I was surprised to find out my dad was being treated for depression. After all, he was a pretty laid-back guy who rolled with the punches of life. It’s one of the many things he taught me.
But somehow, at some time, he was diagnosed with depression and started adding happy pills to his medicinal repertoire. It all started after my mom died, and I’m thinking the diagnosis was the result of some answers he gave his doctor. And, of course, he came from a generation that believed the doctor knew best. I asked him once why he took the pills and whether he thought he had depression and if they helped. His response was, “I don’t know. The doctor told me to take them, so I take them.” He never questioned the need for the pills which he took until the day he died.
Mom’s death affected him more deeply than anyone imagined. While he didn’t make any radically rash decisions right away, he quickly discarded most of mom’s things without real thought … her clothes to a thrift shop (with a lot of high-end designer clothes) … her jewelry to a metal collector (most of it not costume jewelry and it would have been nice to send some to his grandchildren) … even her furs (yes, plural, which went to a hospital boutique). In conversations with my aunt, she said he became quiet and more reserved in the months following mom’s death.
I didn’t learn about the hole in his heart until after Karen died. It was then — only then — that dad opened up to me. And I could understand some of what he went through after mom died. They had invested over 50 years and in the waning years, dad was mom’s caretaker. Karen and I had 40 and over the last half year or so I was her caretaker.
He told me you can’t wallow in self pity. People die. That’s just the way it is. But it never stopped him from going to the cemetery every week.
He moved on … eventually sold the house … moved into a senior apartment complex … made new friends … visited with old friends … kept himself busy … and learned how to adapt to being suddenly single. But he always told me it wasn’t the same.
I understand. Even after nearly seven years, I recognize that hole in his heart. I have one too.
Normally, I’m a fairly laid-back guy. I look at the glass half full. I try to encourage others. Even when I’m down — I won’t use the word depressed — I’m not under a black cloud but typically a gray cloud with silver linings. I look for the good in everything.
But I have to admit, of late it has become harder and harder. I still try to encourage others — maybe as a way of encouraging myself. I still try to not let my moods affect others. I still try to stay busy.
Don’t get me wrong. Life is not throwing me a Job-ian curve. It’s just life … but I’m not enjoying it as much.
A friend and some family members have asked me what was bothering me {I guess I’m not that good at not allowing my moods affect others}. Truth is … nothing. Or more precisely, no one thing. It’s a compilation of a hundred {okay, that’s probably an exaggeration} little, inconsequential things that in and of themselves are meaningless. And it has worn me down.
My ambition has gone on hiatus. My drive is stuck in neutral. My patience threshold has dropped significantly. I notice my limitations more than ever. Fear has become a word in my vocabulary … fear of falling and getting hurt … fear of cuts and bruises … fear of what and when I eat {okay, maybe not that one so much}. Until recently, fear was just another four letter word to be avoided. Now I find myself using both more frequently.
So, to my family and friends, I’m sorry if I’ve been distant. I’m sorry if I’ve been quiet or gruff or impatient. You’re not alone, I haven’t been a friend to myself either. The truth is, sometimes I just don’t have anything to say. This one of those times.
My biggest concern is walking through the rest of my life alone. Sure, I have supportive family and friends but I don’t have my soul mate … and the reality is she is never coming back. Karen was my ground and my motivator. She was high maintenance, although no more than I to her. We had to work together or it would all fall apart … and we knew it. We complemented each other.
Perhaps the funk is because I moved her to Maine a few weeks back. I haven’t been in the gazebo since then. I haven’t shared my coffee over a cartoon. I haven’t listened to her voice through the scurrying squirrels, flitting birds and rustling gentle breezes.
We always kidded each other. I would say “You’re going to miss me when I’m gone” and she would respond, “No, no, no. You’re going to miss me when I’m gone.”
Once again, she was right. And I’m sure she’ll remind me when I get to Maine this weekend.
THOUGHT TO REMEMBER: God did not create us for any other world than the one in which we live.
The Light 