I woke up this morning a totally different version of myself than I was 6 years ago. I think that can be said for most people if you search through everything long enough, but for me the reason I am suddenly so nostalgic for Sara version 2.0 that I was in 2014 when I moved to Seattle the first time is that Sara 5.0 can look back at it with a lot more clarity now. Right around now I was sending out applications to any and all jobs that were accepting applicants, I was rushing around at work like a chicken with my head cut off, I was dealing with an increasingly ill husband who was teaching me more and more about what terror actually felt like on a daily basis. People seem to think that the trauma of losing Alex was the start of that whole thing and you couldn’t be more wrong if you tried.
I don’t want to focus on that though. What I want to highlight is that while it may appear that all I had to do was “bounce back” from Alex’s death, it was actually more like….a heart attack, decreased mobility, sudden attacks of weakness that would render him completely depleted of energy for days…it was nights sleeping with my hand on his chest to reassure myself that he was breathing. It was trying to grapple with watching both of the main men in my life decline. It was not having support from my husband when my Dad died because “I will just get into fights with him, babe, you can do this on your own”. It was finally talking him into actually trying to have a baby after losing a daughter I didn’t even know I was pregnant with and then losing that baby without support. It was being asked to never talk about it again because we didn’t want to start drama. It was compliance. It was realizing that we couldn’t stay in Alaska anymore – finding a new job – packing up a house while Alex grew paler and weaker by the day. It was coming down here to Seattle with nothing but fingers crossed that a job would pan out so that we could get out. It was leaving behind our friends, Alex quitting school, me quitting a job that I absolutely adored and losing that sense of security. It was taking a huge pay cut and a huge risk that the doctors here would be able to figure out what was happening. It was realizing and coming to terms with us never having children and having to explain that to both family members that wanted so desperately for us to have kids and new acquaintances who didn’t understand why I’d “decided to be one of those women”. It was getting thrust headfirst into almost daily doctor appointments, pneumonias, infections. It was watching him rally while I declined. It was my health suffering because we couldn’t afford for both of us to be sick at the same time. It was ER visits, week-long and then month long hospital stays. It was feeling like an utter failure, daily panic attacks, feeling like I was messing up EVERYTHING and my husband letting me believe that was true. It was suddenly having my partner not talk to me, not give me eye contact, refusing to touch me for two years. It was non-stop terror. It was finally reconnecting and holding hands across a hospital room to fall asleep together and my falling asleep on the floor in front of him on the couch at home with my hand up on his chest to, once again, reassure myself that he was still breathing. It was sudden seizures and heart emergencies. It was watching him choke down gobs of new medications and cry when they literally ripped holes in his stomach. It was long drives out to client homes and calling and checking in once every few hours so that I knew he wasn’t dead. It was finding a private spot to park the car and LOSE IT after YEARS of having to hold myself together and suddenly realizing that I COULD NOT keep doing it on my own. It was not being able to tell anyone. It was fighting. It was begging for explanations. It was being disconnected at EVERY level from a man I literally would have laid my life down for if he’d asked. It was finally reconnecting – again – and right as we had to move again. Right as our stability ended again. It was a month long stay in a hospital that started on our 5th wedding anniversary. It was walking with him through random corridors while he cried in pain. It was movie marathons with cheap ice cream. It was random beeping noises from his heart monitors. It was tracking his pain medications, his breathing, his seizures. It was surgery to save his life. It was walking in and kissing him finally when I thought he was going to die on the table. It was painful recovering from surgery. It was more silence so as to “not scare you”. It was watching him grow weak. It was trying to reassure myself that this wasn’t happening. It was kissing him goodbye for the last time. It was them letting me walk out without telling me how sick he was. It was them telling me I was his angel. It was telling them to stop CPR. It was breaking every breakable thing within an immediate grasp of my hands when I got home. It was uncertainty and terror. It was being completely and utterly dead to the world for years. What you see at surface level of “oh wow, your husband died” is an incredibly nuanced ball of trauma that is incredibly hard to even begin to unravel.
Then there’s the other part: What it takes to survive. That focusing on getting the house packed up and moved to a new State. That was buying a house and putting down roots to get some stability again. That was days of wearing masks when all I wanted to do was curl up in the corner and cry until I had nothing left in me to give. That was faking being okay. That was having to talk myself through reasons to open my eyes and get out of bed in the morning. That was avoiding my favorite music, not eating my favorite foods. That was avoiding people when I could. That was taking a new job and crying on the staircase for an hour because it felt EMPTY and hallow. That was curling up into a body pillow every night for over a year just so that my Mom wouldn’t hear the crying all the time. That was having to hide razor blades in the bathroom. That was starting a group specifically for younger widows and widowers to come together and talk about what we were going through even though I DID NOT want to talk to anyone. That was not caring if I lived or died but then slowly starting to care. That was meeting new people, finally focusing on my health. That was taking the time to admit that I wasn’t okay and letting people know. That was painstakingly coming back to life. That was road trips and going to my favorite restaurants. That was video games and music. That was getting a clarinet and re-teaching myself to play again. That was laughing and talking and being. That was making new friends and realizing I had really strong feelings again. That was making the decision to move back to Seattle when my world blew up again in 2018. That was deciding to find ways to be happy. That was being where I am now…and being who I am now. That’s finally feeling alive and whole (for the most part).
I tell you all of that to tell you this: Every person on the planet who has lost someone – either to death or just losing their relationship to them one way or the other – and has this story. We all have our falling into the darkness and coming back out of it victorious story. And while pride in myself isn’t something I do particularly well – If there is one thing I will forever recognize myself for and always be grateful for? It is that I’m still here. Whatever I am now is shaped in no small part by what I watched him endure and what I endured along with him. I may not always be my absolute biggest fan in the entirety of the world: but I am still a badass. I know I try to bounce out of the negatives a lot by saying that. But it is true. I am a badass. I bring a lot to the table. And I would do absolutely anything for the people that I love. It takes a lot to come back from these things. It takes a lot of reassurance, a lot of work, a lot of calling yourself on your own bullshit. It takes a lot of contemplation, a lot of mindfulness, and a lot of reminding yourself that it is over. It takes a lot of trust in yourself and the people around you. And you will make a lot of mistakes. Grief in and of itself encompasses so many hits and misses. You have to get comfortable trusting that even the things you mess up will be worth it in the end. You’ll do a lot of things that are right that won’t feel like it right away. You’ll be judged for it every step of the way.
It takes a lot to fight the demons that plague you. And every swing of your sword should come with a badge of honor that you are still standing. And if you haven’t been in these situations? If you haven’t experienced this soul shredding type of event? You have no business telling anyone else what you would do or what it takes to survive. We all survive in our own ways. You don’t get to decide what that looks like for anyone else.
