So How Are You?

I just called someone. I don’t know her very well, but she reached out and touched me in a special way so I wanted to thank her in person. She answered her phone with “Hello” and I said “Hi, How are you?” Pretty standard stuff. But when she tried to answer I thought I heard some emotion in her voice when she said “That’s a terrible question.” I can relate. Right now, that’s often not a good question for me either.

If someone asks me how I am in a passing manner, I say I’m alright or I’m okay. It’s an automatic response to the standard question. I don’t share my life story with them. But if I know they care about me and are asking because they want a real answer, there are times the question makes my brain come to a complete stop, like when someone asks you a question you don’t want to answer in front of other people. You feel on guard and search for a way to get out of answering the question. [This is just me. Everyone is different. I don’t have this reaction all the time. Some people might have it all the time and others may never have it.]

I can’t explain why the question makes my brain stop, but I have a few theories. My first theory is it might act as a trigger that turns my mind to how awful I actually feel even if I’m feeling okay at the moment. Theory #2 is I don’t know how to answer the question other than to say I’m awful and I’m better off saying nothing because that would end the conversation right then and there with both of us feeling badly. And third, I’m living in my own little grief universe now and sometimes forget other people don’t know how badly I feel so I get taken aback when they ask.

The problem is people don’t know what to say to people like me. I myself still don’t know what to say to people like me so I know how uncomfortable it can be. People genuinely want to know how I’m doing so they ask. I appreciate their concern. I know it comes from a good place so I try to answer in some way.

The truth is I can’t describe how I’m feeling. There’s nothing I can compare it to. Believe me, I’ve thought about this a lot because I’d love to come up with a good answer. I just can’t. But I think it’s worth trying for three reasons: 1. It might make me feel better to have a deeper understanding of how I feel; 2. It might help you next time you speak to someone who’s grieving; and 3. We don’t talk about grief enough. We’re all going to experience it in one form or another at various times in our lives so the more we know the better we’ll be able to cope with it.

But before I try to describe how I’m feeling, let me first describe my state of mind before Cole died so we can at least use my before and after mindsets as a basis for comparison.  

Most of my life had been a fairy tale before Cole died. I often said to myself “This is too good to be true. What did I do to deserve this?” On a happiness scale of one to ten, I would say I was usually at eight or nine, sometimes as high as ten and sometimes as low as six.

I was an optimistic person. The glass was always half full. My glasses were always rose tinted. I firmly believed things would always work out. Life was good.

Then Cole died. Life changed and so did I. 

One thing I feel now is lonely. I couldn’t ask for better support from my friends and family. They’d all do anything to take my pain away, but no one can help me on this grief journey. No one can understand exactly what I’m feeling. It’s up to me and me alone to figure out how I’m going to live with Cole’s death. There’s no road map because everyone’s journey is different. That makes it lonely.

I also feel an ever present, profound sadness. I feel worse than I thought was humanly possible. In the past, when I saw people wailing from extreme grief I’d wonder “How could it possibly be so bad?” Now I know. This sadness envelopes my entire body. It’s like the long underwear (top and bottom) I wear in winter. I can feel its constant presence. Come to think of it, it’s not just sadness. It’s a combination of sadness and pain, like long underwear made from wool and polyester.

On a happiness scale, I’d say I’m now between one and five. Yes, I smile and laugh and joke around. I may even appear to be my old, normal self at times. I want to be happy, but the feeling of unbridled happiness is never there. I can’t take the long underwear off.

I’m still optimistic. It’s my nature. But now I know anything can happen at any time. Doubt curtails my optimism.

I feel more self-centered than I did before. I’m trying to take care of myself as best I can so there are times I put myself first when I wouldn’t have done so before Cole died. That makes me uncomfortable. But I also always try to think about how I can help the people close to me who are grieving Cole, too. (This is something Cole would do, probably much more so than me.) We’re each on our own lonely, similar yet different journeys.

I’m more tired than before. Dealing with grief is very wearing. I carry on with life as best I can and I do the things I need to do, but I’m careful not to spend energy on unimportant things. Perhaps that’s good.

