Blah, Blah, Blog...
Sitting in an airport, alone...
Waking up with no one to say good morning to.
Watching TV by myself.
No discussions of current events.
No planning for what we want to do over the weekend, or on our next trip.
Not calling you to check in or share my most trivial or intimate thoughts.
Walking the dogs on my own.
Cooking dinner for one.
No cuddle time on the couch.
Updating the "emergency contact" on my passport.
Transferring your ashes into a transportable bag for the trip.
Sleeping in an empty bed.
Not getting a hug goodbye before I head to the Airport.
Staring out the window of the back seat of a cab.
Sitting in an airport, alone....
I miss you, baby.
Are you getting any sleep Stephen?
People keep asking me if I'm getting any sleep, and they are often surprised when I say "Yes, at least 7-8 hours a night"...
But now I'm starting to wonder if I'm actually getting any real benefits of sleep... Since Chrys passed, I've been taking a prescription sleeping pill that knocks me out for at least 7 hours a night, Ambien CR (not that scary "Lunesta" pill that they advertise on TV with the neon psychedelic butterfly that takes away all your pesky thoughts)...
However, I've noticed that every day I wake up more tired than the day before -- and I've been getting sicker with a respiratory infection even though I'm on antibiotics... so last weekend I tried sleeping a night without the pill -- and I tossed and turned all night - and even when I did sleep I had horrible nightmares about the ICU where I kept trying to bring Chrys back...
And today I realized another freaky effect of the sleeping pill -- I can't remember having ANY dreams while I'm on the sleeping pill... not ONE...
"They say" that dreams are your brain's way of working out stress and trauma in your life... so I propose a new sleeping pill that gives you a HORRIBLE night's sleep -- Instead of taking all your bad thoughts away with a neon butterfly, you are attacked with millions of neon cockroaches -- and all your nightmares flood into your head at once -- allowing your brain to absorb and quickly work through all the trauma in your life at once (usually after only three to four nights of treatment - Talk to your doctor. Side effects may include night terrors, sleep crying, nausea, vomiting, and temporary insanity)... But once the nightmares are out of your system , you can sleep comfortably without the aid of sleeping pills from that point on...
Sign me up for the trials, Pfizer, cause I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired...
WOW - That was depressing!
Just a warning... I had a few really rough days last week... Some of the posts that follow are REALLY depressing and talk about Chrys's last days in the hospital... It was therapeutic for me to write the posts, but I'm not sure if it will be therapeutic for anyone to read them...
I had posted the 2 entries that follow ("Thank God for Fuzzy Fleece Sweatshirts" and "Purpose") on ChrysWurmser.com yesterday, but this morning I moved them here in an effort to keep ChrysWurmser.com more positive...
Just so everyone knows -- I tend to write these blog entries when I'm home alone, thinking about Chrys and really depressed... So my entries tend to be a bit... uh... dark. Unfortunately, I don't tend to post entries when I'm doing well -- like yesterday evening when I was chatting on the phone with friends, or when I went out to dinner with Kent & Eric or when I was walking the dogs... I want everyone to know that I'm still having a really tough time, but it's not horrible ALL the time...
So if you decide to read the next 2 entries - just remember - you have been warned...
Thank God for Fuzzy Fleece Sweatshirts...
I keep saying this to myself:
Thank God for Fuzzy Fleece Sweatshirts...
Much like Chrys shows up in nearly every other picture with his ubiquitous, red Pleon Yacht Club shirt, I have been known to wear (a little too often) one of 3 identical (except in color) fuzzy fleece pullovers from the Gap.
Fortunately, I'm not too original with my wardrobe, because even Chrys would comment that I wore those fuzzy fleece sweatshirts all the time (Actually, he would comment that he was glad I wore them often, because he thought they were cute on me). It wasn't like Chrys was complaining about my lack of wardrobe variety – he certainly was not qualified to talk about fashion (I mean, how many rugby shirts did he own?!).
But now I can’t stop thinking of this one thought:
Thank God for Fuzzy Fleece Sweatshirts...
