Similar in some ways to the self-induced flu following that second bottle of red or one too many margaritas, the Grief Hangover is a Thing. A real Thing.
Now, it’s not fair to myself or any other grieving mom to keep that comparison as simple as it sounds. Unless I was to describe it as a never-ending hangover….but that’s not it either.
My grief will walk with me for the rest of my days. This I know. It’s like my shadow. As I approach the 4 year mark of Colton’s passing, I feel that I have a greater understanding of so many things. I see my grief changing, because I have changed. My belief system has changed. At times, my grief has had profound effects on both my physical and mental health. I am definitely still learning what to do for myself when I am feeling overwhelmed and totally alone.
My circle of support is small yet mighty. I have one or two that check in on me, for which I am grateful. My husband is my rock and a great source of strength. That being said, I knew that an extended period of time without him would be a challenge. The entire time he was planning and preparing for his time away I was mentally creating a huge list of things that I absolutely needed to get done in order to keep myself busy.
Plus, I knew that I wasn’t going to be completely alone. I had Jesse.
Colton and Jesse had/have a friendship that goes back many years. They went to high school together. There is an awesome photo of the two of them at Prom that I will always cherish. When it came time for Colton to move out and try living on his own, I found comfort in the fact that Jesse would be his roommate. I remember how touched Colton was when he told me that he would be Jesse’s Best Man when he got married. And then, when Colton was in Hospice, both he and I were profoundly grateful that Jesse’s newborn son would have Colton as his middle name. A beautiful tribute. Flash forward to today, his little family is about to move here to begin their next chapter, and in the meantime, this special house guest and I have had time to talk. As any grieving mother will tell you, one of the most precious gifts is to talk about their child who has passed, and possibly catch a glimpse into a part of their life that was previously unknown.
So we talked and shared stories, things he did and said that made us laugh, his favorite foods, little things (but aren’t those the best?) and it was great. Better than great.
The hole that Colton’s death has left in my life is in the middle right now. I’m at the stage, I guess, where the loss of him is a gaping hole right in the middle of everything. I can look way, way back on the other side of the hole where he used to be, and I can still see everything clearly. So clearly. All of the good times and all of the challenges and all of the love that I would never ever change. 4 years ago, I was trying to prepare for this massive hole to appear but how is that possible? I could clearly see the hole on the horizon, and I could not, try as I may, stop it from coming. In the days, months, and now years since, I’ve been struggling to stay out of the hole. Imagine my back against a wall of Colton and all of my memories, trying to inch my way along the edge of the hole, desperately trying to get to whatever the other side is without falling in. Sometimes, all I want is to fall in the hole.
Anyways, even though conversation about Colton is literally one of my favorite things in this life, it is still gut-wrenching and very hard on the heart. I know that tears are ok. They’re fine. I think I can safely assume that everyone expects them of me. Eventually they caught up with me the other night. The first wave hit me, but it was ok. It didn’t knock me off of my feet. But the second one did. I found myself crying the rest of the night and into the following morning. Then, I remembered the list.
Now, let me explain the “Hangover”. I don’t sleep well anymore. I’m sure this is a common grief side effect. So when I woke up, my head ached like I’d really gone on a bender, but not in the same way. I feel pressure on both sides of my head just above my ears. I have extreme brain fog. So I get up and make a coffee. Follow routine. Make the bed. Feed the dogs. Have a shower. But instead of doing these things in rapid succession, each thing takes what feels like an eternity. I walk into the living room, pick up dog toys, look out at the ocean. I can’t remember why I came in here. I go outside, thinking that yard work is on the list. I can’t stay on task. I feel exhausted, so I go back inside and lay down. Get up, repeat. Tell myself that those dogs can’t go and walk themselves, so I wander, still in a fog, around the neighborhood and let them sniff every little thing that they want to because I don’t care how long it takes.
Day 2. Still foggy and tired. I start feeling very disappointed in myself and vow to be productive. I drink a bunch of water. I walk the dogs on a totally different route down by the water. I mow the lawns. Whoops….too much. I had wanted to go downtown and pick up a few things and now I’m exhausted. But I actually feel a bit better. I watch a few upbuilding YouTube videos and call it a night. Finally slept.
Today I woke up rested and clear headed and I know this Hangover has passed. Whew! I made it through another one. By myself. I spent these days alone for two reasons. One, it’s not my style to burden anyone with my grief, Randy is out of cell range on a mountain somewhere, and I didn’t want to throw it on Jesse. Two, I most definitely know that this is my grief journey and ultimately, I must learn to navigate the “hole” of loss and I must learn how to care for myself when I occasionally fall in.
If you are in the “hole” and you expect a “hangover”, my only advice would be to be kind to yourself. Please don’t try to check off items on a list of things to be done. Listen to your body. Grieving is a physical as well as a mental activity, and it takes a tremendous amount out of you. If you have that thick, cloudy feeling and your body is in pain, lay down and rest it. Drink water to replenish all of those tears because you know there will be more that need to be shed. Listen to your breathing and try to be in the moment. Sometimes the moment sucks. However, the moment has value, great value. That is grief. Grief is love.