A Turning Point

Time heals all wounds, they say. A painful and deceptive quote for the griever that is both half-true and utterly false, all at the same time.

How many times did I wonder if something was wrong with me that I hadn’t recovered from grief at a certain point in time? I remember asking my grief therapist why I wasn’t doing better 9 months after my husband’s diagnosis. She laughed.

Nine months is nothing, she said. My struggles to exit the grief rollercoaster and return to normalcy were interfering with my grieving process. If I could accept the current reality and live in the moment, I would feel better, she said.

Why would I want to accept the current reality? It was thrust upon me. I never asked for it. It was NOT PART OF MY PLAN, I said. I needed my husband. Absolutely, as long as possible, full stop.

This is the kind of thinking that powers the grief demons and keeps them warm and snug in their beds, taking shifts to torture me on and off for all of these months. Until one day, something started to change.

At first, I could feel the micro-joys inside of me becoming more frequent. I would see a bird and try to identify it. Notice its beak and markings. Listen to its song. The reprieve from pain felt good for a moment. Then, I would take a walk and breathe air deeply into my lungs. I could breathe again, after an eternity of feeling like breathing was a chore.

I began to notice changes in the weather, flowers and trees. It was spring, but the rain and cold of the Pacific Northwest winter-spring was starting to relent. The first clear and warm day in Seattle brought people out of their homes for the first time in 9 months. The trees were full of new foliage after months of rain. Dogwoods, azaleas, and rhododendrons were in bloom. Oak, maple, chestnut, and evergreen trees majestically dotted the landscape in shades of emerald to forest green. The Olympic Mountains were bluish-purple with white snowcaps, beckoning hikers to discover their secrets.

Nature had reawakened after a dark and drizzly winter. I could feel myself starting to recover. My husband was still alive and nearing the end of his chemotherapy and radiation. Soon, we would know if the treatments were working or not. Regardless, I had to find a new approach to living my life. The burden of anticipatory grief was not one that I could carry for an infinite amount of time.

I told the therapist that I was starting to feel better, but that it was a fragile recovery. The grief demons could come any moment, when I least expected it, and pull me down deep into the sea. So deep that I felt a thousand feet from the surface. Like I had to start all over again.

You are not back at square one, the grief therapist said. A bump at this time feels particularly painful, because it brings frustration with grief recovery and self-judgment. I needed more self-compassion and to give myself more grace.

Ok. I agree, but when can I exit the rollercoaster of pain? Isn’t it enough now?

Look at your husband, she said. He and I couldn’t be more different in how we were processing his diagnosis. He was sad for a few weeks after the diagnosis and then made an intentional decision to do two things.

First, he would resign himself to the medical team for their treatments. If they recommended a harsh treatment that would increase his survival, he would agree. He would fight for his time with us, no question.

Second, he would live his life intentionally in the moment. He would enjoy his daily life, his time with the girls and me, and center himself on the family’s happiness.

He couldn't do anything about the cancer, he reasoned. Whatever happens will happen. Without control over the future, he decided not to worry about it. If you can believe it, that is exactly what he did.

Of course, I don’t live in his mind, but see how he lives his life every day. He was enjoying himself even during the harshest chemotherapy weeks. After the first few days of intense nausea, he would play some light tennis and take walks with me around the neighborhood. His outlook was positive and uncluttered.

I marvel at his strength of spirit and the intentional way that he lives his life. To say that his outlook and courage is remarkable is an understatement. People have said that it is harder to be the caregiver than the patient, but I can hardly believe that.

When I share how well he is doing and his positive outlook, the therapist points out to me that this is an option for how to react to his medical diagnosis. He took one road, and I took another. Grieving journeys are different for everyone. Nevertheless, his approach to living life to the fullest and staying in the moment is an option for me.

Her words reverberated through me like a thunderbolt. In concrete terms, there were different ways that I could view his diagnosis, apparently. Option A, a painful depression and blinding grief. Option B, live in the moment, focus on the positive and appreciate the beauty of the life around us. I liked the black and white nature of this choice, because I desperately wanted to pursue Option B.

It was more than a year after his diagnosis now. The tests after his treatment had been promising with a few issues that they were still following up. There was reason to hope, although the statistics and life expectancy remained the same.

I don’t know when it clicked, but I suddenly felt like I could try Option B. I remember mulling over the idea of Option B and what it would take for me to embrace this new way of living. His diagnosis would always be there, but it wouldn’t be a big part of our lives. I would live more in the here and now. Enjoy him and the girls. When the grief demons descend from the worry clouds, accept their intrusion but without self-judgment. Let the feeling pass and then begin again.

I couldn’t promise to be successful, but I would try. For him, the girls and myself.