Trauma changes everyone, and I was no exception to that. It altered how I now see the world and my place in it. I understand my new reality means that there is no going back to who I was before death paid me a visit. Death. It was the life altering trauma that entered my life. It is impossible to go back to the life I had before Brian died. He is gone, and no amount of reflection, wishing, or trying can get me back to “The Before”. It is over. This is the present. Cheryl Strayed says it so well: “It is impossible for you to go on as you were before, so you must go on as you never have.”

April 1 marked three years since Brian died. The road to that day was a long, drawn out, rocky one, ending suddenly with an unexpected fall, leading to seven days in the hospital, followed by two days in skilled nursing, and finally three days at home on Hospice. After Brian died I talked to his neurologist, hoping for some kind of explanation as to what had happened. Unfortunately, the answer was more of a helpless sigh of resignation from the neurologist, who I knew wanted to be able to do so much more for his patients, but more often than not was unable to. The answer was, of course, that there was no solid answer. The best that medicine had the knowledge to hypothesize was that the Parkinson’s had simply reached, as the neurologist put it, the “tipping point,” where all of it was simply a perfect storm that served to accelerate the finality of the disease. It was precious little comfort for either of us, but that was just how it was. A part of me died with Brian that day, and who I was as a person changed. Sometimes the transformation into who I was after Brian died resembled a slow unraveling. Other times it felt violent and painfully abrupt. My mind was unable to focus. I spent a lot of time crying. Not just simple crying, but the ugly kind of crying that one does when it feels like their entire world has just fallen down around them. I found myself living in a fog where complicated thoughts, mental acuity, and the ability to accomplish simple, everyday things all seemed to fall prey to the abyss that had swallowed my world. In an attempt to protect me from overload, “Trauma brain, ” or “widow brain,” as it is often referred to, had taken over my mind, limiting what and how much of my world I could absorb. Most of the time I felt barely able to function. Looking back, there were more days than not that I was forgetful, confused, sad, and disorientated. Thankfully, today I can say that, even though I was often convinced I had been condemned to live in that unreal shadow world forever, slowly, often painfully so, my brain functioning has returned.

None-the-less, the safe little world I used to know was no more and would never be back. There was no way to un-know what I had been reminded of: People die. Not just other people but my people, too. Of course, on some level I already knew this. But, now death had visited me on a deeply personal level, I stood in front of the stark reality that this meant even someone I loved very much and who I felt I could not go on without was, and had been, fair game to die. No amount of work on my part, no matter how hard I tried, was going to change the fact that the world as I knew it, had just come to an abrupt and terrible stop. It’s a well-known, undisputable fact of life that things don’t always work out like we’d like them to. And so, there I was — living in a world where my worst fears had become my new reality.

Fast forward to today. I’ve been living in this new reality for three years now. Much effort on my part has been poured into writing, revising, and re-writing a new version of my life. I imagine that in some ways, I will be doing that for a very long time. Secondary losses will pop up as I am living this new life, and when they do, more rewrites will be required. More adjustments will need to be made. Going forward, my job is to remember that there is no way for me to anticipate these adjustments. Life’s script is always being altered, and, in order to move forward, I must be willing to live in the moment without looking back and wishing for what was but is no more.

Nothing ever turns out exactly as we expect it. Sometimes things turn out better, other times they take a sharp turn for the worse. I’ve learned to be gentle with myself when I get discouraged . . . which, I might add, is something that can happen quiet frequently. When I’m feeling overwhelmed I need to think like the educator that I am and “stop, take a recess, refresh, and regroup.”

In her book, “Different After You,” Michelle Neff Hernandez wisely says: “Though rewriting is often painful, the altered script may just be a masterpiece in the making.” I am excited to continue working on my masterpiece.

New Reality
Death barged its way into my life
and tore my whole world apart.
It changed my familiar reality
while it decimated my vulnerable heart.

My sense of self and who I was
seemed hidden away deep inside.
And as I searched hard to find it,
Grief took my poor soul on a ride.

I muddled my way through one year, then two,
until here I am  at year three,
wondering where I'm heading now,
while still learning to love the new Me.

I ditched Grief's wild ride the first chance I got.
The wounds  left by it slowly healing.
And it's feeling like things have taken a turn,
even though life can still set me reeling.

My heart's slowing crawling out from that dark place
and into the bright light of day,
where I know, once again, I can laugh, love, and hope,
because there's no way I'm letting Grief stay.
Julieanne Gentz