When I woke up, I just lay there. Slowly, the world came to my awareness. I am trying to be aware of my world, but I am not doing a good job. I didn’t care about the rest of the world. Grief made me very self-focused. I’m not even sure it’s a sin. I just know I couldn’t help it. I just thought about my pain. My Deb was gone, and now everything was different. Now, I had to figure out what “everything” was.
I stayed in bed, flopping over occasionally, hoping a different position would relieve me. But it didn’t. I kept patting the other side of the bed to make sure the nightmare of Deb’s death was real.
Is she really dead? Could there have been a mistake?
I was still stunned. I wanted to hide in sleep, but I couldn’t sleep anymore. I desperately wanted someone to burst into the room and say, “It was a mistake, Deb’s OK. It was another person who died yesterday. Deb is in the other room waiting for you to give her a hug.” This lie gave me relief. “It’s a mistake; she’s right here,” I wished so badly someone would say. I’m OK believing a lie, just as long as I got her back. I was OK if it only lasted a few minutes. It was worth it.
I was open to denial. I preferred it. I’d do anything to give her one more hug, even if it was imaginary. I understand why some grieving people go off the deep end. Reality becomes too harsh for them. Death seems like a resolution to the pain of isolation. For a few moments, I was uncomfortably open to doing something foolish, but God (through my friends and family) protected me.
Even false hope feels better than despair.
How pathetic is that? Do I have to lie to myself to get out of bed? Am I really that twisted?
I didn’t care if I was pathetic. If people called me pathetic, I was good with that as long as I had relief. The pain was too much. It’s amazing how pain can change what was once so important to an afterthought.
What are you supposed to do when your wife dies? Is there a prescribed procedure? Are there steps to follow? Can I wiggle my way out of this so that death misses me, kind of like how cartoon figures dodge bullets. Is that possible? Can I have a do-over?
I was surprised at how willing I was to live in denial. It is embarrassing how quickly I was willing to live in a make-believe cartoon world to avoid this pain. I hadn’t sacrificed my integrity but was willing to if a plan sounded inviting.
I knew I was in a very vulnerable position. The idea of drugs floated into my consciousness. “At least it would subdue the pain,” I tried to justify to myself, “and it would only be for a little while. Until I was over the hump.” And reasoned, “It’s better than killing myself, isn’t it?” The thought of the guns in the closet made me think. I should not have thought those thoughts, but I entertained them all the same.
This was when I began understanding the black hole. I was actually in it that morning. I slipped into it a few times, but those precious prayers of others pulled me out of it. I was like a rag doll; I had no will.
The black hole is an inky blackness that robs me of all hope. I didn’t have any hope, not that morning. All manner of evil appeared acceptable to me, at least from inside that black hole. With childish curiosity, I looked into the hole and wondered how deep it was. It hurt just being in that hole. But it hurt either way. I don’t know if I chose to fall into that hole or if it sucked me in. And I didn’t care which it was. I couldn’t see tomorrow. I couldn’t see it today. Sometimes, delusions are better than reality. Or better, sometimes delusions offer relief when life is hard and filled with sharp, jagged corners.
I’ve been a mental health worker for 25 years and have spoken to dozens of men about death and those elusive stages of grief. But I didn’t know what I was talking about. I didn’t know anything. I had no idea what I was supposed to do next. I assumed knowledge was part of the solution, but I don’t think that anymore. The only thing I had was a desire to move away from the black hole.
In that moment, I wanted to go back and apologize to the people I spoke to about grief. I wanted to give them their money back. I minimized their pain and assumed solutions were possible. I was embarrassed by my own hubris. I didn’t know anything. And still don’t.
Just do the next thing.
What is the next thing? How can I fix this? What if I go through this process quickly and dodge the cartoon bullet? Is that possible? Could I be the first one to do this?
A strong ache hit me. I wanted to hold my wife again. I wanted to smell her hair. I wanted to kiss her cheek like I’ve done a thousand times before.
It was Saturday. It’s the day we typically sit and talk and talk together. It was our time. Sitting in our pajamas, wrapped in blankets, drinking coffee, and talking for one or two hours. We’d talk about our thoughts, plans, desires, frustrations. We’d usually bring Scripture into it, and almost always prayed. She often felt that she was not heard, so I purposely planned long hours of talking and listening to one another. I started doing this for her, but it was the highlight of my week. I enjoyed her. We drew closer together. Wasn’t that today?
My stomach was in knots. I felt terrible. Nauseated. Everything was dark. Everything hurt like it was. There were razors on the ground, and I was barefoot.
But I got up. I did it for my family. I couldn’t do it for me because I didn’t care anymore. I had to stop thinking about myself and remember my family was grieving too. I wasn’t the only one. I had three children to think about.
Did she really die?
I got up, knowing I had to do something. I got coffee and sat in my very, very quiet house. No one was there. I was all alone. I don’t remember ever feeling so alone before.
I had a few crying jags as I sat in my chair and had devotions. I needed my time with God to think I could make it. I read. I prayed for my family. But I had no heart. I was just performing actions.
I called Louie Konopka (my former pastor and hero of the faith) and asked him to pray for me. Then I called Randy and Diana, and they both prayed for me and put a notice on the church website that Deb had died. My thought was this would help others know so I wouldn’t have to call 50 people and tell them my wife died. That was good.
As I look back on it, I think this is when I got out of that foul black hell. I still felt terrible, but it wasn’t as bad. I had things that needed to be done. Slowly, things began making sense. Like seeing something on a distant horizon, life was becoming clearer.
God directed my thoughts to my poor mother-in-law, who lost her daughter yesterday. I called her family and arranged a meeting at my mother-in-law’s later that day. My family was not the only one grieving. I needed to see Deb’s side of the family. “am I supposed to bring food?” crossed my mind. Normally, Deb handled these pesky details.
My sister’s house is bigger than mine, and she likes to cook, so we made her house our meeting place for most of the “post Deb” time. I appreciated her willingness to organize things I couldn’t keep straight in my head. I ate some things because my sister repeatedly told me, “You have to eat.” But I didn’t care about eating. I didn’t care about anything.
The funeral home set up a time tomorrow to discuss the details of the event. It was good to know that everything was going to be worked out. My daughter and my future son-in-law arranged pictures for the showing.
Was she really dead?
God answered one prayer after another, even answering some before they were prayed. A friend’s wife made a double batch of vegetable soup (even though she didn’t know why) and dropped it off an hour after it was announced on the Church Website.
The day was a blur. I don’t remember the details. I had infrequent crying jabs as I hugged family and friends. Usually, I would be ashamed of crying, but I didn’t care anymore.
After Erin finally flew home that night, I returned to that bed without Deb. The black hole threatened me again. It was just there, wanting me to give up all home, wanting me to give up. The fear of fear is scary all by itself. I had church the following day, and I love my church. I had something good to look forward to. Somehow, God granted me sleep.