Something inside me wants to pick up the pace of mourning. I’m willing to swim in the waters of sorrow for a little bit, but then I need to get out and be in control again. If I could wade in the water, that would be better; that way, I could control the situation a little better.
I had this strong desire to push the fast-forward button and get through grief as quickly as possible so I could get to the other side. I wanted to be done with this thing.
And the pressure to “rush through this” was motivated to decrease the pain. It was denial of the process of the human heart. It was Avoidance. another numbing behavior I had. Not denial, Avoidance. I wanted to get it done to get on with my life. This perspective makes sense when changing rear brakes but doesn’t work with grief. There is no speeding this process up. It simply must take the slow progress of time, leaning on God as the waves of pain beat against me.
But I wanted to connect with the widowers, hear what they had to say, and need their wisdom. I’ve always been in men’s groups and felt comfortable in leadership. But I couldn’t lead this group. I needed to receive, not lead.
The Seventh Day, The Funeral
Her funeral was cold and rainy. It seemed like every day since Deb’s death was cold and rainy, both inside and out. It seemed appropriate, miserable weather for a misery event. I wanted to get the day over with as quickly as possible. But God didn’t let that happen.
I was blessed by so many showing up during a mid-day funeral. Even our senior pastor and his wife came out of their Sabbatical early to attend Deb’s funeral. That was a surprising honor.
Don presided over the event, which was another blessing. He pulled the family into a separate room before the funeral to pray with us. After he prayed, I told him, “I don’t want to go in there.” There must have been 20 close family that just looked at me. They said nothing. What could they say? It was an uncomfortable silence as everyone tried to avoid eye contact with me. How do they force a guy to attend his wife’s funeral?
I was conflicted. I didn’t want to go through it. I wanted to be that 7-year-old boy who thought if I didn’t see something, it wouldn’t exist. I magically wished the pain of the event would go away, and everyone could return to their lives.
But God tapped me on the shoulder again. Not hard, but hard enough to get my attention. “This isn’t about you Andy.” Oddly, he keeps telling me the same thing. I wanted to pout, but I knew God was right. I had to remove myself from the center of the universe and allow God there. It’s his universe anyway. Deb loved God and honored him with her life. It was my time to honor her and do what was right. Not sitting at the funeral would be disrespectful to all those who came.
It was a beautiful and terrible funeral. I sat in the front pew with my daughters on either side. As I think about it, they situated themselves next to me because they knew I would fall apart—just another blessing in a series of blessings during this time of misery.
My friend Paul sang Deb’s favorite song, “I Will Rise” by Chris Tomlin. He did a great job, as I knew he would. I leaned over on my daughter’s head and wailed. I thought I was going to be sick. I cried so hard. It was horrible. It was beautiful. We worshiped God and honored Deb at the same time. It was done so wonderfully. I was a mess. That was Paul’s plan from the beginning.
Is she really dead?
I felt a hole in my chest. It hurt, and nothing decreased the pain. I wanted to run, but where would I run? I couldn’t fix Deb, and I couldn’t make this pain go away. I had experienced it all the way through. I’m sure most widows and widowers say this, but I couldn’t have made it without my friends and family. God was indeed most gracious to me.
The Cemetery
After the luncheon, we drove that terrible drive to the cemetery—the one behind my house. From my dining room table, I cannot see her grave site due to the cemetery’s tree line and upward slope. It’s still our graveyard. My graveyard.
For the past 20 years, we raised our children in this well-mowed backyard. This is the same graveyard where we taught our children how to ride their bikes, how to drive their cars, and where we would often just go for walks. And once the children left the home, it was mine and Deb’s favorite place to walk. We enjoyed the beauty of the trees, nature, and peace, even though we were in the middle of the city. It was “our” place. Now, I’m burying her here. I never thought I’d be burying her. But once she passed, it seemed the only logical option.
Is she really dead? Could there be a mistake?
Part of me that was afraid of having her so close. Perhaps I’ve read too many Stephen King novels or seen too many scary movies, but was she too close? The kids were fine with it, and having her close to me seemed good. It is our graveyard.
It was also good to get out of my house regularly. I think it is redeeming for me to walk. It allows me to think and to be present but not productive. I meet God there and stop my pressured agenda of getting the next thing done.
Besides, she wasn’t really there, not on that cold, unforgiving ground. She is with Jesus. The grave was just a reminder for me and my family. She was not in that cemetery. She was gone. I was the only one in the cemetery.
