How Are You Doing?

"How are you doing?"

It's a simple question that we ask many people in passing each day.  Typically we give some version of "I'm well, and you?" then keep going.

For some time now I've not known how to answer that question.  For the last several months people tend to either ask the question out of habit or do it in a very concerned manner - i.e. hand on my shoulder, tilted head, "how are you doing?'  

It's a very weighted question.  I wish there was a simple question.

I feel overwhelmed.  People keep telling me I'm so on top of things, but there are certain things I keep deliberately putting off dealing with.  They're just too much.

Sometimes I feel terribly sad.  Those times still sneak up on me.  No matter how hard I try I can't predict the triggers, so then some small thing happens and the next thing you know I've melted into a wailing puddle.  And I do mean WAILING.  Good stuff, huh?  I'm sure you wanted to hear about my most recent trigger when you passed me in the hall.

And yet those terribly sad times are growing further and further apart.  Now I'm able more and more to be reminded of a "John thing" and just think back on it fondly.  I'll say, "John would've liked this," or, "John would say..." with a wistful smile on my face.  

I feel lonely.  I was used to having someone here all the time.  Don't get me wrong, John and I were both introverts and needed space to ourselves from time to time, but we could sit in the same room working on different tasks and be perfectly happy.  Those last few months he'd get lonely during the day, so I'd call him on my drive home and we'd talk through my day.  I miss that.  I miss having someone to talk to about school stuff who isn't part of the school stuff.  I miss hearing the mundane things about his day, "Today's episode of Little House on the Prairie was the one were Albert has that girlfriend..."  

I miss touch.  Don't get me wrong, I get a million hugs from kids each day and I'm thankful for every one of them.  But I miss holding hands.  Being held.  Gosh, I miss being held.  

My house feels empty.  I know I lived here for 7 years before John moved in, but I can't get used to being here by myself again.  There are too many noises and I'm back to having to take care of things on my own.  Adulting isn't any fun; adulting on your own is the pits.

I feel free.  I know that one sounds odd, but one of the things John worried about for those last 2.5 years was how much his illness impacted me and my ability to do things.  I always shrugged it off.  When I was away I was always worried about him, so it just seemed natural to stay home and help him.  I knew our time was limited, so I wanted to spend as much time together as we could.  It wasn't until he was gone that I realized just how much of my time was tied up in his care.  I do not begrudge him one minute.  But now I can make spur of the moment plans.  I can hang out with friends.  I can travel.  

And with that comes feeling guilty.  How dare I enjoy the freedom to do what I want?  How dare I have fun?  How dare I find other men attractive?  Weren't those feeling supposed to die with John?  How dare I have hopes and dreams for the future?  

Still want to know how I'm doing?

I feel blessed to have known John.  John taught me what it means to be loved, and I'll be forever grateful to him for it.  He taught me that I was worthy of love.  And in doing so he taught me how to give my love freely.  He taught me to laugh at myself.  He taught me that it's ok to make mistakes, even big ones.  

I feel disappointed.  He had so many dreams that he didn't get to fulfill.  And my Conscious Discipline® journey?  That was John's dream for me.  He knew that I'd become a Certified Instructor long before I even considered the possibility.  So I'm disappointed that he's not here to watch it happen, he's not here to come along for the ride.  

I feel confused.  Lately more than anything I'm confused about all of these feelings.  I know that it goes along with the territory.  There's no wrong or right way to grieve your husband, to recover from the trauma of watching him lose a 2.5 year fight to cancer.  But as I told a friend the other day, "my husband died, not me!"  I've still got plenty of life (I hope) to live and I plan to live it to the fullest.

How am I doing?  Do you really want to know?