When Marv had his first cancer, prostate, in 1999, I fell off the rails. As I was telling that story to a mutually grieving friend last week, I thought back to what a therapist told me at the time: “Sounds like you’re bouncing along the bottom.”
Here’s the situation as I described it in Caring Lessons: “After class one day, an older student lagged behind. ‘Are you all right, Dr. Roelofs?’ I assured her I was fine, while I marveled at how perceptive she was. I was not fine, and faculty, too, had been asking me. I had assured them I was hanging in, that I was getting the help I needed—a euphemism for finding a therapist to help me get my raft to calmer waters. When I’d told the therapist about my personal and family events, over ten in a fifteen-month period, each qualifying for a crisis on any life event scale, I heard, ‘Sounds like you’re bouncing along the bottom.’ As I mopped up my sopped face with tissues from the ever-present box in therapists’ office, I thought, Wow, good ‘therapeutic communication’ response! My students could have done as well. But, indeed, I needed help to get back up to the water’s surface” (p. 209).
I described to this friend that I don’t feel like I’m “bouncing along the bottom” this time, after Marv’s fourth cancer scare, the one that took his life. And the only way I could explain why not ties in with what I wrote here last time, that I’m feeling numb, like Did it all really happen? Did we take all those trips to say goodbye or is that a fabrication in my mind? Where was my mind during the seven months of his illness? Was I completely alert or did I cope by dissociating from reality and carry out necessary tasks by rote?
I have no answer. Yet. As I puzzled over this feeling of hazy distance, I thought, Ok, I’m not bouncing along the bottom this time, but I’m skating along the top. I was pleased to have that new phrase come to mind, because it felt so right. I’m smoothly gliding through the motions of life; I’m neither icing below the surface or skidding into the air, but just being steady Eddie (or Edwina) going forward without any fancy Axels, flips, or lutzes.
Steady, as in numb.
In this state of numbness, last week I asked the receptionist at my fitness center, after a massage, for a tip envelope for Laura. As soon as I said it, I asked, “Did I just say Laura?” She smiled and said softly, “Yes, Lois, but I knew who you meant.” Laura was Marv’s massage therapist, not mine. I apologized. She assured me that was fine, that my getting mixed up was perfectly understandable after what I’ve been through.
In several other situations, I think I passed for normal, whatever is normal for someone in my situation. I can’t use the word widow yet. In fact, I don’t like the word at all. Reminds me of spiders. And I don’t like spiders.
So, for now, I think I will say I’m single (if anyone asks) and will skate along and see what life brings. A Chicago friend is flying here this week to be with me for five days. What a pleasure that will be–to talk about the single life, one she has lived for a long time, and to show her around my new town.
And to share my stories and our memories of Marv.
Write Along with Me 
I hope your time with your friend proves comforting. I did not know the back story, Lois, and appreciate you sharing it here. My husband was diagnosed with aggressive prostrate cancer in 2012 and received treatment. Then he had an accident and needed surgery, and ended up with infection and seven surgeries. Then he had a heart attacks and open heart surgery. I think I “bounced along the bottom” too (good expression). Then I got sick. We always say that we plan for what we’d do if we won the lottery, but we never planned for illness. Your story and your words have been comfort to me all along.
LikeLike
On my. What a story. I can’t imagine; I had reached a point of wondering how much longer I could hang in and I didn’t have near the caretaking you did. Thanks for your kind words. I like what you said on your blog: we are not alone, especially in this blogging world.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks, Lois.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Lois, just thinking about you and assuring you that while it doesn’t get any better, it becomes at least manageable. At this time, and of course always, be kind to yourself. Hugs and kind thoughts.
LikeLike
Thanks, Judith, for the encouragement. Every comment helps!
LikeLiked by 1 person
I love the imagery in your new cover image. You may be on an unfamiliar road now, starting a new journey; but the view is promising and storm clouds are receding. Enjoy your visit with your Chicago friend.
LikeLike
Thanks! That’s the main road to the street to my home. The trees are gorgeously green in summer, brilliantly orange in the fall, and stunningly white in winter.
LikeLike
Hi Aunt Lois – I hope you thoroughly enjoy your time showing your friend Sioux Falls. I definitely enjoyed my visit there with Ev, Sue and Cynthia. SO different from FL and really nice! Next time I want to spend some time walking by the sculptures instead of driving by them… Love and prayers with you.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks, Mari. Surprisingly to many, this is an interesting little city! And pretty.
LikeLike
Isn’t it interesting how being able to find words that describes our experiences seem to help so much. But I’m not sure why it makes a difference. Thank you for being willing to share your experiences, even though they are hard for me to read. Hugs.
LikeLike
I think having the imagery that words can give us is what’s helping me. I see myself on an ice rink, neither falling or going aloft, which for now is a good thing. In due time, I’m sure I’ll “fall down” but this lull when paperwork etc has to get done is a good reprieve from the heaviness. Thanks!
LikeLike
Some of us have had to relearn how to “be okay with being alone again.”
It’s not an easy road. Some say it gets better with time, but I’m not so sure. Different, but better? Just know that your friends share your struggles and will be here for you, helping you to keep skating.
With hugs, Shar
LikeLike
Thanks so much, Shar. I will need role models.
LikeLike