I Stepped In A Cake Pan

Living in an emotional bubble clouds my vision, steals my balance, robs me of sleep and causes me to step in the middle of a cake pan laying on my living room floor. Why? Refer to "emotional bubble clouds my vision". This cake pan was nestled in the top of several other baking pans. They slid out from under me and I, fortunately, fell onto a nearby chair. 

I have fallen more in the past three months than I have fallen in my entire life. I simply am not aware of my physical environment. Well, I am not aware until I find myself moving through the air towards the floor or the ground or, if lucky, onto a nearby chair. Each time is a complete surprise. That thought could go unsaid as only trained professionals plan to fall. I am not a trained professional of anything that comes to mind at this moment.

I am not as young as I once was and reporting I am falling more now frequently illicits raised eyebrows and pointed questions from medical professionals. How do I tell them that I am in a bubble, lost in thought, lost in the absence of the rigors of long term caregiving, lost in grieving my husband's death and clumsy by nature. I lose them at my first attempt to explain. I think they are just waiting for the magic number of falls to qualify me for concerned confinement. Maybe I am dramatic. Maybe they are not even raising their eyebrows at my situation. Could be they have a loose eyelash or are thinking of someone in a genuine pickle? 

Nah, the world is all about me! I am visible to myself.  Hyper-aware of my needs and acutely aware of the need for fulfillment. Maybe that is why I fall and step in cake pans and trip over boxes, cords and the edges of other stuff lurking on the floor. With my nose firmly planted in my navel as I yell, "Hello in there!" The first three letters of Hello echo back. "Hell, hell, hell!" and then silence. Who is speaking to me from my navel? I think they must see my needs and want to meet them. Sadly all the evidence points to the contrary of any caring someone echoing back to me from my navel.

Moments like the ones I have taken to write this post give me a startle. What on earth lives in my grey matter that allows this drivel to flow with ease? I suspect whatever resides in my belly button is causing me to fall.. Someone is responsible and I am confident it is not me!

Following The Thread

Robert passed away on July 17, 2019. He was sick for a long, long time. He was terminal. We knew he was terminal long before he died. I was his primary caregiver. He lost ground slowly. The brain cells seemed to be dying individually. Changes in Robert came and went varying in intensity. I believed he was dying on several occasions. He would rally back and time would begin the inexorable march towards the end. We learned to live with that knowledge without discussing it or staring at it. Yet, the waiting hung in the air shadowing every conversation of "when" or "next year". The years came and went bringing a false sense of permanency as time passed. The day came when we were no longer able to handle the need for care and the caregiving by ourselves. Our world, so private and veiled before, became an open book to health professionals, aides, social services and friends. Unbelievably private in my own home I let go of my distaste for people in our space and flung open the doors to the care of strangers who became like family to both of us.

One day the inevitable became the reality just around the corner. The next day the reality fulfilled the diagnosis and Robert died. There are prettier phrases I could use but the truth is that Robert died. I was in shock. How could he go without me? "Wait", I wanted to shout! After all we were doing this together and now he was gone and he did not take me. I was angry. I was confused. I stuffed all those conflicting feelings and did what I always have done in my life. I told myself and everyone else that it was a long time coming. We finally came to the end of our journey together. No funeral. No dwelling on the present reality for me. I began moving on, or so I thought.

It is almost seven months since Robert walked out on me. Seven months since I realized I was left behind. I have had many amazing moments since Robert died. Reconnecting with family and having the freedom to begin looking at my own life are great freedoms. Many times I hear Robert call my name just as he did when I was his caregiver. I have even felt the presence of more people than Robert in our home. I do not believe it is anything hocus-pocus. I did at one time. Today I understand that my smiles and my pretenses of moving on are haunting me.I am in grief. Predictably, I thought I had missed the grieving part. Robert and I grieved together. I believed the grieving we did time after time left me with little to grieve when he died. I was wrong.

One day I realized that I needed help. I was here but not here. I was living in a world of alarming disconnection with the actual world around me. I wanted to isolate. I wanted to call people and tell them that Robert was dead as if it were a shock and they did not know it yet. I resisted the urge to call and scream into the phone that Robert was dead. Did they know? Could they see the absence in my heart? Was I as invisible as I felt every day?

I joined a grief support group last week. I joined it out of fear that I could not find myself on my own. I left that group feeling hope, apprehension, anger and ambivalence. I will go back. I need to know that Robert is gone. He died. I need to understand that in my heart of hearts and to join myself to this world I live in today. I am afraid and I am not convinced that I can handle the truth. Well, I cannot handle the truth by myself. God will use these people to reach me. I did not get to leave with Robert. I have a purpose here for now. I have a heavy heart. I am lost and waiting for direction. I am alive.