Sam, how are you? (#1312)

Topics/tags: Autobiographical, short, insufficiently edited

How are you?

How are you doing?

I hear these questions a lot these days. It’s my fault; I willingly put myself amidst crowds of people, whether at the visitation, the funeral mass, or just somewhere in public. It’s natural for people to wonder and to care.

Most pause for a moment afterward and then realize it may not be the best question.

But they’ve asked. So I think about it. And I respond.

Often, my response is something trite but true.

I’m doing about as well as you’d expect.

I’m doing about as poorly as you’d expect.

I tend to favor the former over the latter. I expect that’s a good sign.

Sometimes, the true but trite answer is a bit longer.

“_Not as well as I’d hoped, not as poorly as I’d feared.” Unfortunately, there are times that I get the words backwards. Not as poorly as I’d hoped, not as well as I’d feared. I don’t know whether the wrong response is sad, or funny, or perhaps even sunny.

I also give an answer that’s a bit more true.

I don’t really know.

Are there levels of truth? I think there are. All of the answers above are truthful. But I don’t really know. feels more accurate than anything I’ve said so far.

Why don’t I know? Grief and loss are complicated. I’m still struggling to figure out what life without Michelle will be. And I’ve had more than a year to prepare, including the last month or so, which should have permitted more intense preparation. But it turns out that you can’t really know what something will be like until you encounter it. At least, I can’t. Additional feelings also come to the fore, such as worrying about the boys, her brother, friends, the house, or whatever. And I must face the annoyance of dealing with paperwork and other necessary trivialities.

There are times I feel perfectly fine. I’m going along with some aspect of my not-quite-life as I have in the past, and it feels normal. Then something happens, and it’s suddenly glaringly obvious that she’s not here and that she’ll never be here, and I break down. Crying is good. I let myself cry.

Are there levels of truth? I think there are.

The most truthful answer I’ve come up with so far is one I had not expected. I am empty. A central part of who I am is gone and will never return. She’ll always be there in spirit and in mind. I have pictures. But I won’t feel the warmth of her nearness, the sound of her laugh. I won’t get to bounce ideas off her and hear her opinions. I won’t get to share things I love with her and learn more about the things she loves. That part of who we were together is gone.

And we were something special together. SamAndMichelle is a different creature than Sam and Michelle separately. We weren’t always a coherent entity, but we were a collaborative entity. Part of me is gone. A huge part of me, particularly for such a small person.

As I said, there are times when everything feels fine. At the post-funeral lunch, I served fairly well as a host, wandering from table to table and chatting with people. Some folks would say something that would bring me to tears. (Don’t worry, that’s fine.) But I could also hold extended conversations on, say, the wonder of our three sons. I was even able to read from scripture (Lamentations, appropriately enough).

Last night, I had a family dinner with the boys, Michelle’s cousins, and two of her closest female friends. For a while, it seemed like a normal extended family dinner in the Rebelsky household; we laughed, told stories, ate, made fun of each other, and more. But as time went on, it felt less and less normal. Eventually, I could only focus on the giant vacuum where Michelle belonged, and it was hard to be anything but numb. I had a community in which I should find joy, but I couldn’t discern that joy through the emptiness.

So I’m empty. That’s the best description I can come up with. There’s a hole in my life. There always will be.

But I’ll be okay. I promised her I would be, and that’s a promise I intend to keep. It may just take some time to get there.

Postscript: I forgot to mention. I am also exhuasted. I lay down at noon this afternoon and didn’t wake up until after 3pm. I assume sleep will come and go.

Version 1.0 of 2024-10-12.