Author: ferylfiles

Yesterday, I walked my bicycle to Allegro for a tune-up. This is something Bryan typically did. The handlebars need to be re-wrapped as the bright pink wrap he put on for me is starting to flake off. The tires need to be checked out–possibly just filled with air. I think the gearing is fine, but the professionals will give it a thourough going over.

Bryan bought this bicycle (Matilda) from Allegro Cyclery for me as a gift when we were just dating. He didn’t have a lot of disposable cash at the time, but he wanted us to have that experience together riding the foothills of the Blues and among Walla Walla wheat fields, the “Batman Loop.” He was endlessly patient with me. Having taught spin classes at the YMCA, preparing groups of riders for the Seattle to Portland ride, guiding new cycling enthusiasts to better safety techniques, he found himself next to a woman who does.not.like being told what to do. Like I said, endlessly patient. He taught me so much about myself, about grit, about digging in, about how headwinds are God’s training aid. (Laugh with me!)

On some of those early bike rides, I remember starting out on flat terrain thinking “Crap, I’m out of breath and tired already. I can’t do this.” Bryan could read me like no one else. “Becci, give it about 15 minutes, you’re just warming up. Then we’ll settle in to the ride.” He was right. He was often right. He could be annoyingly right. But mostly, with me, he was so gentle in being right. Invariably, I would settle in and we could do a 15 mile to a 50 mile ride.

After Bryan passed, I experienced shock and relief from the white-knuckle-gripping-for-dear-life I had been engaged in for the previous four and a half months. Exhausted. Breathless. I do not want to be on this ride. But here I am anyway. And I can feel the transition into settling in–settling in to the weight and consequence and grim reality of his absence. “Just don’t stop pedaling, Becci, you’ll get mored tired if you do. Just keep pedaling. You can do this.”

Yesterday, I was angry. Furious. Rage-crying-in-a-hot-car angry. This particular moment was not centered around my grief for Bryan, but I’ve been thinking about anger a lot. I’ve not really expressed that emotion in the process of my grief for many reasons, I think.

I’ve witnessed the long-term health effects of unchecked anger on people I love and have loved dearly. Unchecked, it becomes poison. I’ve seen and heard the ugly things done and said in anger that I don’t want to participate in. The emotional marks are permanent. I want to be so careful. But I know anger repressed is also poison.

I love Pixar’s Inside Out because it explores anger’s role in our full humanity. It’s a key piece in our emotional and mental health. Anger directs our passions and helps us fix wrongs that need to be righted and needs that should be fulfilled. And yet, my own terrifies the ever-loving stuffing out of me.

With cool piano jazz playing in the background of my nearly-cleaned kitched (those two pans on the stove are kinda staring at me), I don’t feel that hot burn at the back of my neck and legs, the drop in my stomach, the bursting energy in my chest. Nevertheless, when I think about what my girl and I have been dealt, this home without his vibrant life filling it, the gross unfairness of an athletic, zestful-for-life man, to be taken down by not one, but TWO kinds of cancer. Yes. There’s anger there. But this anger can’t be channeled into fixing that fact so what am I supposed to do with it?

Maybe that’s my error. I think I can do something to fix or outrun or to placate feelings instead of just having them. Feeling them. Letting them visit, be a part of me, and then leave like wanderers stopping by for tea, waving as they become just a memory of a time and place.

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.