Grief... and Depression

From the book On Grief and Grieving,"Empty feelings present themselves, and grief enters our lives on a deeper level, deeper than we ever imagined. This depressive stage feels as though it will last forever. It's important to understand that this depression is not a sign of mental illness. It is the appropriate response to a great loss. we withdraw from life, left in a fog of intense sadness, wondering, perhaps, if there is any point in going on alone. Why go on at all? Morning comes, but you don't care. A voice in your head says it is time to get out of bed, but you have no desire to do so. You may not even have a reason. Life feels pointless. To get out of bed may as well be climbing a mountain. You feel heavy and being upright takes something from you that you just don't have to give"
This is how I have been living for the past 8 months. The book says, "Invite your depression to pull up a chair with you in front of the fire, and sit with it, without looking for a way to escape. Allow the sadness and emptiness to cleanse you and help you explore your loss in its entirety. When you allow yourself to experience depression, it will leave as soon as it has served its purpose in your loss. As you grow stronger, it may return from time to time, but that is how grief works."

I can say, confidently, that depression has been about the only stage of grief that I've been feeling for 8 months. The five stages of grief include: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression and Acceptance. I believe I felt more denial leading up to him passing than I've felt since he's actually passed. Of course I have my moments- there were times in the beginning, it felt like he was still at the hospital. He'd been a frequent flier through the doors of Lutheran Hospital for so long- it just felt like he was there and we were going to visit him there. Then, days passed, and I began to feel like it was all just a nasty dream I can't force myself awake from. So I can say that for the most part, I know he's gone. Anger comes and goes. I'm angry that my mom is alone. I'm angry that other people get to continue making memories with their fathers. I get angry when we are forced to do things that we've never had to deal with before- like taking my car to be serviced without any guidance from my Dad. That was a hard trip- and I did more crying at Andy Mohr than I'd care to admit. Mom had to have a tree pulled from the yard because the roots were out of control. I got angry that she had to deal with that. I get angry that she has to make hard decisions without talking to Dad- the sale of his boat, his car, his posessions- all the fishing gear and tools- things that were so important to him. We want to pass on his legacy to those who knew him- so they can remember him doing some of the things he loved- but unfortunately, some people don't understand that intent. They don't take his possessions as treasured items from our loved one that is gone- they only see a boat, or a fishing pole, or a hammer. This makes us angry. And yes, I feel a lot of my anger is more frustration from depression than it is true anger- but some of it is real anger. It's just not fair.
 Bargaining- I did that a lot before he was gone- "please just let him see me graduate." I said that a lot. I prayed hard for that. Of course, now- I feel like I should have prayed harder for other things- less selfish things. "Please let him not suffer." "Please let him go peacefully." "Please let him know how much he is loved and that he is not alone."
I think I'm years away from accepting that he's gone. Maybe one day, the depression will leave my body and I will feel at peace- but for now, I cry. I cry almost every day. I cry when I hear a song that he loved- and there are lots of songs that he loved. I cry when I see something that reminds me of him. I cry when I think of something that he did or something that we shared. I cry when I see pictures of him. I cry at Mom's house when I walk past his dresser and can still smell the lingering combination of bay rum and peppermint. I cry when I think that I'm forgetting his voice or his laugh. I cry when I see his handwriting- I loved his handwriting. I cry when I'm laughing- because I think about the fun I'm having- and because he isn't here- then I get sad. I cry sometimes at work- and a lot of times when I'm leaving work- because I can see that a family is hurting for their loved one or I can see their loved one fighting for their life. I cry because I know the pain they will feel and how much they will hurt. I cry when a patient is suddenly better and healed because they will leave the hospital- but my dad didn't get to leave the hospital. I get a lump in my throat when people ask me about organ donations and how transplants are done- because my Dad was an organ donor. I feel that lump again when I hear that someone was a recipient of a cornea or sclera transplant because I wonder if I'm looking at my Dad's eyes when I'm looking at them.
So much of this grief- how can I be truly living my life? I feel as though I'm disappointing him because I'm so sad. He was so happy. He loved living life. He loved helping people and saving lives. He loved talking to strangers and he had the best stories from all of his adventures. I'm only sad because I miss him so much. I hope there isn't disappointment or sadness where he is. I can almost feel him pushing me into every new day- as if to tell me "today it will get a little easier because I'm here with you."

