I remember walking into my deserted studio and looking around at the dust-covered drawing table, the rumpled drop cloths on the floor, the hunks of dried clay sitting about, and having the brilliant idea to destroy it all. I tore through the small space that Jake created for me and trashed it like some lunatic. I cried and screamed and threw things. I crushed existing projects and turned over the furniture until I was too tired to do anything but sink to the floor and sleep. My parents found me later that night after two unanswered texts and three missed phone calls. That’s when they started smothering me to death.
Mom and Dad orchestrated an intervention of sorts after numerous failed attempts at helping me grieve, which, by the way, is the most ridiculous fucking thing I’ve ever heard. My parents and Jenna were there, along with Jacob’s parents and his two sisters, when I was backed into a corner by my worried inner circle. I should have seen the whole drama coming but I was too busy hating the world, avoiding everyone, and slipping further into isolation.
The deal that we agreed on was not made easily. The entire family, Jacob’s included, begged, bargained, and coerced me into this journey. I was standing my ground until Alan, my father-in-law, took me aside for a one-on-one talk. Jacob is practically a clone of him, so naturally, I’ve always had a soft spot for the man who is like a second father to me. His warm eyes pleaded with me exactly like Jacob’s did when he proposed. Jake’s question was easy to answer. Alan’s? Not so much.
After two hours of talking, crying, some yelling, and one heart-to-heart with Alan, I relented. I agreed to reach out to three of Jacob’s organ recipients. I had no idea which ones I would end up corresponding with. I made no specific agreements about that and I don’t think my family really cared which recipients I ended up picking. They were just happy that I was going to attempt to move forward with my mourning process. They see it as an opportunity to move forward. I see it as a waste of time, money, and a test of just how well I can act. Their theory is that perhaps meeting the people who benefitted from my husband’s death will somehow bring me comfort. I can’t stand the idea of it. No amount of “good” could ever make that night any less of a world-altering cataclysm in my mind.
I lost my husband. Bottom line.
There’s no way to spin that. There’s no other truth. Jake’s death is the singular truth that was born that night. In my opinion, there’s no other synopsis of the whole thing. He died and a bunch of other shit happened in response to his death. He died, other people got a chance to live, and I was left to stand awkwardly in the corner at every holiday, birthday, wedding, and reunion following it. What else is there?
My inner circle’s theory on things don’t seem to add up anyway. They want me to move on with grieving by meeting some people who I hate simply because they exist and Jake doesn’t.
Let me reiterate: they want to send their emotionally unstable family member to meet some strangers who she feels an irrational hatred towards.
I may come by my insanity honestly.
How am I supposed to let go of Jake if there are pieces of him still out there, living on in some perfect stranger?
Of course, I love my family, and even through my grief and self-diagnosed insanity, I want to make them happy. And I want them to stop breathing down my fucking back every day.
Despite how I felt and still feel, I promised I would try out their theory. I didn’t say how hard I would try. I decided that the recipients I would choose would be the first three I heard back from. I agreed to meet them, see that they were well and living their lives, and then I would return to my misery and the simple fact that there’s no help out there for me. I’m where I’m at and I had better get comfortable, because this is my life. This is what it has become. I’m okay with it. My family are the ones who need to get over shit.
The group therapy sessions were an epic failure. I won’t take the blame for that though.
Okay, maybe some blame.
Apparently, hostile outbursts are frowned upon in therapy. But I couldn’t stand another minute of that therapist talking about how the circle of life was such a beautiful thing and learning to love that circle would help ease the pain of losing a loved one. Fuck the fucking circle. Fifteen minutes into the first session, I jumped up from my chair, sending it flying backward, and pointed my finger at Dr. Sunshine and Wildflowers. I may have tossed out a few insults and told him that this circle of life theory is a bunch of bullshit and his fee for said bullshit is practically highway robbery, but that’s hardly criminal of me. Anyone in my position and mindset would have done the same.