The Trouble With Triggers

[HAP]

Dear friends,

I finished redoing the living room today. Six weeks ago, I ordered two love seats to replace the couch and love seat Jane and I bought when we built this house just over twenty years ago. I’d finally figured out that even with new slipcovers, those two pieces set me off every time I entered the room.

In the process of getting everything in the room balanced—I’ve never studied feng shui, but I know when things are arranged right I feel better than when they aren’t—I decided to remove the next level of knick-knacks that I have kept out as reminders of the couple we were. Fifty-five months and 15 days is long enough to keep the two doll-sized mugs embossed with "My Sweetheart” out where they can remind me every day of what I’ve lost.

That seems silly as I look up at the collage of pictures of Jane on the wall across from me. It dominates the room in ways no collection of small glass rabbits and tiny teapots could ever hope to. Equally, each piece of furniture has one or more of the cross-stitch pillows Jane made for us on it. But neither the photographs nor the pillows ambush me when I walk into the room the way those small pieces did.

That’s the trouble with triggers: they lurk in the corners and catch you by surprise. They can turn a good day on its head in an instant. And sometimes they get you even when you know they are there. Some nights, I sit across from that collage and nothing happens. Then, I look up and the loneliness and loss descend like a brick and hit me in the head with concussion-inducing force.

And the things are everywhere. I’m teaching a journalism course in Boston this summer. To get there, I have to drive a portion of the route we took to the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute seemingly every week in the last months of Jane’s life. It’s a route I’ve driven often enough since that it feels pretty safe to me most of the time.

But one Friday this month they were cutting the trees back from along the road, as they had been that fall. The sight of the men and the machines took me back in an instant and suddenly the depression rolled in and crushed me.

Of course the real crushers are, generally, around the house. A pen, a piece of furniture, a candle, a bit of ribbon, the scrape of a chair on the deck—anything can set us off, especially in the early days of grief. What astounds me is how susceptible to those triggers we remain even years later. You would think that, eventually, simple household items we see and use every day would lose their ability to hurt us. But you’d be wrong.

And there is no simple logic to what hurts us and what doesn’t. In my case, the couch and love seat created a constant ache, no matter how I rearranged them or covered their original fabric with a slip cover. But I sleep every night in the same bed Jane and I bought when we got married, surrounded by the same chest, dresser and bedside table bought at the same time.

Of course I moved that furniture out of the bedroom it was in and repainted the walls in the new room a radically different color. The furniture is also set up in a very different way than it was when Jane was alive. I also replaced the mattress. I suspect somewhere in there is the reason I can sleep there comfortably. I also know that I had real trouble sleeping before I did all that.

But removing triggers also comes with a price—and I’m not talking about the financial cost. When I watched the love seat and couch going out the door Thursday—even though they were only going as far as the basement—it was an emotional experience. It took us three months to find those pieces 20 years ago. We lived on them all summer and all winter. That couch is where Jane fell asleep in my arms many nights. It is where I massaged her feet almost every night. We watched the Red Sox finally win a World Series there—and watched them come back from a 3-0 deficit against the Yankees.

Every stick of furniture, every cup, every plate, every knife, every fork, every spoon, every vase and every candle holder is pregnant with memory. And every one of them can trigger a wave of grief—just as giving them away or replacing them can.

A friend, who lost her husband of fewer years well before I lost Jane, tells me she still encounters things that trigger new waves of grief. She expects that will continue to be the case for as long as she lives. And I believe her. We don’t stop loving someone when they die—and we don’t stop missing them.

We do find ways to cope with that heartache. We do find ways to deal with the triggers that set off new waves of grief. Sometimes, we embrace those triggers until, by force of repetition, they begin to lose their power over us. Sometimes, we find we can avoid specific triggers by avoiding particular stores or places that meant too much to ever lose their power. Sometimes, we repaint or redecorate or repurpose a room. Sometimes, we simply endure.

There is no right answer for any of this. There is only what works for us as individuals in our particular circumstances. And no matter what we do, specific days, specific moments, specific incidents, will jump on us when we least expect it and take us back into the darkest times our souls experience.

But we persevere. We find purpose again. We find life again. We keep moving forward.