There are times I picture two Michaels, Outer Michael and Inner Michael. Outer Michael is living life, doing things, conversing with other people and pretending he’s alright. Someone watching might think “He’s doing well. He’s strong. Back to normal. Good for him.” The semblance of normalcy and laughter are helpful. They stop me from getting too low. But Inner Michael is my true self and Inner Michael wears long underwear and watches Outer Michael like he’s an actor in a play.

These are the big picture items. The feelings I walk around with all the time. What about the smaller stuff? How do I feel day to day?

An important piece of advice we were given was to take care of our health because dealing with the grief was going to consume a lot of our energy.

I was already very health conscious. I have what I think of as my three pillars of good health – eat, sleep and exercise. I continue to exercise every day and try to eat as healthily as I can. My sleep has changed a little, though. I still fall asleep quickly, but when I wake up in the middle of the night I don’t fall right back asleep in a few seconds like I used to. Now I stay awake thinking about Cole and am more tired when morning comes.

I start almost every day with a ten-minute meditation in Cole’s room. It makes me feel like I’m spending time with him and that’s a good way to start my day.

I’ve always liked spending time at home, but sometimes when I’m home alone or when everyone else is sleeping I think of Cole and get super sad. I might end up crying or sobbing at these times. Sometimes I wail. It would be too exhausting to spend entire days like this so most days I pull some clothes on over my long underwear and head out into the world for a distraction. Something that takes my mind on a little vacation.

My distractions are important. They’re so important that I think of them as my fourth pillar of good health. When my mind isn’t otherwise occupied I often think about Cole non-stop. While I love thinking about Cole, doing so non-stop can be depleting. But I still want to spend time thinking about Cole – it’s important to grieve – so I limit my distraction time.

Another piece of advice we were given is to take things easy and not do things that make us feel uncomfortable or stressed, so I choose my distractions carefully and sparingly.

As an introvert, I’ve always preferred speaking to people one on one or in small groups and I now feel that way much more so. Engaging with larger groups zaps too much of my energy.

People have been incredibly generous in offering to spend time with me. In normal times, I’d be flattered someone would want to spend time with me and accept their offer, but I can’t do that now. I don’t have the bandwidth. I need time to be alone and grieve so I politely decline many invitations and hope these kind people will understand. As someone told us, “You’re going through the hardest thing anyone can go through so you have permission to do whatever it takes to make it easier for you and other people will have to understand.”

I plan my days carefully to make sure I have time to eat, sleep, exercise and be distracted. If my plans involve other people, I try to make sure they’re people with whom my soul feels comfortable. I don’t know how else to describe it. For one reason or another, I get the sense our frequencies are compatible and I don’t need to use extra energy to be near them.

My favourite distractions are outdoors. I go for walks. I play golf. Being outside makes me feel better. Sometimes I’ll sit in someone’s yard or grab a bite. I enjoy a good conversation. Some of my distractions don’t involve other people. I might decide to watch a show, read a book or write a blog post or a real estate newsletter. But mostly I prefer to be outside.

As I make my way through my day, I’m aware a wave of grief can hit no matter where I am or what I’m doing. I have so many memories of Cole. Triggers are everywhere. I could be at Costco, walk by the dairy room and think about how much milk I used to buy for Cole because he drank a litre a day. My eyes might start to tear up. Then I’ll think how much I miss him and feel some pressure building in my head as I start to cry. That’s followed by the realization I’ll never see him again and the sensation that a knot the size of a cantaloupe is growing in my stomach. Not a regular knot. This knot hurts. It feels like someone is wringing my stomach out like it’s a wet towel.  

All I want to do when these waves hit is curl up in a ball and cry. I can’t tell you how often these intense waves overcome me. Probably a few times a day. Anywhere and anytime. I don’t get embarrassed by them. They are what they are. It’s part of the process. Feeling is healing so they’re actually a good thing. But they’re tiring.

