In The Overwhelm

If someone had asked me about my ability to remember things, I would have told them my memory was intact. No problem there. However, my husband has been my backup memory bank for over 40 years. Anything that wouldn’t fit neatly into my mental folders, I would make sure was tightly secured in his. 

For all these years it was a perfect arrangement. His brain could clearly hold more information than mine, so I handed it off to him. It’s not that mine isn’t capable. It’s a perfectly good brain. However, mine is in perpetual motion (so to speak). It never stops. Thinking. Thinking. Always thinking. 

With grief, everything changed. While my brain was on full speed before our son died, now it spins at warp speed (and I do mean warped). There’s no rest for the weary because my brain won’t relax. 

Yet — it holds almost zero information. The thoughts run through like a train going through a tunnel — in, then right back out. Nothing sticks. Sometimes I think I can actually feel the thoughts dancing through, twirling and twirling. Then, nothing. I can’t retrieve it, I have tried. The information is simply gone. Many times, it is gone before I can get it on a sticky note.

Grief affects our biochemistry. When we lose someone close to us, it is not unusual to have weight changes, digestion problems, sleep changes — you get it. Grief affects everything. 

It’s the snowball effect. The loss hits us, pushes us downhill, and we collect changes along the way. Grief changes us. It should. With Great love comes deep loss. 

When I realized my memory was toast, I didn’t worry too much. After all, I had a backup. 

Unfortunately, my husband, my memory backup, is no longer dependable. He was pushed down the same hill and his memory along with it. His body, like mine, has betrayed him.

We were both in such a fog for a very long time that it took me a while to realize my mistake. One day, I was grasping for a word I couldn’t find, so naturally, I asked him to help. He stared at me blankly (as I thought, what is wrong with you, man, spit it out) and finally said, “I don’t know.” 

Wait. If I don’t know, and you don’t know how will we function? Shock enveloped me, and I laughed. I said, “It’s not just me. It’s you, too!” He was completely aware of my recent recollection issues and yet, he’d passed it off like I was looney. All that time, it was affecting him as well. He hadn’t wanted to admit it, and he knew I was slipping, so he was trying to keep the faith that it was a temporary situation. So far, it is not.

After my funny bone settled, I cried. 

We are both intelligent people who could no longer remember our own house address. Truly, I have forgotten it on several occasions. I won’t speak for him. I can only hope one of us knows where home is. 

Our hearts hurt. 

Our bodies were exhausted-to-the-core. 

Our memory was lapsing. 

EVERYTHING CHANGED! We were overwhelmed by what we couldn’t have anticipated and what we could not change.

As sleep became harder to come by, it became more difficult to remember the little things (and sometimes the big ones). We ate our feelings like it was our job and gained a person each. For me, anxiety became my companion. It settled in and threatened to take control. Its friend; depression wrapped itself around me like a cocoon. 

It’s a vicious circle that keeps turning and picking up unwanted quests. Breaking free isn’t easy. I wish it were. There’s no amount of “Choose Joy” that can fix it. 

It’s grief. It must be felt. It must be wrestled with and eventually taken to the ground. But it isn’t easy, and it isn’t fast. Staying there in its grip is not an option. The longer you linger, the harder it is to escape it. Some never do. 

I’m not judging. I had a hard time coming up for air, and I still slip into the abyss from time to time. If I understand anything, it’s how a devastating loss can end you. 

There is no timeline. No getting over it. But there is hope in getting through it. But it might take a while to see the opening that will lead you home. Jesus is there, ready to walk with you. You may not feel that way at first, but He is there. He never left. I, for one, am so grateful for His gentle kindness. When I could finally see through the fog, He, in all His Glory, was there, hand outstretched, ready to walk with me through the darkness toward the light.

Just tonight, I asked my husband to keep some papers for safekeeping. His expression was completely blank like I was asking the impossible. I quickly (but nicely) turn on my heel and put the papers in a cabinet. Here’s to hoping I won’t forget where the safe place is. 

Grace is abundant in this home. My husband and I take turns holding each other up when needed. The good stretches last a bit longer these days, but the bottom can fall out when we least expect it. We miss our son — every minute of every day. Time has not healed our wounds, but we are learning to live with them. There is Hope!

Hopefully, we won’t need a “keeper” anytime soon.

Grief brain is real. I’ve heard it from others over and over. Honestly, I was a little glad to learn it was typical. It made me feel less alone. If you know someone who is grieving, offer your support.

They may need you to point them home!

How about you? How has grief changed you?