He Broke My Heart

Figuratively and literally, Tom broke my heart when he died.

In the last four months I have had two aFib episodes which did not resolve without medical intervention.  It is not lost on me that the first one was the night before our wedding anniversary (and a few weeks before his birthday) and that the second one was  four days before his angelversary.  I do not believe these are coincidences.  The body never forgets, it keeps score.  And while the emotional charge surrounding these events is not a strong as it was the first two years, evidently the somatic memory still carries power.  So I've done a lot of work to recover from this loss and my body is betraying me.  $#*!  This is not what I had intended.  In some ways the aFib has spurred me on to take better care of myself, which I have.  I've done everything that I can to change the dynamic but it is a long slow process with small increments of success and some setbacks (like these stupid aFib episodes).

Having heart stuff is scary.  After the first episode in September I had a full cardiac work-up which revealed I'm in good shape, no cardiac disease.  But in the midst of feeling bad, it feels like I'll never feel better again.  It would be so easy to let fear and worry and this disorder run my life.  But I refuse.  I will not live on medications that sap my energy and zest for life.  I watched my mom's doctor's throw medicine at her and the impact it had.  It took my intervention to get her off of the ones that were unnecessary and to change the doses to ones that were appropriate for her, not just what the protocol said.  Whenever I deal with the medical system, I feel like I have to arm myself for battle.  I had to do that for Tom.  Now I have to do it for me for there is no one else to do.  It is exhausting, particularly when not feeling well.  I miss that about a partnership, someone having your back and to fight the fight when you're weary.  Actually, there are a lot of things I miss about a partnership.  I was a happily married woman until cancer stole my husband.

I am committed to building an awesome life and doing things that I love and give my life meaning.  No little ole irregular heartbeat is going to stop me from doing so.  I sound brave, bold and badass.  I didn't sound that way yesterday in the Emergency Room.

Sucker Punched. Again

Damn it!  That wicked old grief has jumped back in and sucker punched me in the gut.  Again.  Two weeks ago I was saying that I was feeling content.  And the last week has been a roller coaster of grief, anxiety, overwhelming emotions and tears.  Big snotty, raging, screaming out loud, pleading tears.  That hasn't happened in a very long time.  I do not welcome the revisiting of the memories.  In fact, unless I really think about exactly what day it is, I do not connect it to the events of each day three years ago.  But my body has not forgotten and thus my mind has not either.  Three years ago Tom was in his final hospitalization.  The fear of the unknown and the excruciating prospect of what was to come was too much to bear, as is the memory of that time.  Looking back I do not know how I survived it.

January is a difficult month.  Bubba died right before the end of the year.  My father died in early January in 1999.  Tom died in late January, three days before my birthday.  This is my hell month.  I just want to get through it, fast.  I do not enjoy this.  I am tired of just surviving, and waiting to get to the good stuff.  This is not the life I signed up for but it is the one that I have.  It takes an enormous amount of energy to mourn.  And an equal amount of energy to build a new life. It is a slow painful process and is not to be hurried, no matter how desirable it would be. My patience is wearing thin, thankfully not my resolve.