Mental gymnastics

What I expected to cause me pain and struggle after Ramsy died: missing him, feeling his absence, loneliness, running our household and family without him, feeling the weight of being solely responsible. That stuff.

What I didn't know would cause me just as much pain: all kinds of mental and emotional complications that are not at all directly connected with Ramsy but that show up during this time of upheaval and crisis and redefining.  Things like the way I hate to appear to be a troublesome customer and so fail to speak up for myself when institution after institution has made mistakes in renaming or closing our accounts, processing applications, collecting information, or whatever.  Like the way I hate asking anybody for anything and so put off important tasks.  Like the way I have rather high expectations of myself and keep forgetting that this is a time to lower the bar just a bit.  Like the way I tend to allow myself to be put-upon. That stuff.

But I remember learning, years ago when I was seeing a counsellor for some months, that these habits and tendencies that we need to fight against will continue to resurface in new situations even after we overcome them in a familiar situation.  These are all old adversaries, and knowing that I have put them away and chosen other directions in the past helps me be hopeful that I can choose differently now, too.  And I have found that the impatience which is a product of my grief is on my side sometimes.  There have been some occasions in the past months when I have simply not been willing to put up with the old way anymore, or couldn't spare the mental energy to do the usual adapting, and I choose a new way almost without knowing that I am making a choice.  I guess that's the good news.

And on a different note: this memory showed up in my mind this week and made me laugh over the course of two days.  It must have taken place early last spring, when Rams was in a wheelchair most of the time, his right arm paralyzed and his right leg on the way there, but he could still speak in sentences.  We were in our room, and I was puttering about, maybe turning down the blankets or setting out his clothes, or some other task which I thought would make things easier for him.  He thought I was fussing over him too much- a thing which was most abhorrent to him- and he looked at me and said in some exasperation, "I'm not an invalid, you know." Uh...

I'm still laughing.  He was the best.