The Second (or Third) Stage of Grief --Anger at Myself

aka Two lies and a Truth

In complete candor I am not sure why I am writing this, except to bare my soul, to try to be honest and maybe somehow recapture my brain from the constant fog, to fill the pit that is ever-present in my stomach. I cannot say that it will provide any “insight” or “help” to anyone who might be experiencing grief. I also do not think I am entirely alone in my feelings, so if there is a sense of validation, I welcome it. As a (not very active) member of Alcohol Anonymous, I firmly believe that telling your story is one way to move forward, one way to survive this day.

I think most people are familiar with the five stages of grief, first identified by Dr. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross in 1969: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Anyone who has experienced significant grief in the past 20 years has likely been provided with a handy pamphlet, by well-meaning medical professionals, where the list has been “upgraded” to seven stages: shock, denial, anger, bargaining, depression, testing, and acceptance.

Using the seven-stage model, I have realized that I have moved relatively quickly through shock and denial, but have fallen pretty squarely in the anger phase. But while anger is traditionally directed “toward the person who died, doctors, family members, or even religious entities,” my anger isn’t with Liz, the doctors, our family, or God (whatever the hell that means). I have been mostly angry with myself. The way I handled her final sickness, what I could have done differently, what I did when she was sick, and what I didn’t do. These emotions were brought to focus after reading Rebecca Woolf’s brilliant memoir, All of This. In her memoir she painfully writes about her last days with her then-husband, a person with whom she held highly conflicted feelings —that is a terrible synopsis, but I recommend that you read the book. She was ready to divorce him before his diagnosis, but she stayed by his side, never leaving him in the hospital, never changing her clothes. She left the rest of her life to friends and family. She was unflinchingly there for a person that needed her. Her recounting of her story brought tears to my eyes, because I didn’t do this.

LIE NO. 1: I WAS THERE FOR HER AT THE END

Liz was in and out of the hospital four times over the last month of her life. It all started because of a plural effusion, restricting her breathing, and causing various levels of altered mental states. There was the drainage, the plurex catheter, the home drainage, the catheter coming out, and, well, the end. I should clarify that this was not what killed her, but the effusion had a significant effect on her body and combined with the cancer and other conditions, it is my unscientific opinion that this was a major factor in her death. For many of these visits/stays I was there constantly. I would sleep next to her bed, either on the very narrow bench in her room, or even on the floor. But for the last week in the hospital, I was not there each and every moment. In part, because we had one of her oldest friend visiting, and her mom at times, so she was not alone, and in part because I didn’t think that this was going to be it. I cannot emphasize this enough —I was in denial about her impending death, as I kept thinking that we had a few weeks, or months before the end. Even the day before she died I thought that the intravenous feeding she was receiving would build her strength and we could leave the hospital. Her “code status” was not changed until the day before she died, moving from “full code” to “DNR” only after taking extensively with her doctors. But just because I did not know that the end was approaching, I have had a hard time justifying my visits to the house, the feedings of the dogs, my showers, or even my workouts. I mean, what the hell kind of person works out when his spouse is dying in the hospital? Why didn’t I live in the hospital, refuse to change my clothes, or comb my hair? Why didn’t I call on my neighbors to take care of these mundane daily responsibilities? She would have done it for me if the roles were reversed. She would never have left my side, no matter what the reason. Even Rebecca showed her husband this love and support, and she, well, I don’t want to again attempt to summarize her memoir, but she had every reason not to be there at the end. My anger at myself has become consuming, running through my mind in our too quiet house. I should have been there for every moment and I was not.

LIE NO. 2: I WAS A GOOD HUSBAND WHEN SHE WAS SICK

This one is far more complex. By most external metrics I was there, trying to be a good husband/partner/friend. I took her to her appointments. I met with the doctors, read the reports and tests, summarizing them in the most positive way. I gave her the twenty-something pills she would take every day, four to six times daily, setting phone alarms so that I would wake in the early morning so that she did not have to wake up in more pain. I would explain her condition to the physicians when she didn't, or couldn’t.

I modified our eating habits to meet her ever-changing appetite. Take out from her favorite restaurants replaced my usual meal plans. Lobster rolls? I am on it. Sushi twice this week? You bet. I bought her bagels from a specific bakery, three to four times a week, when she developed a taste for specific bagels and smear. I squeezed fresh orange juice when she told me that it tasted good. She suddenly developed a fondness for ambrosia salad and I started making it, something that would never have ever crossed my mind to make but for her cravings (whipped dress cream, pecans, pineapple, mandarin oranges and maraschino cherries).

I cut back on work and spent multiple afternoons with her so that she would not be alone. I drove her to the hospital when she could walk. I helped her into the wheelchair when she could only barely walk and carried her to the car when we went to the hospital for the last time.

“I did . . . .” “I would. . . .” “I was . . . .“ Who the hell am “I” trying to impress? I was not perfect. I wasn't as patient as I could have or should have been. I didn’t stop working when I could have done so. I even participated in a week-long trial in Las Vegas, during one of the last weeks of her life. On multiple occasions I watched porn while she slept. Yep, you read that right. While the person that I loved more than anyone in the entire world fought cancer —the person I thought/think was the most beautiful and sexy woman I have ever known slept next to me, there were times that I was on a porn site. In complete honesty, it wasn't as though I really enjoyed it. It was somewhat mechanical, without a specific malevolent or lascivious intent. I would tell myself that I didn’t want to bother her with my sexual desires. I have also tried to justify it by rationalizing that I wanted to just feel something pleasurable, even for a few minutes. At least those are my justifications to myself. But really, what kind of asshole watches porn while his wife is dying? Definitely not someone who was really “there” for her when she needed me. Definitely not someone who holds himself out to be a “good guy”. What the literal fuck.

TRUTH: I AM NOT HAPPY WITH MYSELF. I am Angry, but not at Liz, but at myself.

I assume it is the grief. I assume that I am still “working through” the steps or stages, but in the end, each time I look into the mirror I am not impressed with what I see. And it isn’t just my failings or my faults. It is something more. Not having Liz to help me be a better person is a difficult reality to face. Assuming that I make it through the stages, and don’t take this as more than it is —just a statement of reality, I do not know how I can start to accept my faults. To quote from AA, again, in the Serenity Prayer, you ask the higher power to “grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things that I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.” It is one of my daily prayers, but that last part always trips me up. What if being a highly imperfect asshole is just something that I cannot change? What if this is my new normal, along with mindlessly changing the sheets every Thursday because that is something that she always did? I clearly cannot go back and undo my mistakes, but what can I do now? Be better the next time I am caring for my spouse with cancer? I doubt that this is something that I will be given a second chance at, for a variety of reasons. But can I truly learn from my mistakes? I wish I had an positive answer for this question, but I am not entirely certain that my weaknesses do not fall in the third category of the Serenity Prayer.

One thing that has given me a tiny (very tiny) bit of hope is a quotation shared with me by a new friend. What she shared gave me a pause. Maybe, just maybe I need to calm the fuck down and figure out a way to get through the next day, week, or month. Maybe with time I will forget my failings, although I am not certain that I deserve that right now.

Grief, I’ve learned, is really just love. It’s all the love you want to give, but cannot. All that unspent love gathers up in the corners of your eyes, the lump in your throat, and in that hollow part of your chest. grief is lust love with no place to go.

Jamie Anderson