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Grief is Exhausting

September 28, 2013 — Pat Bertram

Yesterday’s grief update — I Am a Three-and-a-Half-Year Grief Survivor — was very sedate, no great emotion. And that’s how the day went — sedate, no great emotion. I kept myself busy and endorphinized with walks, exercise, and errands. I actually felt happy for a while. (It’s easy to be happy when you are zipping along at three miles an hour beside a dry riverbed at night with new friends, and only flashlights and stars to illuminate the walkway.)

Today, however, I am tearful. I woke with a great yearning to see my deceased life mate/soul mate. I wish I could talk to him, find out how he is (or if he is). I wish I could feel as if once again, I were home. (He was my home. Everything else is just a place to live, though I am gradually learning to find “home” in myself, because of course, wherever I go, there I will be.)

Grief is exhausting, even after forty-two months, and maybe that’s what hit me today — exhaustion. I get tired of trying to find reasons to live and ways to be happy. I get tired of trying to focus on the positive elements of my life and to find ways around that vast emptiness where he once was. The more I do these things, the more of a habit they will become, but his absence is still such a significant factor in my life that the creation of happiness and meaning is a conscious effort. I am always aware that that whatever I am doing is not an augmentation of an already full life, but instead is a way of spending the hours and maybe building a new life for myself.

I feel silly at times even mentioning my sadness because so many people have experienced horrific tragedies that make the death of one middle-aged man seem insignificant, but his death is exceedingly significant to me. And it’s significant to the world (even if no one else is aware of it) because the death of a good man (or woman) somehow diminishes us all.

So today, I will allow myself to be sad that he is gone from my mortal life and from this earth, and wait until tomorrow to once again pick up the pieces of my life and continue on without him.

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Pat Bertram is the author of the suspense novels Light Bringer, More Deaths Than One, A Spark of Heavenly Fire, and Daughter Am I. Bertram is also the author of Grief: The Great Yearning, “an exquisite book, wrenching to read, and at the same time full of profound truths.” Connect with Pat on Google+. Like Pat on Facebook.

Posted in grief, life, relationships. Tags: finding home, grief is exhausting, three and a half years of grief, yearning to see my soul mate. 18 Comments »

Grief and the Loss of Identity

September 12, 2013 — Pat Bertram

I don’t feel disempowered as a women, perhaps because I seldom define myself by gender, religion, nationality, age, or any other consideration. I am simply . . . a being in flux. I have felt powerless at times, but not because of being a woman. The powerlessness came from being in situations greater than my abilities to cope. Sometimes I developed the necessary abilities, such as when I decided to be a writer, other times I simply endured, such as when grief slammed into me after the death of my life mate/soul mate. Either way, I managed to move beyond the powerlessness and regain my equilibrium.

This is not the way things always were, of course. When I was very young, many limitations were imposed on me because I was “just a girl.” (How I hated those words!) Luckily, the early limitations were offset by my experiences at the all-girl high school I attended. In a school where everyone is female, there is no gender bias — all activities are done by and all offices, honors, and awards are won by young women.

It’s no wonder then, that when I fell in love, it was with an unbiased man. For thirty-four years, we lived in gender harmony. We played no roles, set no rules, followed no conventions. Never once in all those years did he tell me I couldn’t do something. Never once did I refuse to let him do something he wanted. Never once did he make me do a chore. Never once did I remind him of a task he promised to do. If one of us saw a job that needed to be done, we simply did it. Usually, though, we worked together. Some of my fondest memories are of us fixing meals together — he washing vegetables for a salad, me cutting them up. He reading seasonings off a recipe card, me tossing the herbs into the pot. (Or vice versa. What made it especially rewarding is that we’d created those recipes together.)

During the last few years of his life, I did many things by myself in preparation for the time when I would be alone. I took long solitary ambles, went on trips, learned to use a computer and the internet. This became our life — he dying, me struggling to live.

Somehow I thought this would always be our life, but then he died, and “our” life ended.

My grief was so profound I felt as if part of me had been amputated. The pain, the angst, the loneliness were unbearable, but the worst trauma was the sudden and shocking loss of my identity. Being with him had allowed me to be myself, to be comfortable with both my good points and my bad points. Since I wasn’t in thrall to him (though I did often follow his wishes because I didn’t care what we did or what we ate as long as we were together), it never occurred to me there would be a problem when once again I became single. But I’d grown so used to being with him, that nothing, not even something as simple as watching a movie, seemed important when I did it alone. He’d been the focus of my life for so many years that without him I felt lost, felt as if my life had no meaning. Felt silly for unknowingly letting my identity get so caught up in “us” that when he died, I no longer knew who I was.