I think a change would do me good...

Well, 1,640 days have passed since my last post. I was waiting to hear about my application to vet-tech school. Dad was unsure about his health. Mom was being the glue that held us all together- per usual. Backing it up a bit- in April 2013, my dad became unresponsive after an exploratory treatment to a mystery disease that was slowly taking his mobility, his freedom, and his patience. He visited Cleveland clinic half a dozen times and the best they could come up with was "Mr. Castle Syndrome." He was a mystery to every specialist he saw. We heard a lot of what it wasn't, but nothing about what it was.
That May, I decided to take a leap of faith and end my job with the vet clinic- and begin to take my first steps toward becoming a nurse. In June, we were celebrating Father's Day and my dad received a call from the head of the neurology department at Cleveland. Myasthenia Gravis. The mystery illness plaguing Daddy had finally been put into a category. Neurological Auto-immune. His body was fighting a war with itself. The rest of the year was full of challenges- doctors appointments and hospital stays for Dad, lots of learning for Mom and I both. I was up to my eyeballs in math and science classes- something I had managed to completely avoid the first time around. I began the 16-month accelerated Bachelors program in August 2014. I completed the program in December 2015. I met some of the most amazing women during my time in schoo lthis program. Never had I leaned on people and pushed and motivated others. We all worked together and graduated together proudly.
I was working in a trauma, surgical, neuro unit as a tech while I finished my last two theology classes. I officially graduated in May 2016 and began studying for my nursing boards. I took them August 1, 2016 and shortly after learned that I had not passed. I was devastated but my Dad encouraged and motivated me in ways no one else could begin to understand. He was fighting a war against himself. Mom was right there next to him, providing him the best care that anyone could ask for. She was pushing him to keep going- he was troubled by the fact that he felt like a burden to everyone. I knew that no matter what, I had to keep going.
On August 23, I got a call- Dad had been taken to the ER by ambulance. He couldn't breathe and was very much in distress. He was intubated that day and remained in that sedated state for 5 days. Day in and out, Mom and I were by his side. He did improve- but little did we know- the war he was fighting so hard was slowly taking him from us.
In the early morning hours of September 27, I was on my way home from work. I tried to call Dad- as I did every day on my way home- but I got no answer. I tried at least 6 times to get through- but got his voice mail every time. I called my mom and let her know that I thought something was wrong. I had breakfast and went to bed, knowing that she had it under control. Two hours later, I got the call that changed my life. He was slipping away, I needed to get home- safely, but quickly.
I panicked. I became hysterical. I wasn't ready to say goodbye to him- not that I ever could be- but I had so many things to ask him, so much more he needed to teach me. Memories began flashing before my eyes- him walking me to the bus stop on my first day of school, him watching me get pinned in my nursing school graduation ceremony. I'd never seen him so proud. So many things I knew he was going to miss- wishing me luck on my first day of my new nursing job, walking me down the aisle on my wedding day, holding his grandchild for the first time, traveling the world, fishing. I fell. Crying in my hands. How was I going to drive two hours if I couldn't even pack a suitcase? Jessica helped talk me through packing and it was decided that I would not pack the necessary "funeral clothes" until I knew for sure what was happening. She was amazing, offering to stop by and pick up anything I needed- if I needed her in Fort Wayne.
I called upon all my friends to help me and I got on the road. Alexandra, a friend of mine from nursing school, got me through the end of the trip- talking to me as I got into town. Praying with me, for me, for us. This was all unreal.
I got to the hospital and as soon as I saw him, I knew this was it. This was the day I was going to say goodbye to my father for the last time.