CHERYL

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     One day my life turned upside down in an instant. My husband of over ten years had a massive heart attack and died suddenly, leaving me a widow with an eight year old girl and a teenage son. The fact that I had a small child to take care of gave me enough strength to get through the initial shock and despair -- I honestly believed that I didn’t have the “luxury” to grieve. I could not take the time to feel the loss deeply or even express what I was going through. Honestly, I couldn’t even wrap my head around what happened. My feelings were expressed in one word that I would repeatedly say out loud: “Why?”

     Many people asked me if I needed anything. I didn’t want to be too needy, so initially the only thing I accepted from friends was food. I don’t think I had to cook for over two months! That actually helped quite a bit, so often when I know someone is going through a difficult time, I will offer to bring them a meal. It does go a long way.

     Emotionally, however, I wanted to be left alone. The first year was marked with first upon first -- the first anniversary without him, the first birthday without him, the first Chanukah without him. Over time, however, when the dust settled, those feelings I could not express started to slowly surface. It wasn’t until the second year that I finally hit a wall with the post-traumatic realization that he was gone FOREVER. I would NEVER EVER see my husband again. I was in deep, emotional pain but the weird thing was that I didn’t even realize or acknowledge it. Around this second year mark, I started crying randomly and frequently. Sometimes when I saw a couple together I would cry. Or when watching a little girl play with her father, I would cry. Sometimes I would cry for no reason. It started to get worse and worse and I felt as if I had fallen in a dark tunnel. Then one day I was having my lunch at work. I was sitting by a window and I saw a man drive up and let a woman out of a car. I remembered how nice it was to have my husband drive me places. Yes, even watching such a simple, every day act like that caused me to sob. I will be eternally grateful for that moment, though, because I finally realized that I couldn’t go on like that. I wanted relief, I wanted to feel peace of mind, I wanted to find a way out of this abyss. Not just for my own sanity, but for my daughter’s sake, as well, who depended on me. I felt like I had no choice but to get help. I confided in a trusted friend and she recommended a therapist. When I first met Dr. H. it was like a breath of fresh air! After all this time, I had someone to talk to, cry to, and share all of my fears and anxieties. Being a single parent (and an older parent, at that) can be very scary, and I was very worried that if something happened to me, my daughter would be an orphan. Along with the depression and anxiety, I had also started having panic attacks. It wasn’t long before the therapist recommended antidepressants. This went against my preconceptions of why (and who!) takes medication for psychological reasons. I had never needed help through rough times before -- I believed I could figure things out and get better without drugs. I thought a shot of bourbon would do the trick. Dr. H. went into great depth explaining why I would benefit from the drugs, and I’m over simplifying this, but he explained that because I had gone through a trauma and deep loss my brain chemistry had changed. I needed something to boost me back up so that I could once again be normal -- to stabilize my brain chemistry -- and able to function without overwhelm, panic and sadness. I started taking Lexapro. It wasn’t overnight, but after a few weeks I remember having this brief, intense sense of happiness and contentment that I hadn’t had in a long, long time. Like a ray of sunshine that filters through the clouds, the sensation was fleeting, but it was just enough to give me hope. I was also going to therapy once a week. We started out by talking about my past life and how it had changed, how my dreams and expectations had been shattered. Slowly the conversation switched to the present and then, voila the future! I started focusing on the good in my life. Yes, it’s corny but true, I was able to count my blessings once again. I not only took the medication, but I also did the work. I journaled. I took myself on “Artist’s Dates” a la Julia Cameron in the Artist’s Way. At my therapist’s urging, I started to find enjoyable things to do...smell perfume, take walks, go to museums...big and little things to awaken my senses that had been dulled by grief. About six months into therapy, I took my daughter on a trip to Pismo Beach. We found a cute little hotel by the beach. We collected sand dollars, went on a tour of Hearst Castle, went shopping in town. We even had a lovely dinner at a fancy seafood restaurant. At night, as my daughter was sleeping, I sat on the balcony and listened to the ocean. Not far away there was a lighthouse; I noticed a beam of light in the darkness. I felt a peace of mind then that made me feel so alive...I was seeing light in the darkness. That was the beginning of my healing journey. I still had some bad days but they were fewer and far between. I started to feel confident that I could be a relatively competent single parent; I could pay bills, go grocery shopping, and support my children one way or another. I even got the nerve to start dating again. After a year or so more of therapy and medication, and artist’s dates, I met my future husband. Dr. H. had even predicted that I would meet someone special…”You’ve done the work, and you’re ready to meet someone.”

     It seems odd to think it takes “work” to grieve and heal, as I used to believe that all it took was “time.” The reality is, however, that it takes a lot of effort to comprehend life’s obstacles and overcome them. Let me rephrase this...it takes work, therapy, the right medication when necessary, some fun things to look forward to, and the desire to evolve. By the way, after about a year and a half on Lexapro, I didn’t need it anymore, and I weaned myself off. I have never looked back.