A Thousand Little Cuts

These past six weeks I’ve buried myself into fitness and activities with my children.  Although I would have done this anyway, I’ll also confess that a certain amount of busyness was to keep my mind off the passing of my mother.

But there are little reminders everywhere, and each one of them feels like a razor cut, stinging me all over again. Like when I reached into the refrigerator the other day and saw a bottle of her Boost, the only thing she could drink towards the end, and my breath caught in my throat.  Or when my Groove Book photo album came back and I realized it would be the last one with pictures of my mother in it.

Today I was waiting for my dance teacher to arrive when the Pharmacy called.  They had her auto-renewal medications ready for pick up and I had to tell them she died and then I cried after ending the call.  It’s tough to dance when you’re crying.

My calendar is a minefield of pre-scheduled doctor appointments that never will be attended and family birthdays she won’t get to celebrate.

I’m cycling through the stages of grief but there’s one stage I’m going through that’s not really mentioned:  paranoia.  Or maybe hypochondria. It’s actually a little funny, in a morbid sort of way.

The other week I went to the dermatologist to remove a suspicious mole on my shoulder.  She ended up removing three altogether.  The office left a message (on a Friday) that my test results had come in and to call them back.  They neglected to mention that they closed their office at noon on Fridays.  I had, of course, called at 12:15 and would not be able to get my results until Monday.  So over the weekend I convinced myself I had cancer and was going to die. 

This was totally plausible in my mind because last October I actually did have a mole that was cancerous and had to be removed.  It was no big deal, actually, but in my head all three moles were symptoms that I was at stage 4 and I was already writing my own eulogy.

My poor husband had to talk me down from crazy while he tried to watch reality TV.

“Lisa, you’re just freaking out because both your parents died of cancer.  That doesn’t mean you have it or will get it ever.”

“My head’s been hurting for the past two days too.  That’s not normal.  The cancer probably already spread to my brain.”

“You’re stressed out and you’re not sleeping; that’s why you have a headache.  You don’t have cancer.”

“Who needs cancer when I’m probably going to get hit by a bus, right?  Remember after my mother was first diagnosed I got rear ended when I was sitting at a red light?  And then the SAME EXACT THING HAPPENED AGAIN!?!  AT THE CORNER OF WELLS BRANCH AND SURRENDER AVENUE!?!  Surrender Avenue?  I mean, God is trying to tell me something.”

“You’re not going to get hit by a bus.”

“You just don’t understand!  I can’t talk to you!”  I’m crying now and get up to leave.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m taking Advil for my brain aneurysm and going to bed!”

P.S. – The moles were benign.

Fortunately, I just received a package from the hospice company and it talked about some common things people experience after the death of someone close and a fear of one’s own mortality was listed.

Whew!  At least I’m a normal kind of crazy.  (My husband agrees.) Hospice also said that the grief process is filled with progressions and regressions, guilt and anger, and lots of intermittent tears. But tomorrow comes and you have to live.

I wiped my eyes and did my dance.  I’m so grateful I have fitness in my life.  It keeps me grounded and gives me something to look forward to.

How about you?  How do you handle grief?

Lisa 😉

Lisa Traugott is a Mom’s Choice Award winning writer, fitness blogger, wife and mom of two.  Her book, “She’s Losing It!”  is available at Amazon.com.

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