The truth is that even for those of us who have a strong identity and know almost everything there is to know about ourselves, a trauma such as the loss of a soul mate shakes our self-concept. Our psyches are like nesting dolls or boxes within boxes or doors within doors (choose your cliché). We never see the doors, so we think we know who we are, but a great emotional upheaval can cause a door to open, letting us see more of ourselves and what we are capable of, revealing a part of our identity that might have been hidden from us until that moment. We get to know who we now are, adding to or changing our idea of ourselves, rethinking the past in light of this new awareness. We might even get comfortable with this revised self-concept until a new trauma opens another door.

And so it is with me. It’s been three and a half years since his death, and until a new trauma comes along, I again know who I am — a being in flux, still strong, still developing my abilities, still learning to empower myself as a person.

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Posted in culture, life, relationships. Tags: defining myself, gender bias, grief and loss of identity, just a girl, self-concept, self-empowerment. 6 Comments »

Salad Days

September 11, 2013 — Pat Bertram

One staple of meals with my life mate/soul mate were salads. During our decades together, we always tried to eat plenty of raw vegetables, so our salads weren’t puny affairs with a few bits of vegetables and lots of iceberg lettuce. We used as many colors as we could — red tomatoes, purple cabbage, yellow squash, orange carrots, white cauliflower, green leaf lettuce. Since the salads were a time-consuming affair, we usually worked together, he washing the vegetables, me cutting them up.

I don’t remember much of the last year of his life (except for the last six weeks — those I remember). After he died I was in too much pain to recall that year, and now it’s too far in the past to recover the details.

But I do remember a time when I came in late from my walk, and he’d already fixed a salad for us. This was shortly before he got too sick to do anything but try to stay ahead of the pain. I don’t understand where he got the energy to fix the salad — his poor body was so ridden with metastases, it must have taken everything he had to do the simplest task, and yet, the salad was waiting for me when I got in.

Yesterday I mentioned how I carelessly let that last year slip by, how I didn’t hang on to his every word, but I was careful that day and took a photo of the salad, perhaps the last one he ever made for me. I wanted the picture because the plate was beautiful, not as a memory of him, but still, it showed I was paying attention to the good things in our shared life.

It seems impossible that he’s been gone for almost three and a half years. Seems impossible that our salad days are over and all that remains is this simple photo.

(Incidentally, “salad days” comes from Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra. At the end of Act I, Cleopatra says, “My salad days, / When I was green in judgment.”)

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Posted in culture, grief, life, relationships. Tags: colorful vegetables, death and loss, making salads, raw vegetables, salad days. 3 Comments »

Life Is Weird Place To Live

September 7, 2013 — Pat Bertram

Life is weird place to live. Just a few days ago, people were calling me negative — so many, in fact, that I began to believe I really was negative — and now people are calling me positive. Not those same people, of course. I haven’t talked to any of the first group in a while, and some I might never talk to again. Even if I were negative, being called negative creates negative vibrations, and I certainly don’t need any more of those in my life.

I’ve been making an effort to meet new people. I found out that the local Sierra Club does a conditioning walk three nights a week, and I’ve been walking with them, which has been fun. It’s a great activity for introverts and designated listeners since everyone gets a chance to talk. (In most of my friendships, I’m the listener, whether I want to be or not.) Although we walk fast (three miles in an hour or less), it’s a social occasion, and the adrenaline and blood rush keeps us all in good spirits. The walkers are wonderful people, interesting and supportive of one another. And they think I’m upbeat, have a good attitude, am interesting. It does my ego good, though I’m sure the truth of me lies halfway between the two extremes of positive and negative.

Overall, the first group of people seemed more unhappy than this second group, and both groups were seeing themselves reflected in me and I was reflecting off them, like one of those mirrored illusions in a fun house where you see yourself reflected endlessly. If you see a thousand images of yourself, which one do you choose as the real image? Maybe all are real in one way or another. Our bodied selves might be an illusion, too. Maybe the person we see in a single mirror is but one of our myriad images that we choose to inhabit for that moment.

A better analogy might be the energy between two points. An idea, for example, doesn’t exist in our neurons but in the energy zinging between the neurons. Maybe whoever we are at a given moment are the personas we and the people around us create in the energy zinging between us.

When we are in love with someone, often we love who we are when we are with that someone. We love the persons we create between us. (This could be why the death of one’s mate is so devastating — among all the other horrors and gifts of grief, we truly do have to deal with the loss of ourselves.)

