it has been difficult to write. I have been deep in the struggle. I did not realize so much time had passed since I have visited this blog. I have, at least, been doing some small scrap of writing, hand writing, in my journal. but, not much.
This nearly 3 months has swallowed me up. I'm not on the other side of things as I had hoped I might be. I know the grief will never go away. I know it will change; ebb and flow. There is a life before Ursa and there is now a life after Ursa. There is no going back. The surprises of loss, like expecting to see her when I wake up or when I walk into a room, are less jagged. There is not the same bite of shock arising when I think of her. This is the medicine of time passing, I guess.
My days have been preoccupied with physical pain. I have never experienced anything like this. For these past three months, there has been excruciating and unrelenting pain in my shoulders, upper, middle back, neck, and arms. I haven't slept well in days. I am worsening, which is bringing significant alarm to me and to my doctor. I'm going to a doctor today. I'm going for a CT scan. I'm terrified of the possibility of a tumor.
yet, the pain is stunning and fierce. I took hydromet (which is a liquid form of hydrocodein...used as a cough suppressant and pain reliever). It suppresses the cough. It takes the edge off the pain, but doesn't soothe it entirely. Oh, did I mention I have walking pneumonia?
I can barely tolerate being conscious most of the time. It hurts to sit at a computer and write this. I feel like I have a rusty dagger in the top of my spine. My arms ache with pain. I am good for nothing. It hurts to brush my hair, put on clothes, sit, stand, lay down, walk, talk, connect, relate. I don't drive anymore. I don't leave the house. My life is spiraling into nothingness.
I have so much empathy for sufferers of chronic pain and debilitating medical conditions. I wait for time to pass. I have 1 and 1/2 hours before I go to the doctor. then hopefully a CT scan. Then, hopefully I come home and take hydromet and it knocks me out and I find a position that doesn't further aggravate my neck or arms and I sleep. But, that never happens. I mostly take the edge off, still can't find a comfortable position, I cat nap for 20-60 minutes at a time, writhe in pain, whine a bit, and feel super sleepy, exhausted, groggy, and mentally opaque. I wait for the next marker of time: morning, the next dose, a scheduled phone call etc etc.
I feel disconnected from myself and even more disconnected from connection. I'm a stranger to everyone. including me. I'm fading away.
I am scared that I am facing something that will further debilitate me or kill me. I can't convince myself otherwise. If I've learned nothing from the past year, it's this: nothing is guaranteed. An easy death or healing process is not promised to anyone. Tragedy, trauma, and life changing events sneak up and surprise you. There doesn't have to be a warning. It doesn't matter how much trauma healing you've done, or how good you are or how diligent you are with good health choices. Shit fucking happens. Your horse chokes on her grain and her esophagus bursts and, without any preparation, you are laying in mud that sucks your boots off, covered in blood, holding her head, stroking her soft ears as the euthanasia carries her from the terror of this moment into a flood of light beyond your reach. Your dog spontaneously develops a mass in her abdomen that ruptures and causes her massive internal bleeding, despite the fact that she had an A+ good bill of health check the day before and good xrays a few weeks prior. You spend the worst 18 hours of your life grappling with this sudden and new reality and try to make choices that are best for her from a place in you that is torn apart with shock and terror, sleeplessness, and mindbending grief. You lay on the floor, holding her in your arms, your head resting on the top of her head, your body spooning her, as you've always done. and you hold her as she loosens from this world and leaves you and this beautiful body of soft fur for a mystery that is so far out of your reach. You don't know if you will ever see her again. You howl and writhe in the agony of this shocking separation, fall to your face on the asphalt parking lot, and within seconds your arms spool themselves tightly into your sides. your wings snap. and all light blinks out.
oh, my grief is still so wide.
my Ursa, my Ursa. my whole body has been broken by this.
I am compelled to write all of this because, one, I always have turned to writing as a strategy for survival. My dozens and dozens of journals I've kept since I was a kid can attest to that. Two, I listened to a chronic pain podcast with Nichole Sachs and resonated with the possibility that this pain is directly related to trauma, and therefore accessed and healed by unwrapping those stories, feelings, and writings to bring them into motion. It makes sense, even as I just had a howling grief after writing that last paragraph, that, as much as I think I am connected to the grief, the pain and pneumonia certainly do act as guardians against really going there. It makes sense to practice writing daily to connect with the underlying emotions so that my body can learn, be reminded, remember that I can feel these feelings and I will not die.
So I start this journey.
Seems like a good sign that this first writing brought me to my guttural grief again. My upper back is spasming, the knife in the back of my heart is hot with pain. It hurts to take a deep breath. My scapulae are a mixture of numbness, tingling, and fiery pain. But, here I am.
Ursa, my forever love, every molecule of this infinite tsunami of sorrow is equally matched to the ocean of celebration and love I carry for you. I will never stop loving you.
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