Even a year after my dad died, I feel a level of discomfort about leaving the house. The little things that I was able to get back to doing right away; going to work, picking up Luca, running out to the grocery, eating at a restaurant (the less crowded ones anyway…there’s still a virus out there) are still comfortable and I rarely give a second thought about it. I’ve even returned to my weekly sleepover at Annie’s without a pang of guilt. But when Angelo and I started to pack up the car early one recent Saturday morning and head to New York City, I felt a familiar uneasiness.
Even the trip down felt different. Not that we’ve been making the CT-NYC trip regularly—even before the caregiving and subsequent pandemic—but we’d head down to go to a museum (Angelo) or attend some book event (me) on occasion. The highway landscape looked new and less treed, the result of construction, I guess. I didn’t recognize landmarks and it seemed like time was different—we were at the exit for New York in no time. Then, suddenly we were on the Cross County Expressway. I was Dorothy cautiously looking out from her downed house onto the land of Oz—where was I?
One thing that helped was the gradual greening of the treeline. Angelo and I talked about how it seemed like there was always something that drew us to the city around the beginning of Spring and it was rejuvenating to watch the brown, twiggy trees turn into chartreuse and crimson buds. Blooms had begun in Connecticut, but in New York, they were a riot of color and growth and Spring. As we made our way down the West Side Highway, the view of the Hudson sparkled with silvery flashes as sailboats and barges made their way into the city.
I thought about a podcast I had heard recently featuring the author Michael Lewis. He was asked about grief—having tragically lost his 19-year-old daughter the year before and as he described it, it rang true. He said it was,
“…so exhausting and disorienting, and it took me awhile to figure out why I felt so tired. What is going on there? Why can’t I remember where my keys are. And what I realized is that my mind had presumed . . . a reality; I was taking for granted a future without even thinking about what that future was. And now my brain had to rewrite that reality without a living [daughter] in it and it was busy doing that on one track like humming in the background all the time . . .”
I wrote the same thing about stress recently; that it runs like a low grade fever in the background, impacting behavior, actions, energy. The explanation above, however, crystalized the experience for me; my brain was rewriting the program where I was the caregiver for my dad. My whole world for many years was making sure my dad was safe. I couldn’t extend—or didn’t have enough—energy to be vigilant for much else. As my brain rewires my reality, it has begun to include grieving my mom and my sister. And my dad. It is rewriting my reality to include being vigilant for Annie.
So, it’s not the leaving home that’s the problem—I guess it’s everything. Learning a new reality, even one that includes caring for my family and allowing myself to mourn the loss of my sister and parents, takes time. And it’s exhausting! I have to remember to be patient with myself while my brain rewires itself. And maybe take some naps. And plan another trip maybe.
Even Dorothy got out of the house now and then.
WOW — stress as a low-grade fever that impacts everything……. Being vigilant about The possibility that Annie won’t be here someday…… I’m having a hard time absorbing those things myself. I now see that writing these things is a catharsis for you. Your words are very powerful
The world keeps on spinning. It can be difficult to wrap your head around ❤️