Hmm. I’ll have to think about all this. Are we really so fluid? Are we simply bodies of energy that flow around and through all we encounter, changing and being changed with every brush with another creature? If there is nothing immutable at rock bottom, then life really is a weird place to live.

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Posted in culture, life, relationships. Tags: conditioning walk, fun house mirrors, life is a weird place to live, negative people, positive people, the energy between two people. 3 Comments »

Breaking Up is Hard to Do (Or See)

September 6, 2013 — Pat Bertram

Lately, I seem to be torn by divided loyalties. Not only are my loyalties divided between two family members, they are now being divided between two friends who once were business partners. They need each other and the business needs them, but as intelligent as they are, they don’t seem to communicate well. They hurt each other, expect too much from each other, blame each other. And since I’m close to both of them, I am in the middle. I wish I could sit them down (or better yet, bang their heads together) and get them to listen to the truth of the other beyond recriminations, guilt, and regret, but it is not my place.

Sometimes outsiders can see what those involved cannot see, but we cannot feel the emotions that are driving our friends apart, and so we can only stand by, ready to listen if they want to talk. Even if I wanted to do something, it’s not my fight, and inserting myself between them will add fuel to an already combustible situation.

I grieve for them and what they are losing. I grieve for what I am losing. But, as with my family situation, I can’t run their lives for them, and I can’t change anything. Maybe no one can. Maybe the roots of the conflict go back too far to untangle. Maybe the breakup has gone forward too far to be rewound. Maybe . . . maybe they will find a way to set aside their feelings and make it work after all, but I don’t hold out much hope. Their loyalties to each other and the business were in conflict, and without reciprocity, loyalty becomes a type of servitude, adding even more conflict to a complicated situation.

In fiction, conflict is all important, and even in life, some conflict is beneficial — one partner was aflame with fantastic ideas, the other partner more down to earth and able to put those fantasies into action. But too much conflict puts a strain on even the most congenial relationship, and this partnership was not always congenial.

I’ve never had to deal with a divorce between two people I cared about — usually I knew only one of the parties. But now I know how I would feel — terribly sad and powerless.

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Posted in culture, life, relationships. Tags: breaking up, business partners, conflict, divided loyalties, divorce between friends, losing friends. 4 Comments »

Excerpt From “Grief: The Great Yearning” — Day 165

September 5, 2013 — Pat Bertram

During the first year after the death of my life mate/soul mate, I often wrote to him in an effort to bridge the gap between us. The only problem was, he never wrote back and told me how he felt about his dying and our separation. Did he feel as broken as I did? Did he feel as if part of him had been amputated? Or was he simply glad to be shucked of his body, and perhaps even of me?

It’s been three years now since the following letter was written. I still don’t understand the purpose of pain, loss, suffering. Still don’t understand the nature of life or death. Still don’t know how energy can have cognizance, if in fact, consciousness survives death. The main difference is that the wound where he was amputated from me has healed. I don’t worry about him — at least not much — but I still miss him and I probably always will. Most of all, I am learning to get on with my life.

Excerpt from Grief: The Great Yearning

Day 165, Dear Jeff,

People keep telling me that you’re in a better place, but that I have to get on with my life because life is a gift. Huh? If you’re in a better place, why aren’t I there? If life is a gift, why was it taken from you?

I still can’t figure out the point of it all. Is there anything universally important? Love, perhaps, but not everyone loves or is loved. Creativity? But not everyone is creative. Truth? But what is truth? If nothing is universally important, does anything matter? You’re probably tired of this constant questioning, but your death has posed such a conundrum for me that I’m totally lost. I need to find the bedrock of life, a foundation on which to rebuild my life.

I had no idea I had all these tears in me. The drops are huge, like a badly dripping faucet. I am still stunned by the depth and breadth of my grief. I grieve for the good times and the bad. I grieve for what I got from our relationship and what I didn’t. I grieve for me, what I’ve lost, and what I’ll never have. I grieve for you and all you lost, all you never had, all you never will have. I grieve for that young man, that radiant man I met so many years ago because I know the end of his story. And I grieve for the man whose life was cut short.

It can’t be normal, this protracted grief, but people in the grief business keep assuring me I’m doing well.

I hope you’re doing well, too. I love you. I always will.

