Basket Case
I never expected to lose my bearings so completely. On the contrary, in the beginning, after a misstep or two, I tried hard to be the survivor I knew I could be, but, grief, my own and my child’s, coupled with exhaustion, conspired against me and I took a slow-motion tumble into an emotional abyss.
I was a basket case. I hesitate to use the term, but it is so richly descriptive, almost a modern-day archetype like Nerd, Slacker, or Shopaholic—Basket Case. The dictionary lists two entries for the term: (1) one that is worn out, incapacitated, or inoperable, and (2) one who has had all four limbs amputated. In the latter instance, it is used in a sentence referring to war casualties. Both definitions succinctly and precisely convey my condition after my husband died: I was worn out, incapacitated, and inoperable. I felt as if I'd been through a war and my arms and legs had been cut off. What was left of me ran disjointed thoughts through her brain and cried a lot when she wasn't asleep. I slept a lot. I lost a lot of weight. I could barely move; I was so weighed down by grief.
Yet some of those around me may not have even noticed. It wasn't in a committable way, where you must go off to a special hospital to privately pull yourself together amidst lovely gardens and helpful, kindly professionals dressed in white who understand grief—the necessity of it, as well as its requirements and process. I opted instead for the very public, got-to-work, got-to-pay-the-bills, got-to-keep-going-no-matter-what method, surrounded by loving friends and family who understood what my child and I were going through and how best to help us—only to a point. In retrospect, an extended stay on an island, far, far away, would have created some much-needed space between the events that had just unfolded and the new life I was forced to accept. Still, it would have been the worst possible scenario for my daughter, Taliesin. She was barely thirteen and had just lost her father, whom she adored and from whom she had never spent more than a school day or an overnight apart.
Because I had a grieving child to care for, a demanding job, responsibilities, and obligations that couldn't be put on hold while I pulled myself together, I did what any other parent would do in my situation: I faked it. I did what had to be done—only very badly. One might assume—I assumed—that eventually things would ease up, a pattern would be established, and new routines would be set in place. I expected this, was on the lookout for it, but it didn't happen, at least not at a pace that would have made our lives easier. And although I never visited a hospital or an island retreat, I did take four months off from work on disability. I needed it. My daughter needed it. I went from going to work every day, which was easy compared to the tasks in front of me, to suddenly being a single mother doing all the things I relied on my stay-at-home dad/husband to do—and failing at them.