The Aftermath, Part 4: Crazy Little Thing Called Grief.

I mentioned in my last post that grieving is a process and that is exactly what I've learned and am still learning as I go through my grief over the loss of Donnie. When I lost my mom, I grieved for her. When I lost my brother Gerald, I grieved for him. But they were both entirely different than what I've experienced in grieving for Donnie. 

With my mother, I miss many things about her and I've expressed some of that in past blogs. I still miss her often and think of her daily, but in the wake of grieving Donnie, my grief for her has surprisingly become somewhat renewed and at times more intense than what I went through when I initially grieved for her. I think partly because of 2 reasons. 

1. I think Donnie was kind of a buffer for me. I grieved for my mom and it was difficult, but I had him here to comfort me and hold me and help absorb a portion of my grief and bear part of my burden.
2. Without Donnie here, I naturally long for my mother's comfort in my grief. When I ache for Donnie, I ache for my mom to comfort me, talk with and run to when I have difficult days. So in a way, without Donnie here it's almost as if my grieving for my mom has begun anew. 

I was watching a marathon of Tabatha's Salon Takeovers a few months ago and wailed and cried over my mom through two or three episodes. It reminded me so much of my mother and my involvement in her world when she did hair and worked as manager at Regis Hairstylists in the Mall back home. I realized how special those memories were and how much I took her for granted. 

With my brother, I grieved losing him, but even more so, I grieved for the loss that Amy, Alana and Ian had to endure. I knew I couldn't comprehend it and yet, dealing with Donnie's illnesses over the years and facing uncertainty more than once over his life and health I could only imagine what she must have been going through. And really, I had no idea. Losing Donnie, has devastated my world. In so many ways. I feel as if I have been crippled, like I have lost my legs and I'm learning to walk again. When I lost him, I lost so much.

In the 12 and 1/2 years we were married or 13 years we were together, my whole life changed. I stepped into full-time ministry and I learned how to sing all over again because let's face it, I had a full time vocal coach hounding me every moment. (Those of you who have worked with Donnie will understand that, haha! "Open your mouth! Pronounce the words! Swoop that note! Put some groove in your voice! You sing like a white girl!" LOL) We worked in various churches over the years and went through so much and learned so much together and refined one another. 

What was at first a semi-uncomfortable task for me to take on the role of being a Pastor's wife and being considered a Worship Leader instantly, over the years became second nature. We learned each other. I could feel where he was going in a worship set beyond the list we had prepared, he could tell when God wanted me to lead and it became such a natural exchange, an intimate dance before God of worshiping together. It was crazy, it was powerful, it was rich and it was an extravagant pleasure to worship and to lead worship with him. When I lost him, I felt I had lost that opportunity. Every time I heard worship or tried to worship, I grieved for him, because I knew I may never have that kind of intimacy with someone again. 

I didn't know who I was anymore. Who was I? I was no longer a wife. I was no longer a worship leader. I was no longer a caretaker. I just, was. I was lost. How could I even consider a future? Without him? My way of life for 13 years was gone. Who was I without him? My entire world revolved around him. I couldn't figure out my purpose. 

In many ways, I felt like my life was over. I literally felt as if my life had ended with his. I had no hope and I lived in gloom. After we settled in DFW and I had unpacked everything, I walked around in a Zombie-like stupor from room to room, not knowing what to do with myself. I took the kids to school and would come home in between and feel like I was going crazy. 

For the last several years, my days and nights had been filled with caring for him. I was so busy taking care of him and the kids that even in my relaxed moments, my mind was always filled with pre-meditations of what I needed to do next: fix his medicine, cook dinner, drive to dialysis, make a doctor's appointment, pick up his medicine, bring him something to eat, get his clothes ready for church, plan to leave early enough that if I have to stop for him to vomit on the way there we still wouldn't be late for rehearsal or church, make sure the kids homework was done, drive to church, prepare for rehearsal, enlarge the charts to fonts about 

10 TIMES the size of this because he couldn't see it otherwise. 

And so on and so on. It sounds boring and mundane to type it out, but my life  was full of non-stop activities that kept me extremely busy and focused on him, because he needed me and I didn't mind being needed. Most of the time. Oh I had my moments when I would get in the car to drive to the store and scream and cry and yell at God and wonder why my life had reduced me to a nurse. But I loved Donnie through all that and given the chance to go back, I wouldn't change anything that I did for him, not a second. I loved that man, no matter what.

But without him, I truly felt as if my life was over. For months I asked God what to do. And the answer I received was to simply, grieve. So I poured my time into grieving. I did whatever I felt like I needed to do in whatever given moment I was in. Whatever emotion came over me I let it out, I cried it out, I sang it out, I screamed it out, I cleaned it out, I prayed it out, I freaked out. I hid in my room under my covers. I watched Andy Griffith on Netflix all night long. (Sometimes that was the only thing that made me feel better.) 

I ate chocolate. I drank green smoothies. I worshiped. I sung Bon Jovi. I jumped in the shower. I wouldn't wash my hair. I gave the kids cereal for dinner. I made them steak and baked potatoes. I went out for lunch with my aunt or my friend. I stayed inside for a week like a recluse. I read books and  books and books. I watched TV and Netflix for hours. I talked about getting a job. I didn't look for a job. I did a little retail therapy. I watched my pennies and held them tight. I wrote a blog. I didn't write again for months. I journaled 3 days in a row. I ignored my computer for 2 weeks. 

I would go for a few days of feeling okay and then the world would crash down on me again and immobilize me for a week. I would have a week of feeling pretty good and then I would suffer through a weekend of severe anxiety wondering how I could ever live life again. I would be having a good day and then someone would ask me how I was and I would fall apart. I didn't want to talk to anybody about anything. I told the cashier at Aldi my husband died. I called and texted people in the middle of the night just to feel human and not alone. I still call and text people in the middle of the night just to feel human and not alone. 

I was crazy. I am crazy. I lost my husband. 

I lost my husband. 

I. Lost. My. Husband. 

I take the kids to The Warm Place (a grief recovery center for kids who have lost someone they love) and they go to their separate classes geared towards their age bracket. I attend the group with the adults who have brought the kids. We go around the room one by one introducing ourselves at every meeting, kind of like they do at Alcoholics Anonymous meetings. I can never make it through my introduction without crying. "Hi, my name is Sharon. I bring with me my son Kellan who is 10 and my daughter Emelia who is 8. We lost their father, my husband Donnie on November 22, 2012, Thanksgiving Day to 'cardiac arrest' after a long illness, a quick fall and an unexpected blood clot to the heart." 

We talk about our children. We talk about ourselves. We talk about our lost loved ones. Half the people are in tears and sometimes we laugh together over the absurdity of a shared moment, but we are all grieving. Grief is a process. It's like an ocean. The waves roll and crash, they rush and they recede, the tide comes in and the tide goes out, but it always comes back again. Sometimes it takes a few days, sometimes a few hours, sometimes a few weeks, but it always comes back in big waves or in little waves. And it hurts every time,  whether the waters crash over you and make you lose your balance or whether you're just wading through ankle deep water. It still hurts. I'm still grieving. It's getting better. But I'm still grieving. 

Tomorrow's Blog: A Love Story - A break from The Aftermath series to share my love story. Get ready to laugh.