A common sentiment throughout this whole experience is how strong I have been.
I don’t feel strong, I feel quite weak, so when others say I’m strong, I wonder what in the world they’re basing that on.
After the funeral, my brother told me how proud he was of how strong I was during everything. One of my sons mentioned that I was going an impressive 100 miles an hour.
When I returned to work, I was told I was strong, I’d get through it and be okay.
I’m here to tell you, strength is finite. I may look strong, but I may be holding onto the last threads of it, you know? I might even be faking it.
Newsflash: I was definitely faking it and still am.
Within an hour or two of Dwight’s passing, I had to begin making so many decisions I couldn’t even begin to count. The first decision was what funeral home I wanted Dwight taken to and the next was to let the squad know when it was okay to remove him from the house and start his journey there.
And thus started the lengthy string of decisions that I never wanted to make.
Somehow, I made it through. I answered all the questions, made all the decisions and did all the things. Everyone thought I was being strong. I wasn’t. It was a force-play. What else was I to do? No one else could have done those things, it was my responsibility and it was not the time to melt into a puddle on the floor, as much as I would have preferred that.
I honestly think that all the ritual surrounding death and funerals, all the details that need handled, all the things that need gathered, and all appointments to attend were devised solely as activities to keep those that are grieving so busy that they have no time to fall apart.
It worked for me. I fell apart after it was all over. Later. In private.
I know that people don’t know what to say when someone dies. It’s all awkward, people feel helpless and there just isn’t anything to say that will make it all better.
Most often, assurances of my strength fell on deaf ears, mine.
“You’re so strong, you’ll get through this” didn’t sit so well with me, it was almost as if this was a blip on the screen, not a major blow to my world and things would be right as rain, shortly.
“God won’t give you more than you can handle” was a frequent variation.
Oh, yeah? Then, God must think I’m a badass.
I can’t imagine anyone ever being strong after learning their world and life as they know it are over, and although I’m not a religious person, I highly doubt that God would throw extra crap at someone because they could deal with it better. I’m pretty sure that’s not how it goes.
If not strength, then what?
I got through it because I had to. I had no choice.
I went back to work because I had to. Again, I had no choice. There was no life insurance and we weren’t wealthy – choices were null and void.
I continue on because I have no choice. It is what it is.
It’s not strength; it’s survival mode with a side dish of desperation.