It’s hard to know what to do with the dead bodies of loved ones. Do you revere them as some sort of idol? Do you disregard them because she’s with Jesus? Do you follow tradition? And what is the right tradition? Is there a right thing to do? But she wanted to be buried, so I honored her wish.
The day was miserable inside and outside. It was cold, rainy, and windy that afternoon. No one wanted to be there. The mud and the freezing rain soiled their shoes and went through their bodies. Still, the family came out of respect. In front of the casket was a small green outdoor carpet with four folding chairs. I didn’t want to sit down, but when Mom Dykhouse sat down, I assumed it was best for me to sit with her. No one else sat down. I wish Deb were here to tell me what I was supposed to do.
It was hard to hear Don as he spoke his two-minute graveside service. We talked about the flowers, and then I drove home. My son walked home. I honored his wishes. We all grieve differently.
Once home, I changed my clothes and jumped in bed. It was my way of calming myself down, an attempt to stop the situation and my pain. I never wanted to hide so badly. I pulled the covers up and hid. I had been polite and cordial all day, but now… I didn’t care. I unplugged.
When I awoke, I realized how hopeless I was. Now that she was gone, I couldn’t think of a reason to get out of bed. I tried to sleep more but couldn’t. I longed to hide more but couldn’t. The black hole sucked me into itself, and I couldn’t move. Not paralyzed, just without motivation. I didn’t care if I moved. I was in that black, harsh, cold hole, and its inky tar stuck to me, and there was nothing I could do to improve it.
I had never been too sad to cry, but I was then. I didn’t have the energy. There was no more fight in me. I have been struggling with depression on and off throughout my adult life but have never been that hopeless. My body ached, and my stomach was in knots. I was constipated and blocked up physically and emotionally. I was a mess.
Eight months before, I stopped my Cymbalta because I wanted to be drug-free. Deb wasn’t happy about the decision, but I felt I needed to do this for my health. I struggled for the first month with my depression, but eventually, I swung out of it. The psychiatric medication dulls my feeling of depression but also dulls my feeling of joy. I was emotionally less connected with myself. I wanted to be fully alive. And I was. I avoided going back on the pill until that moment. I knew I couldn’t do it without the “crutch” of the med. When thoughts of suicide floated around my mind, I knew I had to do something. I needed to get off the meds. Fortunately, I had a half bottle in my dresser and started taking them. I guess I would have felt some sort of defeat if I cared about anything, but I didn’t. I just knew the medication was better than suicide.
Learning
I discovered that when a person experiences trauma, their whole body reacts as if they were in crisis. Digesting food and going to the bathroom are not priorities during a crisis, so the mind gives them less priority. I think my body was in shutdown mode. I physically felt terrible. I didn’t have the flu, but I felt like I did.
And I had never felt so empty before, so hollow. It was the lowest point of my life.
Did she really die?
Unfortunately, I knew it was going to get worse. Everyone will return home, and I will be in an empty house by Monday. I knew, all alone, that my depression would not be interrupted by conversation or something that needed to be done. I feared it. I feared the empty house echoing my suffering back to me, amplifying it, telling me, “Your wife is dead. You are alone.”
Another fear is that Deb did all the finances and many things around the house I didn’t know how to do (cooking being an important item on the “I’m not at all sure I can do this” list.
I didn’t plan on using drugs, but at that low moment, right then, while flopping side to side on my bed, I considered using marijuana. Or some other drug. Alcohol? That would be easy to get. I figured it would be better to get high than to kill myself. This pain was temporary. I just had never felt such overwhelming, disorienting sadness like that.
I had no plan to kill myself, but I wasn’t sure I could keep myself safe. If I felt this bad, and it would get worse, and I was all alone, I could see myself doing something drastic. Unhealthy. It wasn’t a plan; it was more of an uncomfortable possibility I did not have the strength to rule out completely. And this thought increased my sense of hopelessness.
When I finally got out of bed, my kids were downstairs watching a movie. I hated it—not so much the movie as life—anything. Everything.
I love my family but have had a hard time enjoying them. Cards, movies, video games, and good food used to make me happy. Now, it doesn’t. I wanted family with me, but I was apathetic—way too apathetic. Nothing sounded good. I had no idea it could give me relief. I was a widow now, that strange, unpopular group of people who have been cut in half and told, “Make the best of it.”
Weren’t we talking about Thanksgiving a week ago? How could this be? Now, I dreaded the thought of Thanksgiving.