Peace,

Harry

[Froggie4635]

Harry,

So very well written. I am always grateful for the words of someone sharing their experiences. I have made an observation of my own dwelling. It wasn't long after Mark died that I had to move the furniture in my living room because I kept seeing Mark lying on the floor, fighting for his life. My home kind of represents what is going on inside me. The living room, where I spend most of my time, and where I receive visitors is the one room I keep in order. It is my "brave face" that the outside world sees. The rest of the house is somewhat chaotic, with little piles of stuff sitting around, waiting for me to be ready to deal with. Most times I merely walk by the stuff. People see my facade that is put together and deals with the daily chores and work. It is the hidden "rooms" where all that I go through is located. Those closest to me know of the messes and do not judge. They know what I endure. Putting your life back together takes a lot, and I allow myself the time I need to do it.

[kayc]

Yes, Harry, very well expressed. It is the same reason I decided to part with the two kissing porcelain dolls that donned our bedroom throughout our marriage. It was hard but it was time...I'd first bought them when decorating the bedroom romantically in anticipation of our marriage. It seemed out of place with him gone.

[KarenK]

So, so true Harry. Ron has been gone for almost 27 months now, yet his presence lingers. Like you Maryann, I cannot look into the family room without envisioning the hospital bed where he drew his last breath. I have no choice but to spend the majority of my time in that room. I suppose it is my only room that is "organized". Still reeling from the loss of my cabin. Things waiting to be sold are stuck in every room. It is stifling in more ways than one. 40+ years of "Us" are in this house, in every nook and cranny.

Early on, I was forced to sell most of his collections. The huge gun safe was replaced with my mother's china cabinet, but the cabinet with collectible knives still stares me in the face. I can't give up the John Wayne photos or tons of dvds. I can't watch them, I just can't give them up. Does that make sense? The clothes are all donated, yet I drive "his" truck every day. It will never really be "my" truck although I identify it that way when speaking. His couch and recliner have been replaced. They were in bad shape, anyway.

Most of my Kachinas and beautiful pottery pieces are gone. One curio cabinet stands empty waiting to be sold. The other, well it contains the family pictures. My beautiful, smiling daughter in the front yard in 2006(before she was ravaged by cancer) is front and center. On either side, she is flanked by handsome Ron and me in 1972 and then very ill Ron in 2013. Constant reminders of what once was and is now.

I sometimes sit and ponder of all that has transpired and brought me to this sad place in life. I still do not like this new life. Try as I might, I cannot make it any better. There is no one left to comfort me in my sadness and tell me that it will be alright or to call me on those special days and say "Whatca doin', Mom". Tomorrow marks one year since she left. I have never felt old before,but now I am old and tired in body, mind, and spirit. Sometimes I wonder if it is really worth it?

[KATPILOT]

There is something to be said in changing our surroundings. I knew from the beginning that nothing lasts forever. Things break, wear out, or best, broken by grandchildren. Once I accepted that fact, I began to replace things with new because after all, it's just stuff. You are right Harry. Triggers will never be out of our lives. There always will be a song, or movie scene, or one item still lying around the house not to mention pictures. At best, we can build our lives with new adventures, and new décor. I see Kathy in everything I do and buy. If you live with and love someone long enough, you begin to realize that you are a combination of two with taste and style that wasn't quite who we were before we met. But we do live on do we not? When I change a room, I stand back and look at it maybe with a little pride and imagine what she must think of what I've done.

You paint a great picture of your home Harry. It sounds like you are doing quite a nice job.

Stephen

[enna]

Thank you for your post, Harry.

Those of us who have been living this loss for a while now know that our lives are filled with triggers. As much as I try there isn’t a day that goes by that something doesn’t remind me of what used to be. Like Karen, I have forty years of memories and some of them will always fill my home. I have remodeled some areas and put some things away because I’m just not ready to do anything with them.

From a woman's point of view, it’s those little things that send me into a flood of tears. I haven’t found a way to deal with those emotions yet. Burned out recessed lights in nine & twelve foot high ceilings, coach light above the front door that is too high for me to change, a squeaky garage door that needed the track oiled, keeping car maintenance schedules, windows washed and summer screens put on, hot water heater drained yearly, replacement of the guts in the toilets, even the ceiling fans needing to be cleaned. Today I have to pay to get these things done. But most of all it’s the daily living without Jim here anymore. The emptiness felt on a daily basis, the conversations we had, the enjoyment of a good meal together, and the lack of touch ~ no more arms around me or kisses.

I am learning to live this new life for that is what we must do.

Anne

[Guest]

I'm lurking in this thread even though I haven't lost a partner. But the triggers post intrigued me after what I found this weekend. It was a lone little yellow lego in my garden. He must have dropped it there when my garden was a great place to push around trucks and toy tractors. And just like that I found myself watering my garden with tears yet again.