You see, without Fuzzy Fleece Sweatshirts, I might have missed Chrys’s last hug and his last "I love you"...
The day after we arrived at the hospital, Chrys commented (never complained) that he was having trouble seeing out of his right eye (among all the other complications he was dealing with). It turned out that the cancerous white blood cells were flooding into his eyes (along with his lungs, and other organs) and causing pressure to "temporarily" blind him in his right eye.
The next day, Chrys commented that his vision was completely gone in that eye. As Chrys's condition worsened in all other respects (particularly breathing), it became clear that he didn't want to continue complaining about other "minor" issues that were bothering him. He was actually surprised when someone came to look at the impacted molar in his mouth (it later turned out that the swelling of the gums was actually a symptom of his type of Leukemia, but we didn't know that at the time).
I'm not sure if Chrys stopped pointing out his symptoms because he didn't want us to worry, or if he was just focusing all his energy on breathing -- but it was clear to me that on his last night of consciousness, (before they sedated, intibated and put him on a respirator), that he had lost his sight in both eyes (I would bring him water, but he wouldn't know where it was until put the straw in his mouth)...
As his last night of consciousness went on, it became more and more difficult for him to get enough oxygen no matter how hard he gasped for air. He seemed to become confused and thought that he was being suffocated by the oxygen mask, so he would try to take the mask off so that he could "catch his breath" – only to discover that the air outside of the mask was much less oxygen rich.
In his last moments before sedation, Chrys was confused and was starting to panic. He wasn’t getting enough oxygen, and I had called the nurses in to help. Chrys was trying to push off the nurses, and kept ripping off his mask. He even started pulling at his IV tubes, as he seemed to get caught in a tangle while nurses tried to restrain him.
I stood next to his bed repeating the only phrase I could muster… "It's OK, baby, It's OK. It's OK baby, It's OK..."
The nurses tried to hold Chrys down to give him a sedative. As he flailed his arms blindly, his hand rubbed against my Fuzzy Fleece Sweatshirt, and he stopped. Although he couldn't see, he knew it was me…
Thank God for Fuzzy Fleece Sweatshirts...
In his last moment of clarity, Chrys stopped flailing about, calmly grabbed on to the sleeve of my Fuzzy Fleece Sweatshirt with both hands, and pulled my arm in for a hug. As he hugged my arm, he looked up in my general direction and mouthed the words "I love you". He continued to hold on to my arm as they administered the sedative shot. As he started to fall asleep, the nurses made me leave the room so that they could intubate and connect him to a respirator."
"I love you" were Chrys's last words. And if he didn't recognize the feel of that damn fuzzy fleece sweatshirt, I might have missed his last hug, and his last "I love you."
Thank God for Fuzzy Fleece Sweatshirts...
I miss you, baby.
Purpose
In January of 2005 Chrys & I saw the play "Avenue Q" on Broadway. Chrys and I LOVED the play (and I loved to listen to him laugh at each and every funny lyric in the show). For much of the play, the main character (who happened to be named "Princeton") was searching for his purpose in life.
Through most of 2005 I could identify with Princeton. I quit my job at PwC in February '05 and took some time off to relax and "find myself". I was not certain what I wanted to end up doing with my professional life, but I was certain that I wanted to grow old with Chrys by my side. Chrys was extremely supportive and wanted me to (figure out and) pursue my passion and/or purpose in life. Not ready to take a giant gamble with my career (and not wanting to take a huge cut in my gadget budget), I decided that being a CPA wasn't such a bad gig after all and I went to work for a smaller local accounting firm. After a few months at the local firm, I decided that it was not the right fit, so I quit in November '05. I was going to find another tax manager job after the holidays, but Chrys got a blood clot in his leg, so I stayed home to "play nurse".
Before Chrys got sick, I was back in my "What do I really want to be when I grow up?" phase. I would find myself humming the song "Purpose" from Avenue Q ("...I'm gonna find my purpose/ Could be far / Could be near / Could take a week / a month, a year / at a job, or smoking grass / maybe at a pottery class"...)... Chrys and I had already discussed our early "retirement" plans (After Chrys was done with Banking, and I was done with Tax accounting, we would open a gay resort in Maui - Chrys would run the books, I would be in charge of guest relations and we would work work together on the website) , but it was all those years before retirement that I had to figure out... But Chrys's illness quickly snapped me out of my search for "purpose" and brought my focus entirely on him.