It’s difficult to classify days as good days or bad days. There’s no uniformity, only randomness. Just because my morning was alright doesn’t mean my afternoon will be alright. I don’t try to predict how I’m going to feel. There’s no point. I accept what happens. But there are definitely days I know in advance are going to be harder than others, like birthdays and holidays, days when we do things we’d normally do with Cole, and, what will likely be the hardest day yet, the day Cole died. (My eyes are starting to tear…not a good sign…) I tend to get sadder on the days leading up to these days.

Most people are very compassionate, but there are some who might think “It’s been almost a year. Time to get on with your life.” That’s not how I’m thinking. There are only certain things I can do and I can’t control the grief. The grief will do what the grief wants to do so I don’t think about what life will be like. I try to concentrate on the present. One day at a time. Life will be what life will be. They say time heals all wounds. I hope they’re right, but somehow I doubt it. Not this wound. And to be honest, I don’t want this wound to fully heal.

Though the sad moments are excruciatingly painful, I also feel my intense love for Cole in these moments. It’s a double-edged sword.

I gladly suffer the pain to feel that love because my biggest fear right now is losing Cole. I want my memories of him and my love for him to remain fresh, like I can reach out and touch him. I do my best to keep him close. Logically, I know I’ll never lose him. There are too many memories and there’s too much love. But the fear is not logical.

I don’t know how long I’ll feel like this. From what I hear, most people who experience this kind of grief learn to live with it in some fashion. I suppose I will, too. I don’t yet know what that life will look like, but I sense my positive outlook will eventually poke its head out once again. I’ll be okay and will learn to live with the grief, but I’ll have terribly sad moments for the rest of this life. I’m okay with that. Anything to feel my intense love for Cole.

I don’t want people to feel uncomfortable around me, like there’s an elephant in the room we can’t talk about. I’m happy to talk about Cole. I love talking about him and won’t hesitate to tell a story about him. But there are times I get a sense that talking about Cole will trigger a wave of grief and I don’t want to be triggered so I may choose not to talk about him.  

While I’m not looking for sympathy or pity, I do like it when people I haven’t seen since Cole died acknowledge his death by saying something simple like “I heard about Cole and I’m sorry” or “Been thinking about you.” Or when they give me a quick hug. It doesn’t take more than that.

So there you have it. My best attempt to answer the question “So how are you?” A little longer than “I’m alright”. I hope it was worth your time and I hope it helps you or someone you share this with. I know thinking and writing about this has helped me. I feel a little lighter and a little closer to Cole. I may now have a better sense of what to say when someone asks me how I am. Or I may give them the URL for this post.

There’s one thing I’d like to say again: everyone grieves differently and is on their own grief journey. Someone else might read this and say “I don’t feel that way at all.” There’s no right or wrong. We all need different things to heal and are all on our own schedules. This is about how I feel and not about how anyone else feels. Please be sensitive to this when you see them and read their signals so you can try to do what’s best for them.  

None of this means you can’t ask me how I’m doing, but now that you’ve read this perhaps we can skip over how I am and move right onto the next item on the agenda, like where to find the best sourdough bread (my current favourite is Amadeus) or the best pizza (have you tried Badiali’s?).

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As bad as I may feel, there’s one thought I keep coming back to. It’s from C.S. Lewis. “The pain I feel now is the happiness I had before. That’s the deal.” Yes, my pain is immense, but my happiness is immeasurable. Over time, I hope the pain will subside somewhat because I know the happiness will live on forever.

On a lighter note, I sunk a short pitch for a birdie the other day. I thought it was thanks to my excellent short game, but when I looked up I saw a single hawk sitting on top of a tall pine tree looking down at me. I thought of Cole and how he was the one who made the ball go in the hole. And then I wished he’d help me with my driver because that’s where I really need help.

Thanks for reading and sharing this journey with me. Thanks also for subscribing if you’ve subscribed. As someone who cares enough to read about these kinds of things, I’m guessing there’s a good chance you’re a very caring person who likes to help others.  Please continue to do that. It would please us both, Cole and me.

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