First I just want to express my appreciation for all the kind messages and well wishes I received this week. I do appreciate the messages, even if I don’t respond. It’s hard to respond to those because I never used to be a person who needed taking care of. I don’t necessarily like being taken care of, even if it’s something I may need. I don’t like being the person that needs taking care of. I just want to be me. Nothing special, no extra attention. But on the other hand, the attention reminds me that I have all the support I could want.
Being back at work just outright sucks. I hate it. I work in multiple schools so there is plenty of staff in each school that I only know by sight. They know nothing else about me. The first person I saw when I walked into work on Tuesday was a teacher I just know from passing in the halls. She asked me if I had a great summer. What the fuck do I say to that? Do I say “my daughter died sooo…”? Do I lie and say it was great? I just said it was okay. And this is my issue with working. Some people know, some don’t but that doesn’t even matter. What matters is that I have to compartmentalize my life now. I have to go to a job every day and act like everything is okay. Act like I am anything but the shattered, broken shell of my former self. I have to participate in life and it is fucking exhausting. And it is painful.
Being privy to others’ conversations is just as difficult. Many talk about their kids, what they are doing, etc. I can’t join in those conversations unless I want to be a complete downer. Conversations not about kids don’t appeal to me either. It all seems so trivial and petty and I just can’t bring myself to give a shit. But those who don’t know my situation may just think I’m unfriendly.
Being back at work feels to me like I am “moving on”, living life, doing normal every day things. It feels so unimportant and meaningless to me. My daughter died. How can I care about anything else? How can I switch my focus from what’s most important to me? I can’t. All day at work running through my mind is “My daughter is dead. None of this matters.” There is nothing more important than Ariella and yet the world keeps spinning, the pages of the calendar keep turning, and life goes on. But I don’t want it to. I am not ready for life to go on. I don’t feel right doing these everyday, normal things and all I want to do is be at home, in my safe place, hiding from the world.
I cry everyday, multiple times a day. I never know when it will hit me. The tsunamis of grief come when they want. I can’t schedule them to drown me at my convenience. It takes all my energy to not allow them to overcome me at an inopportune time. What’s going to happen when the students return next week? Some of them know I have a daughter. They didn’t know she was sick or in the hospital but what happens if they ask about her or mention her? I need to be able to hold back the tears when I am with the kids. I just don’t know that I can do it.
I have found many things bereaved parents have in common but I think there is a split when it comes to work. Some, like David, have found work to be helpful. They welcome the distraction. They are relieved to be kept busy, so they can push the grief aside. I am the complete opposite. I am not distracted and all I am doing is counting the minutes until I can go home. The grief keeps asking me “Why are you doing this? What is the point?” And the truth is while I used to love my job I am only working now because I have to. Because I don’t see the point. Nothing else matters to me except that I had a daughter and she died.
Coming home from work is no easy feat either. There is no one to pick up from school on the way home. There is no rushing around trying to get to dance or get homework done and dinner on the table. There are hours to fill after work. And yes, without work I would have more hours of the day to kill but what is hard is the transition of coming home to that empty house without our regular after work and evening routine.
I really don’t want to do this. Before going back to work I was surviving. I don’t know how I am going to survive this. Life just feels that much more stressful and overwhelming. And all I want to do is cocoon myself in a blanket to never emerge.
I feel like it would be helpful for the principals to tell the teachers and the parents of the students you work with about Ariella. That would really eliminate the uncomfortable scenario’s you mentioned. And then you also wouldn’t feel like you were being left out and viewed as being mean.
I know no work will ever be as important as your work as a mom but these other children need you. They need you to help them through their OT. It’s not the same to you but for them all they know is they need help and you’re it. My point is that your feelings are so normal.
I’m still here and listening.
Definitely not the same magnitude at all but I was very much the same after my mom died. It was a struggle for me to get through my work day. I ran to my car every day at the end of the day so I could finally cry.
Erica – I’m glad to hear that you appreciate and read the comments. And I’m sure no one is expecting a reply.
I’m sorry your first day back to work was so difficult. Erin Smith’s idea is an approach that didn’t occur to me. But that approach would make me feel as I’d lost control of something very important, and perhaps even that people would be looking at me with knowing eyes. But that’s me.
Perhaps just be honest when you feel you can muster the strength. When someone asks “how was your summer” a simple answer like “It was difficult” is enough.
I think being open and honest with your students (when you’re up to it) when they ask about Ariella may be easier and perhaps more important. Children are likely to be honest and accepting. Maybe that will help you say anything at all.
I must say I’m like you in wanting to be independent and not needing anyone’s help or extra attention. It’s who I am at my core. As I’m over 60 now, I know the time when I may need real help is closer now than when I was your age. I was so glad that I tolerated chemo well and that I could be pretty “normal” for those months. In the back of my mind (every day in fact), I know that all could change suddenly again. But by no means does it limit what I do. You say you often run. I cycle, and lately I have this feeling that I’m cycling hard again as if I could distance myself from the cancer. It’s a bizarre motivation for sure.
Thanks for reading these disparate thoughts.
Thank you for your thoughtful comments.