A thread about loss, grief, and sadness.
As November winds down, and we get closer to the conclusion of 2019, I find myself looking forward to the end of this year. This has been my most challenging and most sad year.
As November winds down, and we get closer to the conclusion of 2019, I find myself looking forward to the end of this year. This has been my most challenging and most sad year.
I& #39;m not very good at discussing my feelings - I& #39;m a compartmentalizer, & feel like there& #39;s always an expectation to, when someone asks how I am, say fine, great! But inspired by @DCrainium& #39;s brave discussions about her own grief, and a fantastic thread by @CruzKayne, I& #39;m sharing.
This year I lost a beloved uncle, my two dogs, and a dear friend. I& #39;ve been relatively sheltered from personal loss, and wasn& #39;t prepared to handle even one of these. Their names were Steve, Fynn, Zuley, and Adrian.
Steve was a missionary, the true "I want to help people and hope that when I do they see how much I love God and they love God, too" kind. He passed away in March from cancer, but kept his faith and humor until the very end.
This photo is from my last visit with him. It was early in the morning and the hospice nurse had just come through. Steve& #39;s wife Laura was making coffee and offered to share with staff, and Steve was telling funny stories. He passed in his sleep a couple of days after this.
A few days after Steve& #39;s passing, Fynn nearly died from a ruptured spleen; he was a champ through an emergency surgery, but biopsies showed he had an aggressive form of cancer of the blood vessels. He endured 3 months of chemo treatments, but passed away in September.
I brought Fynn home as a 10wk old puppy in 2009. I don& #39;t think I have ever loved anything as much as I did that little creature, and he was my best friend for the better part of a decade.
His "sister" Zuley joined our tiny family 8 months later, when it became obvious that he needed someone his size who would chase and wrestle with him. She was an odd and wonderful dog, and made me laugh every day.
She was killed in June while in the care of the groomer. She and Fynn had been together 9 years and were inseparable; I think it was even harder for him than for me. He stopped eating for a few days and I thought I would lose him then, too.
In September Adrian and her husband Andrew were killed in the tragic dive boat fire in California. I met Adrian in 2007 when I was an intern in her lab; she was my mentor first, and then friend for 12 years. She was a bright light and truly good person.
At this point you might be thinking "sheesh, this lady is depressing." But in this hyperconnected world, we& #39;re so disconnected from each other. We pretend to be ok, and then when others are suffering they feel like a failure because everyone around them seems to be ok.
And it& #39;s hard, so hard, to say "I& #39;m not ok." And not everyone can handle someone telling them they aren& #39;t ok. I finally hit a point in early September, after Adrian& #39;s death and when Fynn& #39;s health was failing, when I was decidedly not ok and I finally reached out to a few people.
Sadly, some checked out when I did. But I& #39;m so, so thankful for the people who stood with me; who told me it was ok to be sad or mad or whatever I was feeling, that it was ok to let other people know that I didn& #39;t have anything extra to give right then.
Grief is weird. One moment it& #39;s suffocating and all you can feel is the deep, unrelenting sadness. Other times you laugh as you cry, remembering something funny. And sometimes, for just a moment, you forget you& #39;re sad and laugh with a friend, and then you& #39;re consumed with guilt.