope and optimism. But then I find a story with a happy ending. I think about what life would've been like if we'd never met. I talk to Ruben and borrow some of his faith and understanding. I focus on the full and round smiles and put one foot in front of the other.

*punch*  

Sometimes it's in a name. The other night at dinner with Britton I started thinking about my name and the different variations I could use when Thomas becomes my last name. I wrote and spoke aloud my choices. I know it is an adjustment for any woman who changes her name when getting married. It's a whole new identity to get used to. Who am I if I'm not Jen Garza? Who is Jen Thomas? If I remove Garza or use it as a middle name, what happens to Ruben? Whether or not it makes sense, it feels like cutting yet another tie to him. One of the last.

*punch*  

Sometimes it's in the wedding planning. It's hard to search for a dress when I loved the one I got married in the first time. Finding a DJ is heartbreaking when it reminds me how much time and thought Ruben put into every song on our playlist. How he believed that finding the right soundtrack for any given moment can make that moment even more perfect. It's challenging to find an appropriate "first dance" song for me and Britton when the one that rings most true for us is, "We found love in a hopeless place." No offense, Rihanna, but that's a "later in the evening" track.

*punch*  

Sometimes it's in yoga class. I've finally found my way back to a semi-consistent practice. The last time I went with any regularity was when Ruben was in hospice care. My weekly respite was a Wednesday night class that brought me peace and reflection. Often times the tears would flow and almost every song and pose triggered something inside of me. While on a much lesser scale, the same is true today. I try to lean into it - to experience the memory, happy or sad, and move forward. But sometimes I get disoriented - transported back. And then I remember all over again that he's gone. That this is a new and different lifetime.

*punch*

Sometimes it's when a pipe breaks and you spend the morning sopping up water, wondering when the plumber will arrive and how much damage is being done. Oh wait - that sucker punch is just from life - doesn't have a thing to do with grief. That's just how this morning started, so I thought I'd throw it in here for some comic relief ;)

*stand up tall*

I know how fortunate I am to have found love again. Don't think for one minute that experiencing and recounting these "grief punches" takes away from my limitless love for Britton. Grief is often trying to knock him down as well. There is so much relief in the fact that we can express to one another, with or without words, what is happening. We share such a deep understanding. I know we will continue to grow stronger - as grieving individuals and as a couple in love. I imagine the blows will become lighter. And Ruben and Jax will always be part of us. They taught us how to roll with the punches, how to get back up again, how to persist, how to thrive, and how to live out loud. And so we will.

"The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain."  - Lord Byron

"We shall draw from the heart of suffering itself the means of inspiration and survival." - Winston Churchill