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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.

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.