UnComfortably numb

Acute grief, the early stage of grief, is hard. While that probably goes without saying, let me add that for me, it was also very different from the rest. This may be especially true when losing someone essential to your life. A person who is so much a part of who you are. A person you took care of or the one you counted on to help take care of you. A person fully integrated into your day – your past, present and future.

Numbness is a normal reaction in acute grief.  Why? Because without it, you may never get up off the floor.  Survival kicks in. There are things that need to be done.  And you cannot do them if you allow yourself to melt into a pile of tears.

To the outsider, this early state following loss may appear confusing. Even contradictory. Those observing the person closest to the loss may say things like, he’s really holding it together; they are doing much better than I thought; or I am surprised she didn’t cry at the service. But who we are when we are numb is not who we will likely be when we find a reason to stop protecting ourselves.

Eventually, grief becomes something so close to you that you can barely see it. It is inseparable from you. It lives in you. It feeds off of you. It takes up its own residence in your body.

Today, is six years since Tim left this Earth. The number of times I have reflected back on the days just before and the days immediately following are countless.  I intentionally put myself there – the final week, days, hours. I want to remember everything. I get support from my journal (thankfully I wrote at least something- a quick sentence or word).  I don’t want to forget the last of the moments I had with Tim. Of course, it was scary, painful, and heartbreaking. And, also, beautiful and powerful because of the connectedness with family and friends, sharing laughter and tears as we loved Tim out of this world.

When reflecting on the hours, days and weeks that followed Tim’s death, I ask myself, how did I do it? And the truth is, it’s not that I was strong. It’s because I was numb. In a way, it wasn’t a conscious state. I didn’t numb myself with anything artificial, like drugs, or even sleep, avoidance or denial.  I didn’t even know at the time that I was numb. It just happened. I only recognized it and defined it much later. My state was about survival.

What did it look like?  I did the things that needed to be done. The first thing I did, after waking up the morning of May 23, was write a long message to Tim’s partners and close colleagues. Then, I wrote an obituary. In the days that followed, I planned a celebration of life. All of this with the intention and the impossibility of authenticating all that Tim was.

I got out of bed every day on schedule. I showered. I dressed, though I could never figure out what to wear. I participated in life. I drove my car. I shared time with friends.  I met with our attorney. I contacted banks and service providers. I read loving and thoughtful messages and cards. I accepted food at my door. I even flew to Denver for a few days.  And then to upstate New York for a 2-day work commitment. I did all of this before Tim’s celebration of life.  Uncomfortably numb.

When did I exit numb? I think it started at Tim’s service which was held exactly a month after he died. I stepped into acceptance with both feet. I started to see at some level, what it meant to no longer have Tim in our world every day. End of life rituals are an important part of the mourning period – of accepting and contemplating next steps.  And in the months that followed, when I was mostly and often alone, I was willing and able to feel. I mean really feel.

It may sound strange, but I am so grateful it was summer. I spent hour upon hour outside. Walking with Hank, hiking, yoga, reading and writing on my roof deck, laying on the hard floor with sunshine on my face and Hank next to me. And crying. So many tears, at times, just leaking from the corners of my eyes as if it were a new and constant bodily function, I had perfected. And in other moments, doubling over, expressing tears that seemingly came all the way from the solar plexus.

What a luxury to start with numb and yet, soon enough, leave it exactly where it belonged so I could find the space to tend to my grief. 

On May 22, 2019, we supported Tim out of this life as he took his last breath. Sincere love and gratitude for the friends and family who came to show their love in those last few days and to those by his side sharing this sacred moment: Leyla, Monica, Bill (RIP), Tom, Bryan, Amy, Isabella, Judy and Chuck

And a special dedication today for my dear friend A who just lost her love on May 20, 2025.