A Surprising Development

Well, now we have an interesting development in our story...

On Tuesday, that brutal day of pain and hopelessness, I contacted my doctor to follow up on the thought that there was something more to these big feelings than just work-related dissatisfaction. I saw her yesterday morning, and though I wasn't as emotional as I had been at other times in the last little while, I still cried as I described my struggle to perform and care about work. Surprisingly, she was pretty adamant that I take a medical leave, starting immediately.

She thought that a big contributor to my difficulties may be garden-variety depression -- a little Zoloft and talk therapy, and 3 months off, would help get me back in balance and enable me to approach the career transition question with more equanimity. I talked her into letting me stay for 4 more weeks, to complete the big event I'm in charge of pulling off, but now I'm even questioning that (the waiting, that is).

After the initial shock of the idea of "giving up" and "running away" and "letting down my co-workers" by taking a medical leave, I must say it's SO wonderful to imagine having peace and quiet in which to unwind and restore myself. I'm not thinking about a medical leave the same way I was thinking about a personal leave -- for a personal leave, the goal was to find my next purpose. For a medical leave, the purpose is to simply be. Make no decisions, don't try to learn or plan or make progress on a path. Just read, and walk, and meditate, and do yoga, and have lunch with friends. With a medical leave, I'm not making any statement about the job, and it will be there when I come back. If I'm feeling better and my doctor agrees, I can return before the 3 months is up. If I'm still in turmoil, she extends the leave.

So I'm going to take the weekend to come to terms with the idea of a medical leave, and think about whether immediately or in 4 weeks is best for me.

It comes and goes

Wow, yesterday was brutal. I felt like I was back in those terrible early months after T's death, where I couldn't think straight for the emotional pain I was feeling. It wasn't the same pain of loss, exactly; it was more like the hopelessness of seeing no way out of a nightmare. Of course, my job is nowhere near a real nightmare -- I have a wonderful supportive boss, all the flexibility and freedom I need, and the opportunity to use my brain every day. So what is so bad? What triggered yesterday's melt-down? (All is not exactly hunky-dory today, but I do feel much better, and capable of slogging through the work for at least a few more months.)

PMS aside, I think it might have been a combination of things. Last week I was given a new project to take on, ironically the type of project I've been asking for for a very long time (years!). But I was already so far gone in my disengagement that having to commit to something new, summoning all the needed energy, motivation and focus, felt beyond my abilities. I don't doubt my skills and capabilities to do the job, I told my boss, I doubt my motivation. (See? I am so fortunate to have a boss I can say that to, and not feel at risk for my job!) Committing to something that just doesn't feel in line with my life's purpose anymore felt so wrong. My essential self was screaming "NO!"

Of course, it probably didn't help to have spent so much time in spreadsheets, planning and plotting how I'll be able to afford not working. Knowing it's possible for some period of time makes it very seductive to imagine quitting when the going gets tough.

And on the "quitting, doing something new" side of the equation, I've been a software professional my whole career, pretty much all my adult life. That's more than 25 years of identity I'm considering stepping away from. What am I, if not a program manager? Will I be able to add enough value to the world if I don't leverage the experience and knowledge I've gained over these 25 years? Not knowing where I'm pointing yet, and contemplating jumping anyway, was really scary.

So I have reassured my essential self that I am serious about doing something different. I just need to get to know her better, to understand all of what is meaningful and energizing to me, before making any significant moves.

If you have gone through a career transition, what was it like for you? How did you know what the right next step was?

Spreadsheet Wishing

I spend hours in the evenings with spreadsheets and budgets, estimates and what-if scenarios, trying to find a way to feel comfortable walking away from my job. How long can I be unemployed? Do I downsize the house, and if so, how much? I feel unwilling to give up the luxury of this house, but I can cut my expenses in half if I downsize and do after-school care for B instead of have the nanny. Why don't I just do it?

I spent much of today crying on the job. Is that grounds for termination? I talked with HR, I talked with my boss. I met with a good friend tonight to review my many spreadsheets. The prudent thing to do is stay at this job until the next step becomes clear. When will that be? My boss and I agreed that with a new project, you need a couple months under your belt before even knowing if it's got the potential for being satisfying and/or engaging. Can I get through the next 2 1/2 months, until January? I have a small stock grant that vests at the beginning of February, and the final class in a certification program is held in March. Can I make it that far? Do I even care about professional certification in a profession I don't know that I'll remain in? Oh, I can't wait to be on the other side of this turmoil and see how it all turns out.

The Work Continues

Since the Grief and Growing weekend in August, I've felt like I've turned another significant corner in my grieving. I feel done with active grieving, and my life feels normal again. I don't automatically cringe when seeing a happy family together, or feel the urge to share my story with new acquaintances. I am more sensitive to how that story makes others feel, and I just don't need to be heard so much anymore. Sure, my life is not what I want it to be, but it is what it is, and I'm comfortable in it. There are many positive things about it, including being able to make my own decisions, having quiet evenings to do my own thing, and being able to develop a really strong and secure bond with B. Of course, it's lonely, and I don't want to be in this situation forever. B has taken to asking "Why are we all alone?" and I think it comes from a need to hear me say again "because Daddy died".

Our anniversary was on September 21, and I just so happened to be having dinner with T's sister, father and father's wife that night. We toasted to the event, ruefully and with a smile. A few weeks later I set aside an evening and pulled out the wedding album and video, and reminisced about that happiest day of my life in 2002. Interestingly, I also was reminded of one or two things I didn't like about the wedding -- how T frowned and gestured to me as I came down the isle (OK, so the bouquet was bouncing somewhat dramatically), how I forgot to get a photo of our hands together in our wedding rings (I loved T's hands and have no real pictures of them). How our life together wasn't always what I had wanted or hoped it would be. But it was what it was, and I still sometimes miss him so much it aches.

