They say there are 5 stages of grief, before you can return to “meaningful life”
- Shock and denial
- Anger
- Depression and detachment
- Dialogue and bargaining
- Acceptance
But what about when the loss hasn’t happened; it’s just looming over you with an unknown arrival date?
I find myself wanting to accept and move on, wanting to be angry, wanting to bargain and try to make sense of this. Instead, I am stuck in a limbo where I flirt with shock and denial (stage 1), while living in depression and detachment (stage 3).
In this place, where I have to continue to make decisions for her care day by day, I can’t get to acceptance (stage 5), a grim goal line. I can’t make plans for the future. I can’t even make plans for tonight, in case something else happens. I find myself saying things like “when Honey’s not a factor” in an attempt to mitigate the uncertainty.
Maybe, sometimes, I actually am angry (stage 2) at the loss of freedom that comes with this kind of care. And guilty for wanting it to be over.
The feelings sit, heavy, on my chest day in and day out. There are brief moments of relief — a total giggle fest or a total breakdown — but it’s impossible to shake the lead blanket off. “Normal” is a dull grey world.
Her bad moments mobilize me from stasis to heartbreak; is today the day I lose her, forever? And then she walks normally, or eats a good meal, or barks at a skunk and here we are again, back in limbo, never able to fully let the pain go because we all know at this point, it’s just a matter of time.
Grief is such a lonely thing.
Normally, I describe myself as painfully extraverted, with a wide-reaching network of friends I consider family; lately, I’m hardly motivated to leave my apartment, and the thought of big parties or large groups of boisterous people makes me want to put my phone on airplane mode and crawl into a dark room with just Netflix, the dog, and a soft blanket.
Friends stop reaching out when you don’t keep up with the normal pace of life. It’s hard not to take it personally. Maybe they’re mad that you’re not more around, or they only like you when you’re fun. Maybe they’re tired of the negative energy, maybe they want to be there but don’t know what to say. Or maybe they’re just busy and don’t realize that their absence feels like an injury, signaling the dissolution of another pillar of support in the midst of a huge impending loss. Sadness breeds insecurity, compounding the problem of loneliness.
Ultimately, I know I’ll be ok.
“Feelings are normal,” they say. “It’ll get better,” they say. “At least you had a good run. Sixteen years is a long time,” they say. “You’re doing the best you can.”
All of it’s true, I know that some day I’ll accept my new reality (stage 5). And, today, none of it changes anything.
