Isn't Having A Good Day A Good Thing?

I went to work once awhile ago, the Tuesday after the funeral on Feb 17th, that Chad and I insisted on calling an Afterparty, which was both genius and idiotic. Genius because I didn't want a sniffling sad funeral and neither did he, and (from what I remember of it) - it wasn't a sniffling sad funeral.  It was just exactly what he wanted.  Idiotic because it wasn't until 48 hours before the "Afterparty" that it occurred to me that it actualy was .... a funeral. And that wasn't a fun realization.  Now, I would do it the same again, I would call it the Afterparty.  But I would have told me that no matter what I called it, it was his goddamned funeral.  And maybe I would have been more prepared that funerals are really, really hard.  

Working though? It was a spectacular fail. 

I got to the building.  I sat in the parking lot for about half an hour.  When I worked up the courage to actually go in, I sat down and immediately Lost My Shit (LSM).  I skyped a near perfect stranger in my office building if she would come in to my office and hug me, the day after sending an email to everyone in the office them asking them to not walk up and hug me or even ask me how I'm doing.  

Shortly after, I was rescued by my niece, who after missing her flight back to Japan due to weather problems, arrived via Uber from the airport.  She calmed me down.  We then spent the rest of the day - a term I use loosely, until 3 pm when I'd arrived at 11 am - doing things like calling Social Security to tell them he bucked the kick-it, and all of those official places you have to call when someone dies.  

Tangent: someone (hey, maybe me) should start a business that does all this shit for you.  Someone dies, you call this business, let's call it "Death Concierges" shall we? And instantly spring into action and they do all this horrible stuff.  They pretend to be the grieving widow since only next of kin can do this stuff.  So I would hire male and female staff to cover both ends of the dead person spectrum.  They call all the utilities, they call Social Security, they even go down there and pretend to be you and forge your signature eh?  OK, maybe not that far, but my business could drive you there, sit with you at the SS office and play Uno or Go Fish or something to keep your mind off of why you're really there.  Tangent over.  Also, do not steal this idea, it is mine.  

After that clusterfuck, I gave up all pretense of being functional and just sat at home.  And grieved.  Which not even I can explain what involves.  I didn't write love letters.  I didn't walk around the lake.  I didn't watch a single movie or tv show.  I didn't read a single book.  When I think about it, I don't have any idea what the hell I did for basically two weeks.  Except cry.  I did that a lot. If crying was an Olympic sport, I would for sure win the gold medal now because I'm super good at it.  I even cry on command.  Just say his name, look far off into the distance - BAM, I'll cry. Every time.  Gold medal baby. 

Today, I went in again.  I arrived at 9:30 and I left at ..... 4 pm.  And, I only LSM twice and only once involved crying and I was in the bathroom inside a stall where no one would see me when that mess happened.  The other LMS was a panic attack (the colloquial use, not the clinical use) about my passwords, computer, monitors, the printers, nothing worked!!!  I had been out so long that all of my passwords had expired and I was locked out of everything.  So I reached into my Tool Box.  I went outside the building, fighting every instinct to stay inside and keep trying, which would only escalate my anxiety.  Outside, I did the hated dreaded deep breath thing and I'll be damned, it helped.  I won't say it worked.  Because I was still freaked.  But I went back inside less freaked than when I went outside.  

When I got inside, IT had fixed all of my problems in my absence.  Now it was time to work.  And I did.  Straight through until 4.  Mostly, except for the aforementioned LSM thing in the bathroom.  But that only took about 10 minutes.  I did work that was many, many levels below my competency, but it was work.  Actual, real work (and much later in the day after I got home, I found out that I did a great job at it).  So - victory!  Right? 

Wrong. 

I started driving home feeling pretty proud of myself.  This thought crossed my mind in this exact phrasing

"Maybe I can get through this

Then, it started.  The guilt.  If I could "get through this" then I obviously didn't love him very much.  It hasn't even been a month!  What kind of horrific cold wench wife could even THINK "maybe I can get through it" with his grave barely covered up (ok, he was cremated but I couldn't think of a suitable phrasing about cremation that would not be just, gross).  What kind of horrible cold hearted wench?  ME!  That is who!  

I then spent the next few hours berating myself for not loving Chad enough to even GRIEVE him properly.  For not LSM at work 100% of the time and run away like I did the first time.  That was fun.  My brain really, really hated on me. 

And I still feel that way.  It's midnight now. 

Grief sucks.