8. Isolation Chamber

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Written Tuesday, December 24, 2019 / Day 134 / Midnight

This is the fourth day of an illness that has kept me home. It’s been mild - I think - in that I have not felt awful but restricted by whatever each day has in store. I felt it coming and thought I was staying ahead of it but not enough to stop it all from coming.

These days it is hard to identify just what we have - but it’s a throat, sinus, cold-ish type of thing. I feel stronger today - just not in a condition to go out. It is encouraging especially since the symptoms have been diminishing and I felt the strongest yet. No nap today was a good sign.

But here I am writing an essay at midnight. So there seems to be a message in all this that has to come out.

For one thing - throughout these past 4 days I have not felt as depressed and sad as the last time I had something a while back. It has been sort of matter-of-fact.

I was blessed to have everything I needed to be sick. Just bought the cutest little humidifier when I found that the one we had was not doing much of a job. Just stocked up on throat lozenges and had a good shopping trip right before it hit.

I have been navigating meal preparations although I am not really preparing anything significant. Just heating up things and trying to learn how to time that effort.

Writing the family history and setting up the Essays on Grief web site has kept me focused.

But it is still lonely.

Not grindingly lonely. But I’d say distastefully lonely. I do not like it. I do not know how I will ever really accept it.

Not being able to be at my son’s home most nights has added a new wrinkle to this sorry place in which I now live. I am in total physical isolation from everyone.

Joann used to feel that way having to be home all day and not being able to get out as she used to. She said it was a nice comfortable - prison. Now I will have to agree. It is nice. It is comfortable. But now it is my prison.

Strangely, I am sort of matter-of-fact about this. I see my situation but am bouncing through the days. Bouncing in this nether-world of emptiness that has somehow become familiar - but not welcome. Or accepted.

No I may have to live in it - but I do not see myself giving in to accepting it. Perhaps this is some way of asserting myself. Who knows.

I just know I probably have at least two more days here like this. My symptoms keep clearing so that is encouraging.

If you have ever been in a building where you are on an upper floor and there are floor to ceiling windows you may understand this. When you stand right in the window and look down the height might bother you and you experience a momentary feeling of unsettledness - instability. The sensation that you might be falling before you catch yourself.

That is how grief is treating me at the moment. I will stumble on one of the many traps that are laying wait for me throughout the house - I might engage one either on purpose or by invoking a memory - and then it hits.

This queasy - weird sensation that is hard to describe. Because instead of feeling like falling - waves of sadness and emptiness come over me. Of course then come the tears and everything else that can come.

It is like those moments are waiting. Waiting for their opportunity to strike.

Thankfully during this time of isolation they have been in the background. But they are there.

It’s like looking across the room and seeing a tiger. He sees you. You both stare at each other but nothing happens. But you know all he needs is the right provocation and he’ll pounce on you in a flash. It’s like that.

I imagine in a sense it has been a bit of a training exercise. I have heavily relied on being at my son’s most evenings for dinner. To have that removed took away what little periods of relative peace I had outside of this place.

In a day or two - I will be able to return. That will be welcome. Welcome because I do not think I could keep this up any longer.

It’s been strange. But then again - strange is normal in this state of grief.

This just reminds me of how much I dislike being alone.

My prayer is that change will come. And I know it will.

Until then I will hold on to the One who holds me up.

And thank Him for His strength and help which I know I am receiving in this place of isolation.

8. Isolation Chamber

Written Tuesday, December 24, 2019 / Day 134 / Midnight

This is the fourth day of an illness that has kept me home. It’s been mild - I think - in that I have not felt awful but restricted by whatever each day has in store. I felt it coming and thought I was staying ahead of it but not enough to stop it all from coming.

These days it is hard to identify just what we have - but it’s a throat, sinus, cold-ish type of thing. I feel stronger today - just not in a condition to go out. It is encouraging especially since the symptoms have been diminishing and I felt the strongest yet. No nap today was a good sign.

But here I am writing an essay at midnight. So there seems to be a message in all this that has to come out.

For one thing - throughout these past 4 days I have not felt as depressed and sad as the last time I had something a while back. It has been sort of matter-of-fact.

I was blessed to have everything I needed to be sick. Just bought the cutest little humidifier when I found that the one we had was not doing much of a job. Just stocked up on throat lozenges and had a good shopping trip right before it hit.

I have been navigating meal preparations although I am not really preparing anything significant. Just heating up things and trying to learn how to time that effort.

Writing the family history and setting up the Essays on Grief web site has kept me focused.

But it is still lonely.

Not grindingly lonely. But I’d say distastefully lonely. I do not like it. I do not know how I will ever really accept it.

Not being able to be at my son’s home most nights has added a new wrinkle to this sorry place in which I now live. I am in total physical isolation from everyone.

Joann used to feel that way having to be home all day and not being able to get out as she used to. She said it was a nice comfortable - prison. Now I will have to agree. It is nice. It is comfortable. But now it is my prison.

Strangely, I am sort of matter-of-fact about this. I see my situation but am bouncing through the days. Bouncing in this nether-world of emptiness that has somehow become familiar - but not welcome. Or accepted.

No I may have to live in it - but I do not see myself giving in to accepting it. Perhaps this is some way of asserting myself. Who knows.

I just know I probably have at least two more days here like this. My symptoms keep clearing so that is encouraging.

That is how grief is treating me at the moment. I will stumble on one of the many traps that are laying wait for me throughout the house - I might engage one either on purpose or by invoking a memory - and then it hits.

This queasy - weird sensation that is hard to describe. Because instead of feeling like falling - waves of sadness and emptiness come over me. Of course then come the tears and everything else that can come.

It is like those moments are waiting. Waiting for their opportunity to strike.

Thankfully during this time of isolation they have been in the background. But they are there.

It’s like looking across the room and seeing a tiger. He sees you. You both stare at each other but nothing happens. But you know all he needs is the right provocation and he’ll pounce on you in a flash. It’s like that.

I imagine in a sense it has been a bit of a training exercise. I have heavily relied on being at my son’s most evenings for dinner. To have that removed took away what little periods of relative peace I had outside of this place.

In a day or two - I will be able to return. That will be welcome. Welcome because I do not think I could keep this up any longer.

It’s been strange. But then again - strange is normal in this state of grief.

This just reminds me of how much I dislike being alone.

My prayer is that change will come. And I know it will.

Until then I will hold on to the One who holds me up.

And thank Him for His strength and help which I know I am receiving in this place of isolation.

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