you know it's coming to an end when...
Over the years, I've discovered that my body tends to do its best to align itself with where I am at emotionally. If I'm not doing something with integrity, my back hurts. If I'm looking the wrong way or turning the other cheek, I tend to get a crick in my neck. If I'm keeping my mouth shut for something I probably shouldn't, I usually get a cough or a sore throat. You get the idea.
I often forget that mind-body connection, but I got the message this time, loud and clear. I've had a bit of a head cold for several days now, a bit of congestion. I thought it was breaking last week but it came back with a vengeance. It has been mostly in my sinus, right behind my eyeballs, pressing against them in that oh-so-lovely way that makes you feel like your head just might actually explode if someone were to hit a high note or scratch a nail along a chalkboard. I've also had really tight crampy muscles.
Elisabeth Kubler-Ross is credited with popularizing the five-stages model of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Though there are many similar models, they vary only slightly, and so we'll use the EKR model here. When my Daddy died last year, the stages of grief weren't very 'mystical' to me, not like when either of my Grampas died. I recognized each stage as I passed through it, and would pat myself on the bum for reaching each new stage, while alternately reminding myself it was OK to slip backwards every now and again. Let's proceed.
Denial:
I got the phonecall on the boat, and when Daddy's friend said, "Your father had a heart attack - I'm sorry to tell you he didn't make it," you can bet the first, second, third, and fifty third words from my mouth all sounded a lot like this: Noooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!! Being on a boat in the river valley I imagine LOTS of people heard me wailing out that one single word - the other passengers, the cyclists and joggers, residents unlucky enough to be situated low enough on riverside...
Anger:
There was a lot of road rage on the way to the hospital. There was a lot of anger at the people in the hospital, for being there, for not understanding, for... for... couldn't they see my DADDY just DIED? The bastards. None of them, not ONE knew what I was going through. I hated my stepmom for having so much of his time, I hated my mother for not giving him a second chance, I hated my sister for living all the way in Arizona and leaving ME to deal with all of it...
Bargaining:
I would have given everything I had, given my own children, to hear my Daddy say, just once more, "Hi, Hopey," while doing that little curtsey thing he did. I sat in the back yard in the dark wishing it so hard, I think the apple trees whispered it so I would go to bed.
Depression:
This one lasted a long time, and I still have moments where it washes over me, like every time I hear that damned Jack Johnson 'Old Train' song that I don't even really LIKE all that much... Sometimes my sons or my uncle will reminisce, and it hits me, "Whoa - my Daddy's really dead. ~whew~ Who knew?" and I have to have a little cry so I can continue with my day.
Acceptance:
My Daddy is dead. I don't like using cheesy euphemisms like he's passed on, returned to his maker, waiting for us in heaven, etc. Because he is dead, and a rose by any other name... I won't ever hear him say, "Hi, Hopey," again. He won't be in any more of the pictures from Christmas or birthday parties. I won't ever feel a hug from him again (though one from my Uncle Adolph is a damn fine surrogate.) This makes me sad, but he is dead. I allow myself to miss him. I am no longer consumed by his absence.
Last night, my nose started running and I kept stretching. I imagine this is my body's way of letting me know that I'm no longer emotionally congested, and it's time to stretch into my new skin. I'm pleased with how quickly I went from wanting to have Popular Boy's nuts on a necklace, to thinking I could probably laugh about what happened over a coffee with him.
What changed? Well, you can all go back and re-read, if you must, the previous posts and figure out how the Elisabeth Kubler Ross stages were passed through. The switch flipped for me when I figured out what I'd ask Popular Boy. I crawled inside his skin and answered for him as best as I could, so that HIS 14-year old had a voice, too. He was brutally honest with me. Here's what he said:
TB: Did you like me or did you just think I was easy?
PB: I didn't think you were easy, but I figured I could get in your pants. I don't know if actually I liked you or not. I never really thought about that.
TB: Why did you tell everyone that lie?
PB: I thought it was funny, I guess. I also didn't want anyone thinking that, you know - YOU turned me down. My homeboys - they were counting on me. I had to come up with something.
TB: Did you ever feel bad about it?
PB: Not really, not then. I was mad at you, for turning me out. It was embarrassing. I was a virgin, too, and I honestly though that might have been... I dunno. I guess I feel bad about it now - I never knew how much it hurt you. I'm sorry.
TB: Bygones, my friend. Bygones.
Now, if only I could figure out why the hell my OVARY is acting up...
