In Dr. Joyce Brother's book, Widowed, she recommends keeping track of progress.
- Month One: I am a total mess. I can't sleep, eat, or function at more than 25% capacity. The pain is more than I can bear and I'm having a hard time coming up with a reason to go on. Fortunately, I did not have to spend a night alone, or cook a meal for the entire first month. (See Cushioning the Blow.) Unable to talk to people or even look at notes and cards for the first two weeks. The "firsts" are incredibly difficult. Alternating between numbness, shock, denial and total despair, punctuated by bursts of irritability. Pretending Doug is away on a trip and will be coming back. After the numbness began to wear off, unable to even look at pictures of Doug. Filled with questions, fears and regrets. Totally overwhelmed by day to day demands. Feeling very sorry for myself. Talk about Doug constantly. Feel guilty that I cannot bring myself to start writing all the thank you notes I owe. Life is total crap.
- Month Two: I have started working again, part time. Started volunteering a bit again as a distraction. Have gone out to lunch with several friends. Based on the decrease in typos on my blog, my friend estimates that I might be operating at about 45% capacity. Exhausted and overwhelmed. I can almost sleep through the night. Daily crying jags, especially when I receive a card with a personal note about Doug. When people I haven't seen since it happened ask "How are you?" I usually burst into tears. I feel depressed and crushed. Feeling sorry for Doug and all that he lost. Have only been able to write a few thank you notes - it makes it feel too real. Still cannot say the "d" word or the "w" word. Talk about Doug constantly.
- Month Three: In a word? Struggling. I may be up to about 70% capacity. I don't cry all day long. I sleep, but badly. I can talk about something other than Doug and Death on occasion. Am very lonely but it is not because there are not people around - it is specific to missing Doug. My heart aches terribly. I have had no good days. The house usually looks like a bomb exploded. People say I look too thin, but I am at a healthy weight. I don't have much of an appetite though, and look 1000 years old.
- Month Four (not over yet): I am getting out more. I laugh more often, and am hysterical less often. Every once in a while, I have a good day. Yet I still feel I am drowning underneath a strong current of sadness. I'm still having a very hard time grocery shopping. It is something I always did with Doug. It reminds me aisle after aisle that he is not there, and that I am alone. I have to lug the heavy bags in by myself. I ache over the things he is missing. I can say the word "dead" and "widowed" in connection with Doug now, but still don't believe it is so. I am trying to get the house organized, so that I feel like SOMETHING in my life is not out of control. I am less fearful. I spend less time on thoughtworms. I am attending a bereavement support group. I don't understand how my friends can stand me - I have become so boring, depressing and consumed. I am no fun anymore.
- Month Five: I am just now starting to accept that Doug really is dead. But even as I write that I feel a pang. I am realizing that I need to stop wishing that he were alive and well, as it is not an option, and will only bring me continued sadness and disappointment. I need to start wishing for things that could be. I still have brief (or sometimes intense) crying jags in the morning - one morning I even woke up crying. If someone offered me the option to die at the same moment that Doug did, I would still say yes, but I have a feeling that is about to change. Despite what I believed in the beginning, I am starting to hope that someday I might be happy again. I am walking regularly, which helps. I still cannot sleep more than 4-6 hours a night (compared to 9-10 before), and thus feel exhausted at times.
- Month Six: People say they are amazed at how far I have come. I am more like the person I used to be, but I have changed. There have been a few days without tears. I can finally sleep 6-7 hours a night. I walk 15-20 miles a day. I have lost 20 lbs. since Doug died and maintained it and feel healthy. Still Lost in Space often, forgetting to meet obligations, forgetting what day it is. I am starting to come out of my self-absorbed Grief Bubble, but continue to selfishly talk about myself and my situation most of the time with my wonderful friends, but it's not always about death. I am amazed that friends, family and chosen family are still there for me, every day - I don't feel I deserve them. I occasionally watch the 6:00 news at night. I think about life, and am starting to want to live it. Months ago, when crossing the road, I wished that a car would hit me to put me out of my misery (although I was concerned about the mess, trauma to the driver, and potential pain.) Now I am glad the car misses me. I feel grateful and lucky about some things. I am concerned that I am not spending enough energy on active grieving and am afraid this might result in me getting stuck. More and more of my sadness is about what Doug lost, and less about what I have lost. The sorrow is more of an undercurrent. I still have not been able to go through his climbing gear. It still sounds so strange when people refer to me as a widow.
- Month Seven: I still feel Doug is alive and expect to see him again. I have started seeing an individual counselor, as I had a very difficult time over the holidays (multiple hysterical meltdowns) and seem to have stalled out. I have not gotten my life back in order yet. I am sleeping, thanks to 5-HTP (tryptophan), exercising, and eating well. I am more joyful.
- Month Eight: I spent this hunkered down in a hole, with little or no energy to socialize. Still not very productive or motivated to live life.
- Month Nine: I go a day or two without crying. I still miss him for the small and big things. I still wonder how to get by without him. I still have trouble believing someone so vibrant and alive is no longer.
- Month Ten: I often go several days without crying. It is hardest when I encounter someone I have not seen since Doug died. I cannot count the times I say "since Doug died...." A new season without Doug - spring - is starting and it aches. I think of him and miss him with great sadness, but it seldom crushes me. Sometimes I still don't want to live without him, or cannot figure out how to go on. I know friends, family and PS have saved my life. I still have a hard time believing he is really dead - which makes it hard to adjust to life without him. The grief counselor says that accepting that he is dead is NOT the same as being happy that he is dead - it is only about recognizing what is so.
- Month Eleven: I realize that loss will always be loss. Still managing guilt. Still having trouble concentrating (e.g., putting my clothes on backwards.) Feeling more rational.
- Month Twelve. Sometimes it seems like it happened eons ago - other times it feels like yesterday. Have finally started dealing with paperwork (taking Doug's name off accounts, changing beneficiaries, etc.), mainly in response to his identity being stolen. Seem to be able to buck up on a day to day basis, but fall apart in grief couseling, as I choke on the pain. Got absolutely hysterical when I tried to clean out the RV to donate it - still feels like dismembering a life that was so good. Otherwise not much change.
- Surviving the first year
- Month Thirteen. I sleep pretty well at night. I have problems and ups and downs that I cannot blame on Doug's death. I don't talk about him constantly, even though I think about him and miss him constantly.
- Month Sixteen. It is still harder than I thought it would be at this point. I continue to spend most of my time in denial, stuck in wanting Doug to be alive. Unfortunately, I have gained back the weight that I lost. I met someone, and despite the fear and guilt, decided to open my heart and risk loss again. There are more happy times now, but always with an undercurrent of sadness. I am more sensitive to the fact that others miss him too. Before I was too involved in my own pain.
MORB