This has been a very difficult post for me to write, and part of me feels like it is a bit of word vomit. With every post I think long and hard about what I should write, what I
need to write. I feel like I am often inspired to write the things that I do. This is one of those posts that I know I have needed to write. What I share in this post is personal, deeply personal. I have tried to write a post like this multiple times and every time I let it sit in the blog archives as a draft or I delete it because I am afraid of sharing such personal things. Recently, however, I have been feeling a particular push to get this post written. I don't know why or what has triggered this sudden feeling of urgency, but it's there and I can't ignore it. So please, if you read this, be kind and understand that, unless you have experienced the same things in the same ways that I have, you just don't really understand it the same way.
This is my last post in the five stages of grief from Elizabeth Kuebler-Ross.
"Depression — "I'm so sad, why bother with anything?"; "I'm going to die soon so what's the point?"; "I miss my loved one, why go on?"
"During the fourth stage, the grieving person begins to understand the certainty of death. Much like the existential concept of
The Void,
the idea of living becomes pointless. Things begin to lose meaning to
the griever. Because of this, the individual may become silent, refuse
visitors and spend much of the time crying and sullen. This process
allows the grieving person to disconnect from things of love and
affection, possibly in an attempt to avoid further trauma. Depression
could be referred to as the dress rehearsal for the 'aftermath'. It is a
kind of acceptance with emotional attachment. It is natural to feel
sadness, regret, fear, and uncertainty when going through this stage.
Feeling those emotions shows that the person has begun to accept the
situation. Oftentimes, this is the ideal path to take, to find closure
and make their ways to the fifth step, Acceptance."
"Depressed mood is a feature of some psychiatric
syndromes such as
major depressive disorder,
[2] but it may also be a normal reaction to life events such as
bereavement, a symptom of some bodily ailments or a side effect of some drugs and medical treatments."
Not long ago I realized that I had been living in a sort of haze. I was on some kind of auto-pilot, going through a lot of the motions, not really putting a whole lot of thought and effort into many of the things I did regularly. I developed a sort of daily routine with Mr. E and later with Baby J that allowed for me to remain in this sort of waking sleep. This wasn't a new thing, it started round about the time I woke up in the hospital and what I suspected about Ethne was confirmed. That means that for the better part of two years I was in this haze.
My days (pre Baby J) looked something like this:
Get up when Mr. E got up, about 8-ish, feed him breakfast, get him dressed, let him pick a show or movie. Once the show or movie was going Mr. E and I would hunker down on the couch together and I would fall asleep while we snuggled. Around noon I'd feed him lunch, he'd play until 2-ish when I'd put him down for a nap/quiet time. While Mr. E napped I'd usually veg, binge watching tv shows, napping, or folding laundry. Mr. E would get up and play or watch tv while I fixed dinner, often it was something easy, a recipe I had memorized. We'd eat, more snuggling or bath time, then bed for Mr. E about 8:30. Every day looked roughly the same with little variation. After Baby J the days were somewhat similar, just with nursing sessions in between and Baby J involved in the cuddles.
* * *
Not long after the accident several people suggested I go to counseling. So I went. The therapist would sit in her chair and ask me to talk about my feelings. The problem was, I wasn't sure what exactly I was feeling at the time. All I knew was that it felt like my heart had shattered, but was somehow still beating-- the shattered pieces rubbing their fragile edges together cruelly as they tried to pump pudding thick blood through my veins. My world revolved around my kids and Ethne had been at the center of my world for just over two years, that was suddenly gone. Yes, I still had Mr. E, and I thank heaven every day for him, but for a month or so after the accident I wasn't allowed to pick him up and I could hardly hold him by myself, much less get on the floor and play with him. I had to spend my days practically being babysat, unable to do so many things for myself.
I remember one night, while we were staying with my parents, the week after I had been released from the hospital, I was in bed and Mr. E was supposed to be going to sleep, he was in a crib in the same room as Lawrence and me, and he started crying. No one else was upstairs, I was trying to call for someone to help, but no one could hear me. So I got up, very slowly made my way around to his crib, and tried to comfort him. I couldn't stand up unsupported so I was leaning heavily against the crib, I couldn't look down at my distraught baby because of the neck brace, but I could hear his cries and I could feel his tender arms reaching, grabbing, begging for me to pick him up. I cried, he cried, and Lawrence finally came back to find us in this mess. I think that was when the severity of my injuries really sunk in for me. I also think that's when depression started to take hold. Yes, I had been very sad before, but the reality didn't quite sink in until that moment, when I was unable to help my baby when he needed me.
Just like I wasn't able to be there for Ethne. And now she is gone from this mortal sphere.
After that incident I just started doing the bare minimum. I quit seeing the therapist, it was just frustrating and emotionally draining to sit and talk to this woman who didn't understand at all and I could never explain my grief to her. Many of the same people urged us to go to a group for bereaved parents, so we did. This was better, to be with people who understood better what it felt like to suddenly have your world fall out from under us. Lawrence noticed the haze creeping in more and more as I avoided callings in church, stopped reading my scriptures regularly, etc. He shook me awake some, helped me get back into some better habits, and they helped immensely. But I was still weighed down, blanketed by this haze that wouldn't let me fully engage. I also got better at hiding it, putting on a good face when people were around, but it was always there, just below the surface, waiting for my facade to come down.
* * *
I don't remember exactly when it happened, but it started some time between Baby J coming home from the NICU and his second surgery. I was able to stick my head out above the clouds a little at a time, and I liked what I saw. So I started making more of an effort to keep my head out of my hazy clouds. I still had snuggle time with Mr. E, because that is something he needs and enjoys, but I wasn't sleeping through it all the time. I also started getting down on the floor with my boys. I worked with Baby J as he tried to master rolling and sitting up. I wrestled with Mr. E. At first it was hard to hold my head above the clouds for long, and these play times and times of real engagement only happened occasionally, and were short-lived, but I found that, as I did them more, the stronger I became and the easier it was to stay up above the haze.
I can't say that every day is all sunshines and rainbows now, that is definitely not the case, nor do I ever expect it to be. All I expect of myself is that I keep trying, and the days when I'm not strong enough to ride above the haze I will take and try to be stronger the next.
"Sorrow comes in great waves... but rolls over us, and though it may almost smother us, it leaves us. And we know that if it is strong, we are stronger, inasmuch as it passes and we remain." ~Henry James, "Letter to Grace Norton"
Henry James: Selected letters
I have come to realize that I don't want my boys to grow up thinking of me as their sad Mommy, their barely present Mommy, their sleepy Mommy. I want them to have memories of playing with me, of happy days spent engaged and involved. So I will continue to try to hold my head above the haze that is the depression of grief. It is an every day struggle, and sometimes I lose.
The days that I win often have a lot in common. They are days when I stay busy. Days when I don't sit on the couch and watch movies and tv. To have more winning days I find that I have to start the day engaged, I cook breakfast (sometimes something as simple as oatmeal does the trick, but usually it has to be more), I try keep the tv off much of the day, I exercise, we have family scripture study and prayer, I color with Mr. E, I tickle Baby J, we have picnics and playdates, run errands and do chores. I have found that keeping busy helps keeps the haze at bay, I can still feel it looming-- it is always there, but being busy and engaged help keep my head up. I still find time to snuggle Mr. E, it's his favorite part of the day, but I try limit the time spent in mindless pursuits. I also work hard at reading scriptures daily and having personal prayer, sometimes I am better at it than others, I really do have to work at it. I am by no means perfect, and it is going to take a lot of time before I get this really figured out, but as long as I recognize what is happening I can find tools to combat the haze of depression.
