We had a thunder storm in Missoula last week. It helped cool down unbearably hot temperatures and then ended as fast as it had begun. It was just the right amount of time for a summer storm; all in all, just enough to be refreshing.
I had a little storm of my own one day last week, but it was wasn't exactly refreshing, in fact, just the opposite. I ran into 4 people -- not in a group, but 4 individual encounters with people that did not know Roger had passed away. I had to retell the story 4 times. I thought I was doing okay, but noticed at my pilates class that afternoon that I hardly had the energy to move, much less exercise. I felt very blue, but still didn't make the connection between recounting the story of Roger's illness and death and my weepiness. When I got home, hot, tired, hungry and stressed, I felt compelled to change the blade in the x-acto knife so that I could do some stupid little chore that did not really need to be done at that moment. Sometimes I can feel an accident about to happen, and yet... I just let myself proceed into it. Yup, you guessed it, the inevitable happened. After dripping blood all over the kitchen and wrapping my thumb in a big wad of paper towels, I drove myself to urgent care, steering with one hand, and feeling like quite the fool. While this was happening (in slow motion), I caught myself more or less cursing Roger for not being there. He wouldn't have let me be careless with a box cutter. He would have driven me to urgent care. He would have taken care of me.
Okay, so Roger's not here. He can't prevent me from hurting myself if I am going to behave stupidly. He can't comfort me when I've had a crappy day, or when I'm hurt, or sick, or stressed. He can't take care of me. I've got to do those things for myself. Okay, I get it. I'm sad, but I get it.
This grief burst didn't last as long or feel as intense as the last one. I get it.
On to better days.
: )
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