[scba]

Three weeks after he passed away, I had to left the appartment we rented. I won't ever forget the last time I had a look at it before closing its door forever. I thought: "he's dead, I'm alive, but dead too". I miss our home, I still dream about it. I left all of our furniture and stuff in a friend's garage, and I'm still unable to go and get them. I went once and I couldn't handle it. I know it's all there, and for now it's enough.

I've a bag with his gifts, some shirts he loved, letters, memories, my old mobile with his sms. I can't yet open the bag. I'm scared that memories will hurt me very much. I'm working on this issue with my therapist. Maybe one day I'll be brave enough.

[Froggie4635]

There are two bathrooms in my house. One I used (liked the showerhead better) and one Mark used. The one Mark used is our master bath, so I am in it a lot. Everything that he used is still there; his razor, shampoo and soap are still sitting where he left them the last time he showered, along with the last towel he used. All his amenities are sitting on the sink; cologne, deodorant, extra razors. There are still prescription bottles from days gone by with his name on them, and over the counter meds he bought and used. All still sitting there, collecting dust. I moved the blow dryer in there before he died, and that is where I go to dry my hair. I put all my hair stuff in one of the drawers. I bet there is still beard stubble in the shower. I always think about going in there and making it my bathroom and leave the other for guests. Not ready to make that change. Some things were easy to go through, and the fact that most of the stuff is still in the house hasn't been a trigger. When his siblings finally come to claim those things that I offered them, then I will see how hard it is. When I come across bits of paper with his handwriting on them, I hold on to them. I pulled out a sign he made for his pen display when we were doing craft shows. The remaining pens that I have of his are in a case sitting in my studio. I open it many times and hold each one in my hands. There will be no more made from his hands. I also brought the hand plane I bought for him into the studio and put it where I can see it. It is identical to one that his father owned. He looked at it as a piece of art. He had such an artistic soul, with the technical knowledge to make just about anything. I loved to watch him work on the lathe; that concentrated look on his face, then the way he ran his fingers over it to feel if it needed more turning. I miss him so much.

[kayc]

If it's any consolation, you do get more used to it after a while...after quite a while. I don't know at what point, but I'm over ten years out now and I have to say I'm pretty much used to this life of mine now. It's nothing like it was, but it is what it is.

[KATPILOT]

"It is what it is" Kay that simple truth was what my wife always said. It is one truth you just can't argue with. I accept that now but not before I lost my wife. After the doctors told me it was hopeless and she had but five days to live and they were going to go in with me to tell her, I said "no, I'll tell her". I went into her room, looked in her eyes, still so bright and alive, and told her. She just looked at me and said "it is what it is". For me, I was screaming inside my head "not good enough damn it". I hated that saying. I hated it for years. I don't anymore. Today I understand it. It is what it is. It is after all the most simple truth. At ten years on your journey, you are indeed one of my hero's. I say that because your courage proceeds you. I have a widowed friend of seventeen years who I look up to as well. Surviving indeed though perhaps still working at it.

Froggie your mention of the prescription bottles with his name on them reminded me of the same experience. I remember holding that bottle of percocet in my hand and thinking............... oh yeah, that was a dark place. I am grateful that I am hell and gone from that time. Yes it can be good to remove certain things quite early.

On a lighter note, changes can be good. The whole concept of changing our environment can and should be exciting. We can look at it as a positive if just by knowing they would find joy in us doing so. It means we were going on with our lives and that simply has to please them. Kathy always liked to change things, buying new decor, traveling to new places we'd never been, and all aspects of her life. Seems to me she would have spoken out long before I made changes that they were certainly due. That brings a smile to my face.

[Froggie4635]

I have to giggle a little when I hear the phrase, "it is what it is" because Mark HATED that phrase. Now in the context of how things have changed, it has new meaning. He would always say, "Of course it is what it is."

[Wifflesnook]

I'm writing this on our 53rd wedding anniversary and we didn't make it together quite for our 50th. So I've had four now on my own. I loved Harry's post because of the way he just gets it. I find it comforting to read things like that and to know we are a company of grievers who share such experiences. I have many many triggers some of which I avoid and some I cultivate. I run Pete's moth trap and every time I walk to it, record the moths, place them in the bucket so they can sleep the day away and fly away at night I do it in an almost ritualistic way. I stroke the walls he touched, gaze at the full moon we used to look at together. I avoid certain places which I know make me really sad. I still leave his cupboards and drawers untouched (are these UK terms which you may not understand?). I take enormous comfort from remaining in our little cottage. I feel he would be proud of how I'm surviving. I'm very aware that people I know think I've almost got over his death because I join in things, talk cheerfully, etc. and how wrong can they be? But the triggers can take us by surprise. I know I still don't go so deep into the pain as I can. My friend whose husband has been fighting cancer for many years, rang me on Friday to tell me he has died. I sobbed and sobbed. More than I've cried for months, and I realised I was crying for her, but also for myself. That was a trigger alright.

