 Shortly after George died, I came to the following conclusions: My life no longer belongs to me. It is all about Nova now. I surrender. At the time, and thereon after, I found solace in this. I let go of any illusion of control and surrendered to a higher power. I accepted that which I could not change. I called resistance futile and carried forth, day by day, waiting for the universe to show me the way. It felt noble. It felt humble. It felt wise. And, perhaps, in those first days turning into years, I needed to surrender my life. The dream I’d been creating around my true love and inspired career choices and precious family unit had vanished. George had been taken away, and with him my innocence, my ability to dream, my felt freedom. My survival depended on a change of thinking. Continuing to believe I was entitled to my dreams would have felt defeating at best and crushing at worst. I didn’t know how to create a future for myself out of the ruins, and I didn’t feel I deserved to. I’d had it all, and I’d lost it. Surely there was a hidden message in all of this. You lost it because you didn’t deserve it. But Nova did. I could create her future. This was my duty now, my solo mission. To make her smile, to show her love, to build a solid foundation out of our fractured family unit that she could trust and depend on. This was the priority. She was my reason for being.
I coped exceedingly well by making her my crutch. I surrendered my dreams to her. Following the bliss of a newborn is so much easier than following your own. And then, two weeks ago, I crumbled. I sobbed in church and fumbled my way through a baby shower and spent the next two days crying spontaneously over nothing in particular. I explained to Nova that I was feeling sad, for there was no hiding my distress. (She comforted me for a little while, then proceeded to take advantage of my weakened state by being particularly defiant. Or maybe it just felt like that.) This was a sadness different from grief. For this sadness was not so much about George, but about me. Despite having a history of major depression, I’d somehow managed to skirt that line for the past three years, but it was coming for me now. I needed to act. I needed help. I picked up my journal and began writing, something I’d been avoiding for months. Because when life gets busy, it's easier to turn towards the ever-growing list of menial tasks and away from my broken heart. Through writing, I acknowledged my entry into a new phase of Life After George. Things are beginning to settle. Life is slowing down. I am no longer in the acute grief state, or the frantic new-mom state, or the I-need-to-tell-everyone-I’m-a-widow state. For the second and final time, I've moved us to a new home in a different state where we plan to stay. Nova starts school in the fall, and if all goes well I'll follow close behind her. The big questions about our immediate future have been solved. The spotlight of tragedy and the excitement of change slowly dissipate, and like a balloon leaking air, I become deflated. The adrenaline is wearing off. I’m also lonely. As a serial monogamist, this is by far the longest I’ve gone in my adult life without a romantic partner. I miss having someone to care about, and I missed being cared for. I miss the butterflies, the belonging, the comfort of being seen and understood. I miss the touch. I meet and read about other widows with children who lost their spouses when I lost George. They have, by some miracle, found new partners, launched new projects, written books, created magic. This is where I thought I’d be by now, too. So what happened? Was theirs a miraculous recovery, or did I somehow stall? Suddenly grief has become a competition, and I’m not keeping up. I feel stunted. In my raw tearful state, I seek counseling from my Martha Beck life coach partner, and start looking for a therapist. For the first time since George died, I am seeking professional help. I do not want to do this alone. I no longer believe that I have to. In the meantime, here's what I've decided: I am not going to surrender. I want my dreams back. I want to learn to create my life again with the same conviction and optimism I had when I first met George in 2010. I believed I was worthy, and I will believe it again. My life belongs to me. This tiny shift changes everything. It feels like the beginning of something good. |
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