September, next steps, and a whole lot of anger

 So, this is the fourth blog I’ve written in the past 24 hours. The others were rants--as well as something I’m glad I didn’t hit the ‘publish’ button and show the world. I guess it’s because it’s finally here. September. We are coming up on a year since Robby died. These past several days have been tougher than most because I can clearly remember where I was this time last year. Sitting on the couch with him watching TV. Spending Labor Day weekend grilling and hanging out on the back porch having cocktails, listening to music, laughing, making plans. He was starting to plan his recipes for Thanksgiving and getting excited about Halloween. Things were good, really good, for the first time in a while. We were getting along, the kids were doing well, he was feeling well. We were happy. Things seemed to be turning a corner. Who could have known it was all about to change in just three weeks.

I went to get my hair cut Thursday and my stylist (sounds weird calling her that because we’ve become really good friends over the years. She cuts all of our hair, including Robby’s, so she knows us all pretty well) asked me what was next for me. The way she said it so bluntly made me laugh a little. No one has really asked me that yet. I mean everyone kind of tap dances around it, but no one has really said it that way. It’s like, it’s been year, now what the hell is going on with you? But in a loving way. And in a way that takes inventory of all the baggage no one really addresses directly—like what it’s like to be a caregiver to someone you are married to and then to not have that weight holding you back. Yep, she went there. It’s hard to love someone who is not well but you are OK with it because you love them. It’s something my ‘stylist’ had experienced so she said she wanted to make sure I was ready to get the show on the road.

When you are a caregiver, it becomes OK to not plan things like overseas travel or cruises or long trips because that would mean you have to lug around an 80-pound dialysis machine through the airport—something I’ve done several times—because you love that person, and this is just the way your life is now. Your life becomes planning ahead every time you go out because the person you love can’t walk too far from the car to the front door of a restaurant, movie theater, museum, or school event. But it’s OK, that’s your new life. You know at any moment the bottom is going to fall out because they get sicker from time to time, and then they are grumpy and angry with the world because they are sick and tired of being sick and tired. You find yourself canceling things, putting off things, and not RSVP’ing to things.  The thought of it not being like that means that person is no longer with you and that’s the last thing you want.  You hope the good days last longer than the bad and that more good days are ahead; always putting things on hold until they feel better--holding out hope that a kidney transplant will add more good years to your happily ever after.

But it didn’t. So, now what’s next for me? Because apparently my friends are starting to wonder when I’m going to start getting out there and planning fun adventures. Living my best life, they would say. The kind of best life where you don’t put your plans on hold every time the bottom falls out.

I’ve been trying to create new memories that don’t have anything to do with Robby—going new places that don’t remind me of him—but it doesn’t always work that well because I get home and I’m reminded that he’s not here, I am, and I have to walk back through my front door and plan something else by myself. So, I have to remind myself of the things I wanted to do if there wasn’t a sickness holding us back. I need to picture myself doing them without Robby—that’s the hard part. Flying off on vacation seems great in my mind, but the reality is there is a part of me that will feel very alone when I realize it’s so much easier to run to my gate for a late flight when I’m not dragging an 80-pound dialysis machine behind me. I try not to let that feeling of releasing that weight make me feel guilty because I know Robby would want me to run to my next adventure, unburdened and unleashed. Moving forward, living my best life; not waiting for the bottom to fall out.

And that’s when I get mad. Sure, I know, anger is a part of grief. I didn’t think I needed to be reminded. But it seems I did need to be reminded because I’ve been so mad at so many people who quite frankly don’t deserve it. I’m mad that I’m lonely, so that anger turns to people that I think should be calling and checking on the kids and me. They should be calling, not me calling them. They should care it’s my birthday. They should care it’s Mother’s Day or Father’s Day. They should care it’s the first day of school and we have no Robby here. They should call me on Robby’s birthday to let me know we are loved and thought of everyday, but they don’t. And I realized when writing about it today, it’s over-the-top to be mad at them. Because the reality is, I’m just mad. They just happen to be who I am mad at today. And it’s also insulting to complain about it to the people who have been calling me and checking in. It reminds me of the time I went to a friend’s birthday party. The whole time she complained about our other friend who didn’t show up. She was so mad about it that it ruined the evening and I left wondering why I even showed up. Like what’s the point? I’m here—I care! But that was me writing those first three blogs—being mad at people who really don’t deserve it. I mean, we’re still in a pandemic. Like maybe people have real shit going on. And if they don’t, they just don’t get it, and that’s OK. I’ve been that person many times before.

I had breakfast with my friend yesterday—she and I went through our divorces about the same time--and she asked me if I felt like I did when I got divorced. I told her I see a lot of similarities in that I feel I’ve lost friends because some people just don’t know where I fit in their lives. The feeling of absolute shock is similar. The anger is very familiar. The initial sadness is similar, but that’s about it. I am in a different place in my life now. I have choices and opportunities I didn’t have before. I have a good career, I can take care of myself and the kids on my own, and for the most part, I’m happy. This loss has opened up new friendships and brought me closer to older friends that I now have a deeper connection with. And the people that have been here for me have really gone above and beyond to love me, help me, comfort me. I don’t feel as angry as I did when I got divorced. It’s not the same. But one thing is the same—I have to figure out the “what’s next for me?” part again. What’s next? We’ll see. I may not be going to the places I thought I would be this time last year, but I’m going places; on my own in some ways but also lifted by the people who love me. My steps are a little off balance, but always moving forward. September is not going to be the wall of grief for me. It’s going to be the start of a new path for me—one filled with new adventures, lighter luggage, and a better appreciation for the people who helped get me here.