When Chrys was in the hospital, he complained of headaches so bad that it was uncomfortable for anyone to even touch his head (so rubbing his hair to comfort him was out of the question from the start). However, he told me that it would feel good if I could gently and slowly rub his back. During his first few days in the hospital, he would turn to his side and I would use one hand to hold all the IV tubes out of the way and would rub his back gently with the other hand.
As Chrys's breathing became more labored, his oxygen saturation level would dip below 90%. This would cause the monitoring machines to beep loudly, making it impossible for Chrys to get any sleep. And all Chrys desperately wanted during his first days in the hospital was a few hours of sleep. As the hours passed, it was getting harder and harder for Chrys to keep his Oxygen above 90%.
The night before he had to be intubated (and sedated) on a respirator, Chrys found that his Oxygen saturation level was higher when he lay on his side. So throughout his last night of consciousness, he tried to get a little sleep. Every time he would start to drift to sleep, his breathing would become a little shallow and his Oxygen saturation would dip below 90% triggering the alarms... I soon discovered that the only way his Oxygen saturation would stay above 90% while he slept was if I was slowly rubbing his back as he drifted off.
So for the next 4 to 5 hours, I hunched over the side of his bed and slowly rubbed his back as he drifted in and out of sleep. It was backbreaking work -- the bed was at an awkward height and angle, I had not slept in days, my knee was shot, and during the course of the night I pulled a muscle in my back. But I didn't stop until the very end -- because, for the first time in my life, there was no question -- Rubbing Chrys's back - comforting My Baby in a time of need - was my purpose in life.
Now that he's gone, I'm more lost than I've ever been.
I miss him so much.
Day 35
Chrys died 35 days ago, and every day seems to get longer and longer. Since I got back from the NY memorial service, the activity has slowed to a trickle. No more condolence letters, not as many e-mails, and not enough calls to keep my mind occupied... In case you are sitting on the fence about whether Stephen wants to be bothered with a phone call -- bother me!
This has been the hardest week of my life. And although I know I can lean on my friends and family - I've never felt so alone.
This post isn't meant as a final cry for help -- I'm not about to do anything totally crazy... I've got an appointment with my shrink on Monday and a grief counselor on Tuesday, and I will be assigned to a grief counseling group by the end of the month (I guess they are still waiting for more people to die to get enough people together for the next group)... So I think I'm doing the right things to get through this. I'm reading grief books, and I've been told that I'll get through this... but I'll believe it when I see it -- right now it doesn't seem possible... Every day that goes by just seems to make me miss Chrys more... This sucks...
Anyhoo, why am I posting this? Well, while it might not be a "final cry for help" it certainly is a reminder that I could use all the help I could get... so even if you don't know what to say, please feel free to call and just say "hi"... I'll try not to depress you too much, but I can't promise anything... I know it may be awkward for some people to call me if you don't know what to say... but believe me, It's even more awkward for me to call you if I know that I'm just going to bum you out...
Thank you to everyone who continues to be supportive through this shitty time.
Where is my solace?
My grief seems to get little or no solace. When I am talking with friends, I feel as if I am able to keep it together – but as soon as someone says something funny or noteworthy, I think to myself: “I can’t wait to tell this to my baby”.
Large groups are not much easier... When there are multiple conversations overlapping at both sides of a dinner table, or in crowded room, I “zone out” and can only hear a murmur that desperately needs to be punctuated with Chrys’ boisterous laugh. Then I quickly try to focus and rejoin a conversation in order to fight back the tears.
I could take a vacation, but the last time I went on a road trip without Chrys I just wished he could be with me the entire time (and I would call him over and over and over to share stories about my adventures). What good is a vacation if I can’t share it with the love of my life?