I often forget that mind-body connection, but I got the message this time, loud and clear. I've had a bit of a head cold for several days now, a bit of congestion. I thought it was breaking last week but it came back with a vengeance. It has been mostly in my sinus, right behind my eyeballs, pressing against them in that oh-so-lovely way that makes you feel like your head just might actually explode if someone were to hit a high note or scratch a nail along a chalkboard. I've also had really tight crampy muscles.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Elisabeth Kubler-Ross is credited with popularizing the five-stages model of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Though there are many similar models, they vary only slightly, and so we'll use the EKR model here. When my Daddy died last year, the stages of grief weren't very 'mystical' to me, not like when either of my Grampas died. I recognized each stage as I passed through it, and would pat myself on the bum for reaching each new stage, while alternately reminding myself it was OK to slip backwards every now and again. Let's proceed.
Denial:
I got the phonecall on the boat, and when Daddy's friend said, "Your father had a heart attack - I'm sorry to tell you he didn't make it," you can bet the first, second, third, and fifty third words from my mouth all sounded a lot like this: Noooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!! Being on a boat in the river valley I imagine LOTS of people heard me wailing out that one single word - the other passengers, the cyclists and joggers, residents unlucky enough to be situated low enough on riverside...
Anger:
There was a lot of road rage on the way to the hospital. There was a lot of anger at the people in the hospital, for being there, for not understanding, for... for... couldn't they see my DADDY just DIED? The bastards. None of them, not ONE knew what I was going through. I hated my stepmom for having so much of his time, I hated my mother for not giving him a second chance, I hated my sister for living all the way in Arizona and leaving ME to deal with all of it...
Bargaining:
I would have given everything I had, given my own children, to hear my Daddy say, just once more, "Hi, Hopey," while doing that little curtsey thing he did. I sat in the back yard in the dark wishing it so hard, I think the apple trees whispered it so I would go to bed.
Depression:
This one lasted a long time, and I still have moments where it washes over me, like every time I hear that damned Jack Johnson 'Old Train' song that I don't even really LIKE all that much... Sometimes my sons or my uncle will reminisce, and it hits me, "Whoa - my Daddy's really dead. ~whew~ Who knew?" and I have to have a little cry so I can continue with my day.
Acceptance:
My Daddy is dead. I don't like using cheesy euphemisms like he's passed on, returned to his maker, waiting for us in heaven, etc. Because he is dead, and a rose by any other name... I won't ever hear him say, "Hi, Hopey," again. He won't be in any more of the pictures from Christmas or birthday parties. I won't ever feel a hug from him again (though one from my Uncle Adolph is a damn fine surrogate.) This makes me sad, but he is dead. I allow myself to miss him. I am no longer consumed by his absence.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Last night, my nose started running and I kept stretching. I imagine this is my body's way of letting me know that I'm no longer emotionally congested, and it's time to stretch into my new skin. I'm pleased with how quickly I went from wanting to have Popular Boy's nuts on a necklace, to thinking I could probably laugh about what happened over a coffee with him.
What changed? Well, you can all go back and re-read, if you must, the previous posts and figure out how the Elisabeth Kubler Ross stages were passed through. The switch flipped for me when I figured out what I'd ask Popular Boy. I crawled inside his skin and answered for him as best as I could, so that HIS 14-year old had a voice, too. He was brutally honest with me. Here's what he said:
TB: Did you like me or did you just think I was easy?
PB: I didn't think you were easy, but I figured I could get in your pants. I don't know if actually I liked you or not. I never really thought about that.
TB: Why did you tell everyone that lie?
PB: I thought it was funny, I guess. I also didn't want anyone thinking that, you know - YOU turned me down. My homeboys - they were counting on me. I had to come up with something.
TB: Did you ever feel bad about it?
PB: Not really, not then. I was mad at you, for turning me out. It was embarrassing. I was a virgin, too, and I honestly though that might have been... I dunno. I guess I feel bad about it now - I never knew how much it hurt you. I'm sorry.
TB: Bygones, my friend. Bygones.
Now, if only I could figure out why the hell my OVARY is acting up...
Comments
I'm very proud of you in the way you processed the bad memory of your first boy/girl encounter. I almost wrote sexual encounter but that would be a stretch.
I love how you wrote out a script to tie everything up. I'm going to take heed of your wisdom and try the script thing. I think it's brilliant. Do you feel like the door just slammed shut behind the skeleton?
(That was me laughing as I walked back into the house to get some chocolate covered almonds, settle in to my swivelling office chair with a good gossip magazine, and wait for my next Scrabulous turn...)