Click here to find out more about Grief: The Great Yearning

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Posted in culture, grief, life, relationships. Tags: grief and healing, grief and searching for meaning, grief as amputation, Grief: The Great Yearning, in a better place, life is a gift. Leave a Comment »

Dirty Tricks and Dirty Dealing

September 4, 2013 — Pat Bertram

I’ve lived long enough now to know what I have always suspected — most expected behaviors are not realistic. For example, if someone plays a trick on us, we are supposed to be good sports about it, to grin and bear it. Why? Why is it incumbent on us to smile when someone treats us badly? Why aren’t dirty tricks and dirty dealing frowned on?

When I was young, my best friend hid my school books, then she went inside her house, locked the door, and left me outside to search for my books. I couldn’t find them so I rang the door bell, knocked, and called to her. She didn’t respond, just left me standing there alone. I got scared. It was getting late, and I had to get home or else I’d be punished. When it started to rain. I grew frantic, thinking of having to explain those sodden books to my strict teachers and stricter parents. I couldn’t think of any way to get my friend’s attention, so I decided to play the baby. I sat on the porch and pretended to cry. She flounced out of her house, got the books, threw them at me and called me a crybaby and a bad sport.

I could see where maybe hiding the books for a few seconds might be fun. It might even have been funny. But to leave me searching for my books for at least fifteen minutes in the rain? That was cruel. When she grew up, she became a lawyer, and was never heard from again. I’m sure she forgot about the incident shortly after it happened, but I always felt guilty that I hadn’t been a good sport. And I still don’t know what I could have done differently. Well, that’s not true. I would have done one thing differently — I would have immediately dropped her as a friend.

I used to think friendship was the most important thing in the world, and since I didn’t make friends easily, I did everything I could to keep the ones I had. I might not have borne their disregard with a grin, but I did bear it.

Not any more.

When my life mate/soul mate died, I figured I had to let myself be vulnerable and get to know people (or rather let them get to know me), otherwise I’d end up friendless and alone. Opening up worked for a while, but for some reason recently (maybe my Karma coming back to run me over?), some of these friends and online aquaintances have decided to tell me all the things they dislike about me. If people don’t wish me well in my journey through life, they aren’t friends. And I see no point in being a good sport about their ill will. Nor do I grin and bear it. I simply say good-bye.

Oddly, I’m not as worried about being friendless and alone as I was at the beginning of my grief journey. If it happens, so be it, but there are billions of people in the world. Somewhere, I’ll meet people who appreciate my struggles to rebuild my life. In fact, I’ve been meeting a lot of new people lately, both on and offline. Now that’s a wonderful trick!

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Posted in culture, grief, life, relationships. Tags: being a good sport, dirty tricks, grin and bear it, importance of friendship, practical jokes. 18 Comments »

Is “Constructive Criticism” Constructive?

August 30, 2013 — Pat Bertram

I lost another friend today. Apparently the power of my negativity is slaying them right and left. And even worse (according to this friend anyway) I don’t take “constructive criticism” well.

This got me thinking: why should you take criticism, constructive or otherwise? If it concerns your job, then you really have no choice but to take it. If you ask a friend for a critique of your faults, then you should be graceful if you hear something you don’t like. But if someone points out your faults without being asked, then why should you “take it well”? Even if you know your faults (especially if you know them), criticism is hurtful.

Conversely, is it ever acceptable to offer constructive criticism? I don’t presume to know how people should live or how they should deal with their problems, so I don’t offer advice unless it is asked for, and not always then. But somehow, people assume they can offer me “constructive criticism” and expect me to like it.

“Constructive criticism” seems to be a euphemism for “I’m saying terrible things about you and you’re supposed to be grateful.” I guess I lied when I said I don’t offer advice because I’m going to do it now: if someone has a character trait you don’t like, deal with it, don’t expect them to change to suit you. If you are friends, be aware the person you are criticizing probably has a list of things they don’t like about you, but they are too kind (or too reticent) to tell you.

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Posted in culture, life, relationships. Tags: constructive criticism, losing friends, taking criticism. 14 Comments »

Excerpt From “Grief: The Great Yearning” — Day 159

August 29, 2013 — Pat Bertram

I’ve come a long way in the three years since I wrote the following letter. I still don’t understand the nature of life or death. Still don’t understand the point of it all, but I am embracing life, trying to create my own meaning out of small occurrences. The main difference is that the wound where he was amputated from me has healed. I don’t worry about him — at least not much — but I’m still sad and l always miss him.

And oh, yes. I did finally get to the point where sometimes I make his chili when I need to feel the continuity of our shared life — too often now, our life together doesn’t seem real, as if it were but a story in a book. And in a way, it is a story in a book. Grief: The Great Yearning is not simply the story of my grief after his death, but the story of us, our connection, our love.