[feralfae]

Dear Jan,

Yes, these triggers are all still around us. Sometimes I find myself ambushed by a flood of tears, and sometimes, I can hold the memory that is causing the trigger, and cherish those times, and even smile a little. Sometimes, I will pick one of his tools and simply hold it, thinking about his energy, his creativity, and all the wonderful things he did for me, made for me, took the time to think about for me.

I am slowly moving more of Doug's things out of the house. Doug's medicine cabinet is still intact, there are still some of his things in his closet, and some of Doug's things are still in the kitchen cupboards, in the library, and in the living room. Some of them I cannot part with quite yet, but I am making some progress. HIs night stand is still filled with his things. I am content to leave everything there, and comforted going to sleep to know his reading glasses, his handkerchiefs, and his other little things are still in a drawer next to our bed. Someday, I will be ready to clear more, but for right now, I am simply proud that I have cleared so much.

I am glad you could cry after your friend called, and that you could know your tears were for her and for you. We make it, day by day.

*<twinkles>*

fae

[Wifflesnook]

Dear Fae

We understand each other. It helps doesn't it? I know others, those who haven't lost what we have lost, don't understand. I love to come here to be understood. I've been reading some poetry tonight and that helps a little. Jan

[feralfae]

Dear Jan,

Yes, it helps remarkably. I don't know how I would have made it through these past three years if I had not discovered my own words. written here by others, describing this journey so very well. Yet, coming from the hearts of others, I felt my own heart responding to shared minutes and emotions on this grief journey. I strongly feel that being here has helped to keep me as sane as I have been able to be during this time.

I am presently reading Donne's poetry. I have not read his sermons yet. Our favorite poem after Doug got very sick was by Donne, "A Valediction Forbidding Mourning" which I read to him the night he left, along with other poems and prayers we had for that night. And sang to him, of course. When you wrote earlier about your anniversary, all I could think was how our anniversary will always be a day I will set aside for remembering the wonderful days of our time together here. It is also Doug's birthday. Both the same day, so he could remember it more easily.

I understand. Thank you for understanding as well. It is comforting and validating for me to know that I am "seen" by others as my yet occasionally ghostly spirit walks this grief path. But I am a lot more solid, real, alive, in harmony, than I was three years ago.

Your anniversary. I think that all the joy and hope, all the dreams and overflowing tender love of that day will always fill us with wonderful Light, more and more each year. I think our memories will become pearls and rubies of beauty adorning our hearts, and anniversaries will become a day on which we can take out our jewels of Love and admire and cherish them, in all their luminescence and love.

We are not there yet, but it is a goal to consider on anniversaries, I think, to be able to hold the memories as precious pieces of who we are today, and to wear that beauty as a special sparkle in our eyes, a moment of joy for these butterflies and moths and dragonflies. For we have such certainty and absolute knowledge that we are still loved that we can celebrate our love in joy some of the time now. And our Love is forever.

{{{hugs}}} to you today dear Jan, although by the time you are reading this, it is already tomorrow where you are.

We are adorned with the beauty of our Love.

namaste,

fae

[Wifflesnook]

Yes I'm reading your beautiful words at seven am. Thank you is all I can respond. I wish I could express myself half so well. I shall read it several times. It's almost time to get up and check Pete's moth trap. I wonder what will have flown in during the night? I will take a photo of the moon garden I made and put it one here. I think you will appreciate it. Namaste

[kayc]

And Doug's birthday too? I'm glad you were able to set aside some time for retrospect. I like to do that too on special days. It seems so much of my life has become memories. Memories of the kids growing up. Memories of people now gone, my parents, my inlaws. And George. Memories of his zest for life, memories of camping trips and drives and enjoyment in the common everyday things. Memories of snuggling up together. Things that no longer exist in my life.

[HAP]

Dear friends,

First, thank you all for your kind words. I never know when I write something if it will speak to anyone other than me--and i am always surprised when it does. I know that likely sounds crazy, but there you are.

I have been absent for quite a bit here. I am teaching at Boston University this summer in a program for high school journalism students. I am in bed at 9 p.m. and up at 4:45 to make the 90 minute commute to Boston each day. I teach for 2-3 hours, then drive home. It doesn't leave much time for writing--here or elsewhere. But the break is doing me good. It takes me out of the world of cancer and lets me talk to young people again about the things Jane and I cared about.

