By Lorry Myers
Friends and kind acquaintances have been asking how I’m doing. In my other life I would have said that I was “great”, or “good”, or “fine”, because those words said it all. Since my husband died, my standard answer is now, “I am Ok.”
I am just OK.
I am remembering to breathe and then, I can hardly catch my breath. I forget sometimes and then, I remember. I wake up early, go to bed at a decent time, and in between, I have a purpose.
Some days, I don’t know what that is.
Yet, I believe that I am OK. I know that grief is different for everyone. I know I have options available for me and I know there is support, but believe me, I have plenty of that. My mother knows what to say because she has been here herself. My children have me scheduled and booked and entertained. My friends check-in, or send kind notes or share a thought with me. Don’t forget, I have three older sisters who behave like older sisters.
I am doing OK.
Early on in this new journey, I saw things I was doing that needed to change in order to keep moving forward and not stay in the same place. So, I created what I call, my “Crying rules”. Again, everyone grieves in their own way and I had to find my way through mine. The crying rules are simple:
1. No crying in the car. This rule keeps me from losing my focus, my makeup and my trepidation to get in my car and go. Randy loved to slide behind the wheel and take off and I have had too many good times in that car to wash those away.
2. No crying in public. Not in the grocery store, or the hardware store or in the library. It is much easier to accept condolences and kind words about Randy when I don’t fall apart.
3. No crying in bed. Beds should be used for only a handful of activities and crying isn’t one of them. Pretty sure, Randy would agree with that.
4. No crying on an outing. Out with friends, a shopping excursion, a little wine tasting, a back road trip; there is no need to cry. An outing is meant to offer an escape, a chance to laugh and be cared about. I am not going to let my tears steal the joy.
For every place I don’t cry, there are plenty that I do. In my kitchen, it will hit me out of nowhere that I am by myself. In my recliner, when I talk to the chair beside me and no one is there. In the shower, when I can hear the silence of the house. On my porch, when I hear a song that reminds me of him. In the yard when there is work to do and I am overwhelmed.
Crying doesn’t help but still, it happens.
For the complete article, see this week’s edition of the Centralia Fireside Guard.