What is normal? In two parts.

“I will not say: Do not weep; for not all tears are an evil.”

~J.R.R. Tolkien, “The Return of the King”

It's been just over a month since my life changed drastically.

I am learning what normal is now. Well, normal-adjacent. I can't ever say I knew what normal was to start with, so I certainly don't know what normal is now. But I'm finding my normal.

A dear cousin shared with me the concept of grief brain fog. It wasn't something I had heard of before, not in the sense of grief, but there's a truth to it. It's like a fog settles into your brain. It makes your daily actions fuzzy.

I've certainly had some fuzzy days lately.

I've had a lot of "adulting" to do as well. One thing people don't tell you about is the amount of red tape and paperwork involved in someone dying. There are so many people you have to inform, so many decisions you have to make, so many papers you have to fill out. I've barely begun to scratch the surface.

The kids -- I don't like to speak for them, but people are asking after them -- are doing fairly well. M competed in her state archery shoot last weekend. It was a hard shoot for her, but she finished.

Her dad would be so proud. He'd be proud that she kept going this season, in spite of how hard it was. That she finished.

Jim would say that life goes on. And he'd be right. So we must go on.

But we can still have our moments. Tears are not weakness and neither is grief. It's a process. It's a painful process. I have my days where I lock away and don't answer. It's what I do to mentally recharge from the world anyway, but it's needed so much more these days.

I have my breakdowns. It's part of it.

It's easy during the day to imagine life as "normal." I catch myself wanting to text, waiting for the tone from his phone checking in, or thinking about what he'd want for dinner.

For some people, I've noticed, there's a lot of uncertainty.

...

Pt. 2

As has been the norm for me lately, the days get away from me. Before I know it, we're now at 2 months.

Two months ago, I lost the love of my life. 

I feel like I've managed well. At least to everyone else.

But the truth is? It's been a lot of foggy days. Days I really don't remember clearly. Some good, some bad. Several bad.

Bad moments. Many bad moments. Moments where I feel my breath stolen away again. Like my lungs have forgotten how to take in the air. Like my heart has forgotten how to beat. Like all I can do is cry.

Some more subtle. Instances where I feel like everyone knows and is staring or talking about me being "the widow."

Or where I feel like they don't know and I want to scream because -- to me -- my brain can't make sense of living life normally when normal no longer exists. My world has shifted. 

But the outside world has not.

And we must go on.

I wrote about that in my last post.

There's been good days, too. Good moments. Moments where I can enjoy things. Time with friends and family. Silly dog antics. Kindness of utter strangers. 

Moments where I see something that I know would have made Jim laugh and I can't help but smile. I hear a joke he would have made pop in my head. I hear his voice making one of his witty remarks.

Those moments make the others easier. They make them hurt less. They make my heart so very happy.

But normal? I don't know that I'll find that for a while. I certainly won't "get back to normal."

Although, I do have to question if I ever was, but you get the gist. There was a normal for me. This life I'm living now? It certainly isn't it.

Most days are OK. 

But grief is a never-ending cycle. It's like the ocean. There are waves, tides, moments you can predict. You know these moments will be hard: the anniversaries, the firsts.

There's undercurrents. There's unexpected, unpredictable moments where your breath is stolen from your lungs and you can't find the way up. Random times when a song comes on and catches you by surprise or a memory sneaks up.

Grief and mourning, like the ocean, can be beautiful, but also dark. It's powerful and strong, but sometimes gentle and calm. It brings life, but it can bring pain too.

Everyone thinks grief is this horrible thing. But it's not. It's a part of life, of growth, of existing in the world. It doesn't just go away and get all better.

Some friends have sent me books on the topic. I've been slowly reading through them. Something that's a common thread is this: grief is a companion.

It's not like you sit and dwell. But you have to learn to take it by the hand and bring it along. Because it's coming whether you want it there or not. But figuring out how to live with it makes managing it easier than trying to pretend it isn't there.

A lot of people try to push it down and bottle it up. And sometimes you have to in the moment. But you can't leave it locked away in a little box. Eventually, it's going to bust out. It's going to overflow that box.

from @dinosaurcouch on Instagram.

Shoot, it does that anyway. Like I said, it's unpredictable.

The only real predictable thing about grief is how unpredictable it is, if we're being honest.

Anyway, I'm doing OK. 

Most days. Some days not. 

But, it's OK to not be OK, too. 

Sometimes you need to just exist in the not OK. You don't need to "fix" it and you don't need to push or control or change it.

You just need to be.

For now, I'm OK.

How about you?

I hope, if any of our dear friends are reading this, that you reach out to me if you're struggling. Or someone. There's no shame in admitting it's hard. 

But if you're not OK, like overwhelmingly not OK, please talk to someone. My phone is on (for the most part) and my door is open. I might be a mess, too, but we can be a mess together if you need. And if not me, then someone else. 

My husband would agree, I promise.

So if you can't do it for yourself, do it for us.