Which is not to say Walking with Jane is being ignored. I'm prepping for the Marathon Walk, putting together a miniature golf tournament for late August and trying to put together items for two big craft fairs between now and early September. But July is a slow month on the website, as I've learned from the last few years. I guess you don't take cancer to the beach.

The people at Dana-Farber want to meet with me on Monday afternoon about an "opportunity." I don't know what that means--and they won't tell me before then. I suspect there will be a major announcement on the NET cancer front in the next few weeks and they want me involved with whatever it is.

Anniversaries are tough--a major metaphysical trigger all by themselves. I'll face our 26th September 2. It will be the fifth since Jane died. I am not looking forward to it.

Peace,

Harry

[KATPILOT]

Harry, just the fact that you would do something to help others is a gift for Jane. It speaks a lot about who you are and also of who Jane is. If I understand anything about the person you are, I'm betting you would not need to hear that but it is the truth just the same. We honor them with what we do in life and you do that very well. I hope you share with us what your meeting on Monday unfolds.

By the way, I look at cancer like it was a shark. It has no thought about who it kills. It just knows to feed.

Personally, I hate sharks.

[kayc]

Harry, I'm glad you're enjoying teaching. It IS good to have a break. When I was bookkeeping and my brain was over-taxed, sometimes I'd get up and go to the break room and do the dishes or go do the recycling...it gave me a "break" even though I was doing something...it helps to do something different now and then and makes us better able to focus on things when we go back to it.

[Kakalina]

Such beautiful words and so well written. I guess I reacted differently than most. After my beloved Virgil died in my arms on the floor of our living room I decided I could not look at the carpet every day. It was close to ruined anyway. I chose to replace all the floors with wood flooring. Most of the furniture had been moved out of the living room for all the hospice equipment and since it was gone and the floors were being replaced I decided to repaint.

I basically ended up completely redoing our entire condo. I had to. I could not face the many, many pictures on our "travel wall". I have not put them back up. A few have made their way out here and there. His clothes are boxed up. Nothing personal is in constant view.

It really didn't help. I still see and sense him everywhere. It will be seven months on the 10th of this month and I mourn every single day. Sometimes that kicked in the gut feeling that just takes your breath away is more than I can stand. But I stand it because there is no other choice. I am alive.

[iPraiseHim]

Well spoken, I too will reach the seven month mark on the 16th, Day 197.  I still count the days; I'm not sure why.  The reality of my wife's death continues to settle in my heart deeper and deeper.  Flashbacks and memories of better times.I have not eaten an ice cream cone from McDonald's since her death. There are all kinds of memory triggers because our life was intertwined.  I miss her; I miss us.  The heart pain is real and doesn't go away.  I seem to be triggered now more than before.  I exist, for I am living, but not alive like before with my soulmate.  This grief journey is tough.  Work helps to pass the day. Shalom.

[enna]

Thinking of you, Harry, as you reflect on your fifth year without your Jane being here in her physical body.  Even as I write those words I find it difficult to think about my Jim being gone 39 months and one week! 

Did you find out what Dana-Farber wanted to meet with you was all about? I don't remember reading about it if you posted it here.

I like what Stephen said about cancer: "I look at cancer like it was a shark. It has no thought about who it kills. It just knows to feed."

George, we will always count the moments of being away from our spouses. The price we pay for the love we shared with our spouses. 

My wish is that we all find peace as we struggle with losses. 

Anne

[debi.williams]

It is 5 weeks ago today that my husband passed very suddenly right here in the floor of our dining room. He is everywhere here. His shoes on the stair s, his jacket on the chair where he last took it off and even still some of his favourite foods in the fridge. I am still so numb I don't know if these things give me comfort or cripple me even more. His car is parked outside where he left it 2 hours before this happened. I cannot even open his clothes closet, but they are see through glass and every night I stare through the glass at his favourite shirt hanging there. I cannot bring myself to open the bathroom closet and see his razors and aftershave. I cooked as usual for our son last night and had to use one of his favourite onions that he had bought (hard ones from Egypt) and I was weeping as I cut it. How can an onion outlive the person who bought it? 

Sorry everyone, I know I sound deranged but then I think grief is a lot like madness. I think it is the little things in the end that break you. The unwashed socks, the last birthday card you come across whilst looking for something else, his rucksack you don't have the courage to look through, the unfinished block of cheese that only he ate. These things were the very essence of him and my heart is broken.