Death doesn’t take a holiday

Just when I thought I was out….anxiety pulled me back in.

It’s been over a year since my last post here. I had exited therapy some time ago and was making decent progress in dealing with panic and irrational fear. Highly functioning for the first time in years, things were looking up.

In therapy, my doctor had worked extensively to drive home two main points. First, rather than trying to anticipate and control every possible scenario in a futile attempt to impose safety, my energy should be better spent developing tools to deal with events when they occurred. Second, understand that even though I had a rocky history involving trauma and loss, the worst doesn’t always happen, so don’t anticipate that it will.

Skeptical? You better believe it. But her advice was sound, and it made a real difference for a long time.

August 2010, on our second day of vacation in North Carolina, my wife drowned in the ocean. It was starting to get dark so we prepared to leave, and she said that she was going to catch one more wave. Two minutes became five, then ten. Frantic searching was unsuccessful. 911 was called and rescue teams screamed to the beach, already notified of an apparent cardiac arrest.

Two people, a father and son, had been walking far down the beach and had found my wife floating, lifeless. Paramedics told me she was already cold by the time they got to her. They were very sorry for my loss.

My oldest son was with me, but my daughter had taken my ten year old son back to the beach house when things got frantic. I stumbled back to the rental property and told them Lisa was gone.

It was agonizing. I couldn’t sleep or eat. I had to wait for her body to be released by the medical examiner, then travel to a local funeral home to arrange for the return of her body. I had to make many phone calls to friends and family, including Lisa’s parents.

The worst doesn’t always happen. For me, that’s not true, as has been proven countless times.

The last ten months have been spent holding the family together, and administering my wife’s estate. It’s excruciating. After years of being told that it’s not my responsibility to always look after others, I’m right back in the role I despise.

My young son struggles, as we all do, but he’s already challenged with moderate-to-severe ADHD, and this provides additional burden for him. He’s demonstrating significant anxiety responses of his own, and we’re both seeing the same psychiatrist. She’s been great. But another generation of my family has suffered great trauma. I had hoped the chain would break with me.

Lisa wasn’t there for the first day of school, or Halloween, Thanksgiving, or Christmas. We did the best that we could, but it was miserable. January would have been our 13th wedding anniversary, April her 46th birthday. Mother’s Day was difficult, teary, and hollow.

We’re coming up on the 1st anniversary of her death, and I’m not sure what that will be like. Sad and lonely certainly. But what else?

We were going to grow old together, be wonderful grandparents, travel to new places, make a difference in areas we cared about. And now she’s gone and that won’t happen. What do I do with that?

I feel like a psychological Sisyphus, rolling an anxiety bolder up the hill, sweating and grunting, doing the hard work to take me to the pinnacle, only to have the stone return to the bottom yet again. And now my young son has a boulder of his own.

So I’m back. I’d like to say it’s good to see you all again, but that’s not true.

Damn it all the hell.