So if my active grieving is complete, what's next? Well, the work issue has really come to a head. I have such a hard time going to work, focusing on work, caring about anything I do. The only thing that motivates me is helping others, not letting others down. My boss's requests keep me productive, otherwise I would just drift away and forget all my commitments. What am I going to do?

I've engaged a life coach to help me through this crisis. It's painful and difficult to live in the moment, but exciting and energizing to visualize doing something with my time that matters to the world and brings me joy. And I know it's out there -- I just have to do the work to find it.

Losing a Child or Parent, Losing a Husband

This weekend, B and I went to a camp for grieving families. There were a number of people there mourning the loss of a parent, a few who had lost siblings, a reasonable group of those who had lost a husband (no widowers, of course), and one family who had lost a teenager. B and I had gone last year, when it was an intense, painful, exhausting experience, though also incredibly supportive, loving and nurturing. This time, I wasn't expecting such intensity, and my intention was to work on bringing T forward into my life now and into the future. And it wasn't nearly as intense, though the love and support was still very evident.

Driving home, I found myself thinking a lot about the differences and similarities in various types of losses. In a sad coincidence, the stepmother of the teenager who died was a high school classmate of mine, which brought into sharper focus what it must feel like to wake up every morning knowing that your child is gone. Maybe I'm comparing to make myself feel better, but it seems to me that my loss is easier to "get over". T and I were together 8 years, married 5. I loved him with all my heart, but I'm not sure I would have described him as my best friend, or my soul mate. That saddened me, but it may make it easier for me to imagine being with someone else, perhaps finding what I felt was missing with T. What brings me to tears these days is the loss that B suffers -- the loss of a parent, and especially before she ever really knew him. He can't be replaced in her life, nor can his role in my life as the co-parent of a child.

For the loss of a child, and the loss of a parent, no matter what you do, you can't replace that person. You can have more children, but they will never be that particular child, with that child's future. And you can develop a close relationship with an in-law or other parent-aged person, but he or she won't be the one who taught you to ride a bike, or fed you soup when you were sick. They won't ever know you like your parent did.

Maybe I'm kidding myself, but I believe that I can "replace" or recreate major parts of my relationship with T. Yes, T and I had history together, but really, was it that much? We knew each other for most of my thirties, but as activity companions for the first half of our time together, rather than in any very deep way. We didn't grow up together, make many major life decisions (other than to have a child!) together. Our lives were intertwined, but not our deepest identities.

T's death leaves a huge hole in B's life that can never be completely filled by any new husband of mine. T's death also brought me to a close, personal relationship with loss and the eternal questions of life and death. And his death leaves me lonely and struggling as a sole parent. But it does not leave me unable to find another life partner, another person to BE my husband.

Another Vacation

Tomorrow B and I leave for 11 days on the beach in Rhode Island. Hurray! We have no agenda, no schedule -- just bathing suits, seafood, and a stack of books.

The genesis of this now annual trek across the country is a silver lining story. As I have mentioned, T had a son, D, from a previous relationship. D's mother grew up in Philadelphia, and her family owned property across the street from the beach in Rhode Island. (As I'm getting tired of using a single letter naming convention, let me call her Tall Blonde, or TB, because she is in fact quite tall, and blonde.) TB and I were always friendly when T was alive, but T was the primary conduit for planning and execution of all things related to D, so I didn't have much of a relationship with her. She was always very gracious and thoughtful, though, saving D's baby things in case T and I had a child, then welcoming B with open arms and no apparent jealousy.

Then T died. Instantly, TB and I were alone in the world, as it were, raising the children of T without him. We quickly formed a bond not unlike close family, helping each other out, celebrating holidays and birthdays together, ensuring the kids have a strong sibling relationship because each was the only sibling the other would have. Admittedly it's a little weird, and I wouldn't have necessarily picked her as a close friend in other circumstances, but I so appreciate TB's straightforwardness, lack of drama and emotional baggage, and open-hearted generosity. (What do I call her? My parallel parent? Co-parent or parenting partner sound too intimate. I haven't found the right terminology to properly explain our relationship.)

That first summer after T died, TB invited B and me to join her and D at the family place in Rhode Island. Sure, I said, feeling like it wouldn't matter if I were on the moon, I was so numb. But I had a very pleasant time, being pampered a little by her family, people who had met T a few times but didn't have the same experience of loss that TB and I did. Last year we went again, since it worked so well the first time. By this year, it's become an annual event, and one I am very grateful for.

I can't help but wonder, though, what will happen when I'm in a relationship again. I imagine we'll stop going ... and I'll be a bit sad. But in a strange way, I can imagine I might be glad, too, to have something else to do with a new love, putting the haven I needed after T died behind me. But I'll cross that bridge when I get there.

I'm Forty-Eight

I'm forty-eight, and I'm tired. It's been a sad day, one where I had trouble concentrating at work. When the going gets tough, I just don't seem to care enough ... and the going was not even particularly tough today. I'm just not where I wanted or expected to be at this point in my life, and I'm staring down 50 like a freight train headed straight at me. I don't know why it should bother me so much, but not being settled in a committed relationship, not being married and comfortable, especially at this age, is very unsettling. I am practicing reframing to look at the positives, appreciate what I have, blah blah blah. Sometimes it works. Sometimes I just need to acknowledge that it sucks, and I'm sad.