A Decision for One, Please

What happens when you are a new person you’ve never met before?

I didn’t know that grief could cause such a bone-deep fatigue that it would be hard to keep my eyes open if I dared to sit down. I didn’t know it could cause project-mania either. If you live life straddling a ravine, as I all-too-often do, these are the two places you swing from naturally. Since the death of my husband, the pendulous arc is greater, and the threatening chasm deeper. But I’m okay–this is not a cry for help; it’s maybe a life raft for those of us who are learning how to process a significantly changed life. We all do it in vastly different ways; mine is just a tad bipolar.

My youngest son texted me a few days ago about something in our shared past. “I know you have been in dark places,” he wrote. And he’s right. I’ve maybe been the most candid with him about my mental health struggles because he, too, suffers from them. That’s not to say my other two kids don’t ever struggle, but he’s the most open about it. Because of that, I’ve tried to match that openness with the hope that he might understand himself more within the context of me as his mother, the choices I’ve made over fifty years, and how we grow throughout a life. Not all in one shot, as we might wish. Although considering how painful the gradual process is, I can’t even imagine that.

I’m not in one of those dark places now; I’m in some strange new dimension. One where I have no idea what the next step is past getting the mail, washing the dishes, or clocking in to my job. This is unusual for me. In the past, I have always been plotting. An escape, an adventure, a novel. Now, between swings, I find myself stuck–dangling over the ravine–more often than not. It sounds perilous, but only in metaphor. I’m not afraid of death, or falling, simply of the unknown between swings.

But one of the agonizing parts of the in-between is the constant “shoulding” myself to death. I should get up earlier. I should be writing. I should have taken the dogs to the park. I should have hugged Joe more. I shouldn’t be so concerned about what people think. I shouldn’t talk about him too much. I should talk more. I should plant more flowers, plan a trip, or maybe just hide under my covers for the rest of the year.

I am insufferable to myself. I’m proud that I’ve moved into full-time work and have not been completely incompetent even when I don’t feel like being competent. I’m disappointed that my novel has fallen by the wayside when writing is typically my greatest joy. I’m enjoying completing home projects that are way past due. Yet, I’m sometimes so antsy I doom-scroll Zillow for properties all over the country. Should I stay or should I go, in a loop in my mind. Not necessarily as literal as moving, but for every single decision I hold in my now trembling hands.

My car died a week ago. Yes, that brand-new-to-me one that I had to buy when my last car decided it had been through enough. I don’t blame that one. That little SUV was the cancer car, an amateur ambulance. Over the course of three years, it sustained thousands of mountainous miles of temporary moves between three states and hospital stays and doctor appointments. It safely brought me and my dogs to Florida, and then decided to retire there. My “should” brain said at the time–don’t skimp; get a much newer car, a better, more reliable brand so that you don’t get stranded now that you have no one to call in such a situation. I didn’t have the full-time job yet, but I took the risk anyway with the understanding that I must find a way to afford this dependable car. Maybe putting a little extra pressure on myself because I already knew I must find a way to afford my home, my entire life. Something I’ve never had to do alone before. Should I have purchased that car?

What I thought was a sure-fire decision became yet another challenge only months later as a widow in the woods who has never made friends with the neighbors. One rescued me anyway, but in the end the car needs a bit of an electrical overhaul and now sits an hour and a half away at the dealer waiting for a heart transplant.

I’d like a heart transplant.

I say that, but I really don’t. Because if I lost the fatigue, the mania, the should/should nots, the just-before-sleep crying jags, the bittersweet laughter at memories, the inexplicable need to paint walls, it’s like skipping over all the love. I don’t want to be going through any of this, and there are times I still plead, “Why can’t you just walk in the door and end this charade?” But at my core, I accept that this is part of the huge love we had, and so when I’m dangling over the ravine, with no idea what’s down there, or beyond the hills, I accept this is what death feels like.

Because this is what life feels like.

It’s part of the process. I’m beginning to realize that adding another pressure on top–I should stop shoulding myself–is pointless. Although there are certainly times I need to shut my brain off, some of it is what processing anything is about. It’s how our hearts work through the heaviness, the questions, and the unknown of what comes next, especially after part of you has disappeared.

a now-slightly eerie photo I took of Joe writing on the train in Scotland

When I am waffling all over the place, it’s because I’m learning how to make decisions in new ways. I’m really asking myself one question: Who am I now?

Whether I should stay or go, whether I should have bought that car or not, whether I will ever feel like a whole person again remains to be seen. I’m in my should era; of course, it comes with a lot of questioning, a lot of considering, a lot of internal workarounds.

I believe the challenge is to make sure the questioning doesn’t drive me crazy–only drives me onward. Especially since my car can’t.

bye bye subaru