Author: ferylfiles

I don’t know if everyone has this, but I’ve got an internal voice telling me the story of me. A lot of times it’s mean. Sometimes it’s a liar, or at least selective in the facts it uses to prove its point. Spending the last 14 years with someone who loved me for exactly who I am did a good job at throwing a monkeywrench into that voice’s constant haranguing and critique. No, it never fully went away, but it was pretty wonderful to have someone use facts, logic, and love to hold up a different mirror.

For the last few months, I’ve been scrambling to figure out how to combat that voice and have leaned pretty heavily on friends and family when ultimately it’s my job. And so I remember my toolbox (I love this apropos visualization that a counselor gave me years ago.) What helps is creating and sharing beauty–art, flowers, baked goods, poetry; telling jokes; lending a listening ear. These parts of my story are true, too. And finally, when the voice tells me I’m weak, incapable, lazy, I remember I can do hard things.

Many will chuckle in recalling my yearslong battle against black plastic and river rock around the house. This was a job I took on myself and asked Bryan not to help me. I wanted to prove to myself, to that awful inner voice, that yes, I can do hard, mundane, dirty things and accomplish something beautiful. As much as it hurts to think about, I took care of my sick husband the very best I could and have tried to take care of subsequent tasks too. This is also proof to that terrible voice, I can do hard things and the story of me is more than the narrative that internal critic would try to make me believe.

This week, like every week prior, has had its ups and downs. Tuesday was a particularly difficult day, and the bounce back from it has taken a bit of rest and solitude. But what came out of that day and the recovery since are two major items taken off my to-do list.

Several times throughout the past few months whether it was cleaning out Bryan’s office at Whitman, preparing for his service, or any number of really difficult tasks, the consistent refrain is “but we only have to do this once.” This week’s tasks, which I’ve been avoiding/procrastining/pushing away, are now completed and I don’t have to do them again. Phew. I’m so grateful for that fact.

But there have been things this week for which I am grateful that are in no way related to heartbreak. I’m listening to Brene’ Brown’s Atlas of the Heart on Audible. I get to hear her voice in my kitchen while I’m cleaning and it feels like a close girlfriend is sharing insights and clarifying terms to help me moving forward. What a gift! I got treated to lunch by a former colleague at the NIRA at TMac’s yesterday and enjoyed catching up. I’ve gotten a lot of paintings done and have loved sitting on my back deck listening to music and observing my garden while I do so.

Yesterday evening I went to an event at Quirk, a local brewery, where LGBTQ folks and allies are invited to relax and visit. This was my first time attending Queer Cheer in support of Mary and her housemate and it was really lovely and a good reminder that a. we all need love and support and b. we’re all walking each other home. Did I have an intense urge to bring everyone home, feed them, pinch their cheeks, and call them bubuleh? Yes, yes I did. But I restrained myself. This once.

Throughout this week, I’ve had people checking in on me, encouraging me, making me laugh, reminding me of myself, and even calling me on my shit. As much as the latter irritates me, I’m eternally grateful for it.

And since it’s the 14th of July, I’d like to conclude with a little nod to my second country:

Yesterday was a hedgehog day. What is a hedgehog day? Let me explain.

Hedgehogs curl into balls with all their spines poking outwards when threatened. No, I didn’t have some existential threat yesterday, but the giant emotional grief sneaker wave hit. I think curling into a ball with the spines poking outwards is more protection for others from me than protecting me.

I have had some really good days and weeks lately. Sunshine, walks, time in the garden have all been part of that. When days like yesterday happen, I question everything. Was I lured into a false sense of security? Were those happier days real? I ultimately conclude yes. And there will be more of those. There will also be more hedgehog days. This is the way of grief.

Last night I looked like I had been punched in the face. Maybe I was–punched in the face by sorrow. Today, I’m exhausted. But I’m painting, listening to music, walking in my flowers, trying to communicate my love and affection with those dear to me.

I read a little about hedgehogs yesterday and this part in particular made me smile: “Hedgehogs are fairly vocal and communicate through a combination of grunts, snuffles and/or squeals, depending on species.” Same, buddy, same.

We typically have less than a hundred years to experience life in this iteration. We know that this version will end because we’ve seen death up close. Our very existence is contradictory in nature–to live while we know death and loss are inevitable and imminent. When Bryan was diagnosed with prostate cancer, we had a clearer vision of that truth that made our decisions more deliberate. It helps me understand better his need to throw himself down the side of mountains at high speed. 🙂

I haven’t written in a while because I’ve been trying to live deliberately and maybe ignore more sorrow for a hot minute which writing certainly digs into. My garden is in full splendor and it gives me incredible joy. I have one spot where I can see life and color and promise. It fills my heart. I’ve had the pleasure of helping Mary with hers and I love that she seeks that joy too. Time with her is one of the best things I know. She and her housemate came over to make pesto and bagels again last night. Watching her at the stove reminds me of Bryan. Full heart. Broken heart.

My sister has been here for a month to recover from a pretty heinous health scare. She’s doing much better and heads back to work half-time this week. I’ve so enjoyed her company and I’m really sad to see her leave. Full heart. Broken heart.

And there are stories of friends and loved ones that don’t belong to me, but I am witness to heartbreak that my over-developed-empathy-gene makes sure kicks me in the gut, too. Maybe that’s why I am always looking for the laugh, the smile, shared joy nuggets, and gratitude. Broken hearts. Full hearts.

I suspected today would be rough. I wasn’t wrong. The weather has been perfect. I played in my garden. Mary, her mom, and I went to a couple of nurseries and enjoyed buying plants. The work around the stream and my backyard has long needed my attention and it began to get it a little today. These things have been wonderful.

I celebrate every dad I know who is here and doing the good, hard work of loving their kiddos, being present, building up, consoling, counseling, tending hurts. And my heart aches for those who have lost their papas far too young, or worse had bad daddies or daddies who weren’t present. I’m sorry. That sucks, too.

My personal brand of suck is that my husband, one of the very best daddies I ever knew, is gone and our amazing daughter doesn’t get to spend today with him. That pisses me off. I don’t know who to be mad at, but it’s just stupid and ugly and damned unfair.

And I don’t have my daddy either. *expletive* *curse* *word that would make my Mom blush*

We tell stories. And we laugh about the things we love so much about these men who are gone.

And this evening, I wheeled Bryan’s bicycle into the garage to put it away until I can make better decisions. It hurts like the time I fell off the monkey bars in elementary school. Wind knocked out of me. Can hardly breathe.

If you have your daddy and things are good, give him a big ol’ hug for me. And if you don’t, think of the men in your life who are doing fatherhood right and let them know it. Spread that gratitude, love, and joy around like confetti. This party is short.