The Step Ladder of Grief
Denial. Bargaining. Guilt. Depression. Anxiety. Acceptance. Repeat.
DBGDAAR.
For me, grief isn’t a series of stages- it’s a step ladder that has more than 2 steps from the ground.
The top rung is where I start. The trauma is fresh in my mind- like it just happened even though it’s been more than two years. Everything is raw- like I’ve scrubbed the bejeezus out of my skin under a boiling hot shower. Everything around me rubs my irritated skin- what people say; what I think they aren’t saying; how my clothes feel tight on my skin; how the sunshine outside feels like another planet’s too bright source of life energy.
The top rung is the most precarious part of a step ladder. That’s why there are big warning signs saying “DON’T STAND ON THE TOP RUNG YOU FUCKING IDIOT!” Well, close enough to what it actually says. Don’t stand here, you might fall!
Instead of standing on the steady ground where my happiness and complacency are, I’m looking at it from a distance AND I’m scared of heights! I am wobbling, looking down at the ground that seems so far away, trying to keep my balance. I should be focusing on where I am and trying to get back to the bottom, not looking down at “how it used to be” and feeling the ground sink out from under me like a cartoon.
At the top of the ladder, you’re closest to the event of “the trauma.” Death. Assault. Abuse. Whatever incident just rocked the foundation you’d built underneath yourself. For the sake of consistency, I’m going to keep associating my ladder with grief. My husband, Bob, died of cancer when I was 34 years old. He was 35 years old, and we had 2 children under 5. Those numbers run over and over in my mind, and I’m not a math lover.
Each rung has a name, and the names are never the same person to person.
Denial. Bargaining. Guilt. Depression. Anxiety. Acceptance. Repeat.
DBGDAAR.
Denial- Bob was healthy, and then I saw he couldn’t walk.
Bargaining- I’ve learned whatever lesson I need, God, just make him better. Don’t make me live my life without him.
Guilt- Why was this happening to Bob, a healthy 30-something-young father? Why do I feel this is happening to me, and I’m not the one fighting cancer? It should be happening to someone who deserves it or has lived forever— like a drug addict or an old person. How could I think these awful things?
Depression-What the hell am I going to do without him?
Anxiety- I’m too young to be a solo parent, this isn’t what I signed up for. “Til death do us part” wasn’t supposed to come 6 years after we were married. His daughters were supposed to have their own memories of him, not just my stories and the pictures I took. I can’t raise our kids on my own, I’ll just mess it all up.
Acceptance- Saying to Bob, “go ahead and rest baby, we’ll be okay. You’ve fought so hard and you can rest. We’ll be okay.” I meant it when I said it, on that last day, but when he died I immediately regretted it and begged him to come back.
Repeat.
DBGDAAR.
“Sometimes I’m okay and sometimes I’m not.” I hear that phrase from friends. I hear it from family members. I see it on mom-humor-based boards on Instagram. I hear it from myself. Sometimes I’m on the bottom rung of my step ladder, almost ready to put my feet on stable ground again, and then I find myself back up at the top. It’s the dream where I’m running and running, never able to grab hold of what I’m after. I have to start moving down to the steady ground all over again.
DBGDAAR.
I wanted to consume the phrases about personal strength when Bob was diagnosed with cancer. “Just keep swimming,” I repeated to everyone I talked to, like Dory singing the repetitive Disney song in “Finding Nemo.’’ Over and over, don’t stop.
If I stop, I’ll think.
If I think, I’ll cry.
If I cry, I’ll never stop.
Just keep swimming and I won’t drown.
Denial. Not thinking about anything is the only way I can get some sleep. If I close my eyes, I can almost hear him snoring in bed next to me.
Depression. I’m not hungry, food looks tasty to me. I want to curl up in bed under the covers and close the curtains, the sun is too bright for me today.
Guilt. I’m not as good a cook as my husband. I don’t make the same food choices and I think his cooking would be healthier… it definitely tasted better. My daughter used to like helping him cook but I’m not confident enough for her to help me.
Anxiety. I take medication for anxiety, but I still feel like I’m buzzing to 500,000 flowers a day. Am I making the “right” choices for the kids? Will they remember their dad?
Acceptance. That snoring I hear is the dog next to the bed. The kids eat way more choices than other kids their age, and every kid loves cereal for dinner sometimes. The kids are mine. The dogs are mine. The house is mine. My feelings are my own and sometimes it’s harder to come down the step ladder and sometimes it’s easier. If I push it will be harder. It will be easier if I let my feelings have their say and let them go.
Repeat.
Oh hey, I didn’t have a Bargaining in that spiral. Cool, cool, cool.
DBGDAAR.
I sit on the top rung of my step ladder, feet flat on a rung one or two steps down. It’s too hard, I fight with myself, I’m too tired. Kids, dogs, work, writing, everyday household needs like groceries, and meals, and cleanups. My face is cradled in my hands, my elbows propped up on my knees. It’s too much, why do I have to do it alone?
Guilt. Bob’s the one who had cancer and I feel like I’m suffering. I didn’t have to go through chemo and radiation. I didn’t have biopsies and scans. He’s the one who had to face his own mortality. I should just be “fine.”
Denial. He was healthy and then his back hurt and then he had stage 4 terminal cancer. How could that be possible?
Anxiety. Is my back hurting because I have spinal tumors like he did? Or did I just “sleep wrong?” Do I have cancer and not know it too?
Depression. Can I just sleep in, please? Can my children miraculously sleep until 10 am? Can I hide in my bed all day and feel rested for a change and not make my own meals to eat?
I move towards the bottom of my ladder, towards my rung of Acceptance. I can almost feel the ground under my socks. Oh no, my socks on the metal rungs of a step ladder, make the climb down more precarious. When did I put on socks? That’s an added metaphor I can’t grapple with right now. I hold onto the sides, trying to hold on and get to the ground, where I can feel steady.
Guilt (again). Our kids are so grown up. No- my kids. I’m the one left, I’m the one raising them. They’re mine.
Anxiety (again). What will I do when my kids grow up and leave?
Acceptance. I guess I should feel lucky that my step ladder is made of metal and not wood, it’s not going to fall out from under me. It’ll still be metal when I find myself back at the top.
Repeat.
