The Bipolar Grief Express

“How are you doing?” “You’re so strong. I can’t imagine what you’re going through.” “I wish there was something more I could do.” My village has done so much to support me these past months. From the moment George and I returned from New York City last December and received the The News just before Christmas – a diagnosis we never expected - I have felt the presence of so many angels lifting me up. Yet the low points are almost unbearable. 

I still don’t know how to do “alone”…

Bipolar Grief Disorder. That’s the best way to describe my “condition” since That Day. Manic activity followed by soul crushing, self-induced solitary confinement in the home that never knew a quiet moment. The symptoms include overbooking myself with distractions that help me bury the reality of my new, singular existence. Thousands of travel miles, visiting relatives and sharing laughter and memories. Tuesday nights with friends, joining two very talented musicians to sing harmonies behind their exceptional voices and mad guitar skills. Concerts. Broadway musicals. Escapes to Disneyland - the happiest place on earth - where sadness is checked at the gates. Play dates with the Grands. Distractions. Distractions. Distractions. The flip-side? Agonizing alone time, in a home that holds so many memories of my Kahuna. Where the sadness I have carefully repressed envelops me. A tidal wave of loneliness takes me into its sorrowful grip. And I wallow. I feel it. I cry. I scream. I MISS YOU, GEORGE! Today is one of those days…

The silence in “our” house is deafening today. The muffled tick, tick, tick of the wall clock rings in my ears. Charlie stays close by, his gentle snoring offering quiet comfort. I sit. For hours. Ignoring the voice in my head telling me to “do something” - there is always something to do. Instead I ask myself unanswerable questions. How am I going to live without him? Why didn’t we catch his evil cancer sooner? Will I ever feel true happiness again? I’ve learned this about grief - I can’t wish it away. No number of activities can dissolve it from my being. I can’t run away from it, or take a trip to escape it. It will return. Today I owned the emptiness.

50 years ago - September 1968 - I made my way to the teacher’s desk with my transfer papers. That innocent act in my last semester of high school would change my life forever. George “negotiated” a seating change next to my desk, and we immediately became friends.

George's "friendly" note to me on his senior portrait

Our friendship blossomed into a lifetime love affair two years later. We were 17 when we met, and I whispered my tearful goodbye when we were 67. What a beautiful life we had together. We weathered the storms of marriage and family, and our love became stronger through each and every experience. We were making plans for the golden years. Now I realize our life had been golden the entire time. How grateful I am to have had my best friend at my side for so many years. After 50 years of “we”, I guess I can’t expect the (almost) six months of “me” to be an easy adjustment.

My bipolar grief disorder is going to take time to overcome. The upcoming holiday season is my next hurdle. Manic Paula wants to recreate the fun and festivities of the past...

50 years of Christmas kisses.

Christmas Eve 2016

Reading The Night Before Christmas - a Christmas Eve tradition

Adorn the house with the umpteen boxes of Christmas splendor. Decorate the 10 foot tree. Share Christmas Eve with family and extended family. Remember George with food, fun and stories of Christmases past. That’s what he would want. Joy. Yet as I sit in our home – now void of his larger than life presence – feeling the weight of such deep grief, I ask myself if I’m prepared for the flip side of that holiday joy. I have some time to make that decision. For now, I’m taking the Bipolar Express into the next station, and hoping the ride gets easier.