Excerpt from Grief: The Great Yearning

Day 159, Dear Jeff,

There is such a hole in me, such an inability to grasp the meaning of your absence, that I am totally lost and bewildered. I want—need—something I can never have. It’s like a hunger—a skin hunger, a mind hunger. I cannot comprehend what your death means except that I’m left alone to find my own way.

Damn it! I know we’re not the only people this ever happened to—I’ve heard so many sad tales these past months—but it happened to us.

You worked so hard to be healthy, you deserved to be healthy. You worked so hard to be strong, you deserved to be strong. Even with all the reality we had to face, I believed somewhere, somehow it would all work out for you, for me, for us. I know you were impatient with that belief—you wanted me to face the truth and to understand what was going to happen, but I was naïve in so many ways. I had no idea what death meant—the total end, the line that can never be recrossed, the sheer absence of the dead one. I still don’t know what it means, still can’t comprehend your goneness.

Does anything happen by our choice? In small matters, yes. But in big ones? I don’t see it. I look back at the past few years, trying to figure out what we could have done differently so that everything would have worked out for us, but all our efforts seemed to have led inexorably to your end.

What’s the point of it all? Why do we cling so much to life? In the eternal scheme of things, does it matter how long or short a life is? Does it matter that you only had sixty-three years? It sure matters to me! I want you in my life. I want you to have a life.

I read an article in the paper today that talked about stream-of-consciousness being the brain’s default mode. The journalist said that in depression, the default mode network appears to be overactive, that a depressive brain shows a pattern of balky transitions from introspective thought to work that requires conscious effort, and it frequently slips into the default mode during cognitive tasks. A depressive brain also shows especially weak links between the default mode network and a region of the brain involved in motivation and reward-seeking behavior.

Is this why I so seldom see the point in anything, why it’s hard to find a reason to do things? Is this why stream-of-consciousness writing is easy for me, but fiction is so difficult?

I’m surprised I’m not severely depressed with your being gone. I’m sad and in pain, but not in the black hole of despair. I can cry and be sad, but when the episode passes, I’ll be fine. Or I can be fine until something tilts me over the edge. Taking supplements does that occasionally. I cry as I swallow them, thinking of how you always cared enough for me to make sure I was getting the right nutrients. Other times, taking the supplements brings me comfort for the very same reason.

I still can’t eat the meals we ate together, so mostly I’m snacking. Just what I need, right? I usually have a salad though, so that’s good. I have a craving for your chili, but I’ll probably never eat it again. It won’t taste the same—I never could make it the way you did—and it would make me too sad.

It’s been nice visiting with you here—I wish it were for real and not just in memory. I think often of how brave you were. I need to be brave, too. I thought I’d just need courage to get through the final stages of your illness and the first months of grieving, but now I know I’m going to need courage to live the rest of my life without you.

I love you, Jeff. I hope you’re well. Adios, compadre.

Click here to find out more about Grief: The Great Yearning

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Posted in culture, grief, life, relationships. Tags: grief and healing, grief and searching for meaning, grief as amputation, grief work, Grief: The Great Yearning. 2 Comments »

My Tree Bark Heart

August 22, 2013 — Pat Bertram

When I lost my life mate/soul mate to inoperable kidney cancer a little more than three years ago, people told me that my shattered heart would heal, and that it would grow back bigger. In this respect, apparently, hearts are like tree trunks. The bark on a tree is where the trunk breaks to allow new growth. So now I have a tree bark heart, but instead of being more receptive to love, I seem to be more receptive to grief. Or maybe the bark hasn’t hardened yet, and the soft, easily hurt trunk is still showing through.

I’ve been going through a series of upheavals in my life recently, most of which I can’t talk about. One is a family situation and the people involved would be terribly hurt if I were to make the drama public. It’s a sadly inevitable predicament, with roots dating back to my childhood, and it grieves me deeply.

The other situation has weaker roots since it dates back only a couple of years, but still, it saddens me. I’d agreed to do the online promotion for an internet company in return for a percentage of the profits, and those hopes disappeared this weekend in a series of emails and a cloud of dust as some of the major players decamped, leaving me rootless. I hadn’t realized until it was over how much I needed feeling as if I were part of something, even if it was more hope than reality.

I’ve also lost a couple of friends who have moved beyond me, either into committed relationships or . . . whatever. I still am not sure what is going on with one friend.

When my mate died, I played endless games of computer solitaire. It was a mindless way of passing the time, and I find myself doing that again. Just game after game after game.

Restless. Sad. Lost. Expanding that poor shattered tree bark heart.

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