I could buy a gadget to occupy my mind, but I used to look forward to showing Chrys all the tricks the gadget could do… He’d usually smile lovingly, roll his eyes and giggle, hug me and say “I love my baby” just to get me to shut up about the wireless integration of this and another gadget… The goofy, loving reaction I’d get from Chrys was well worth the price of the gadget.
I could try a hobby – but that does not help… I started to sculpt a bust of Chrys. As soon as the blob of clay started to resemble a head, I found myself sobbing as I slowly rubbed the forehead of this clay bust in the same manner that I rubbed Chrys’ forehead while I said goodbye and watched him slip away.
I could find a job to keep me busy – yeah right, just don’t break down crying during the interview…
I could turn to my lover for solace, but he is gone.
I could turn to my best friend for solace, but he is gone.
I could try to cry myself to sleep, but I just yearn to feel Chrys wrap his arm around me for comfort.
I could try to turn for my friends for solace – and they do help – a lot – but unless they have lost their soul mate, how could they possibly understand what I’m feeling?
I remember a friend of mine that died my freshman year of college. His death affected me deeply – well, every time I though about it, that is… You see, while we were friends, we were also both very busy. So we would sometime go weeks without catching up with each other. His death never fully “hit me” because I could always trick my mind into thinking that “I must not have seen him this week because we are both too busy.” But when I was alone and I had the time to “deal” – I’d stop and think about him for a while and be very sad…
I know this must be how many people are dealing with the loss of Chrys. Even though everyone who knew him, loved him. Most friends would only get to see Chrys a couple or a few times a month because he was busy with work, or we were hanging out with the puppies… So most people can stop, think about Chrys, get very sad, then move on with the “normal routine” of their day.
With Chrys’ death, I get no such luxury – Chrys was the “normal routine” of my day. He was with me or in my thoughts all the time. I can’t trick my mind out of the grief. I can’t pretend he’s at the office or on a business trip because Chrys usually calls or e-mails 4+ times a day when he is gone. I can’t pretend he’s in the next room watching football, because he usually bounces into my apartment yelling “Yay!” every time his team scores a touchdown. I can’t pretend that he is sleeping in the next apartment, because I used to sneak in and steal a kiss before he fell asleep.
There is no good way for me to escape the void… (well, at least some modern pharmaceuticals do seem to numb me up pretty good -- temporarily at least).
Ok, so maybe it's not 100% horrible all the time... but whenever I'm by myself, it's devistating... (and I tend to write these blog entries when I'm alone) Sorry to bum you out...
I miss my baby so much.
Grief Sucks!
Fuck!
"Hanging in there.."
As I mentioned on ChrysWurmser.com, my friends ask me how I am doing. My answer is always “hanging in there” because as long as I am breathing, that’s the best answer I can give right now. But the real answer is this:
I want to die – but I know that Chrys would want me to live a long happy life. I want to die – but I know that my family can’t handle another tragedy. I want to die – but I know that this void, this kicked in the stomach pain, this grief, this terrible heartache, this abyss of sorrow will someday subside. I want to die – but suicide is for pussies. I want to die -- but I’m smart enough to realize that I will be able to find peace and happiness again someday. I want to die – but even though I lost the love of my life, my best friend, my lover, my cuddle-buddy, my ray of sunshine, my Mecca-Mecca, I will someday not feel this terribly alone. I want to die – but I know better….
One tough part about this grieving process is that I feel like I have to be a good actor in order for people to feel comfortable around me. People want to help me (and they really, really are), but I know that people also want to FEEL like they are helping me -- They want to see me progress towards normalcy and out of grief – but if they ask how I’m doing and I reply “I want to die.” I’m sure they will think that all their efforts are futile and they might think I’m too much of a downer to talk to… (or they may try to convince me to call a suicide hotline – but my closest friends know that I not crazy enough to hurt myself).
My friends (and Chrys’ friends) really have been helpful through all of this and I want them to know that every call and every card and every time they hang out with me for a while to watch TV, and every e-mail and every post to Chrys’ website DOES help me, even if I can’t express anything more than “I’m hanging in there”. Because truthfully, I’m hurting more than you can imagine.
Thank you all for your outpouring of support.
