Physical effects of grief

One week after Andy died I began to feel weakness and numbing in my legs. At times, I felt like my knees might buckle and I might crumble to the floor. I didn't feel strong enough to stand, and needed to hang onto something to support myself - the back of a chair, a wall, a person. When this symptom first appeared I panicked and became afraid it would persist. I thought about all of the pain Andy endured, and how limited his life had become in part because of the physical pain that he struggled to manage. And here I was, a week after he was gone, having my own physical crash.

I knew that grief could manifest as physical symptoms, but knowing this and experiencing it are two different things entirely. I called my friend Shannon to share my fears. She sent me a few screenshots to remind me this was normal. Grief can cause exhaustion, as well as headaches, backaches, and stiffness. Low energy levels are typical after so much emotional processing - it takes a toll on physical strength. The physical symptoms are caused by stress hormones released during grieving, impacting muscle function. While this knowledge provided some comfort, I still scoured the internet to find reports of leg weakness as a symptom - and couldn't let go of the fear that what I was experiencing wasn't normal.

After succumbing to a wave of weakness that brought me to the carpeted floor of my bedroom, I remembered reading about our friend Valerie Kaur's book, See No Stranger, and her experience with intense pain. I felt compelled to find her recollection. Andy and I each had a copy of the book, but I knew where Andy's was. It required strength to hike up a flight of stairs though. I pulled myself up off the floor and slowly walked up the stairs, gripping the handrails, to the set of books on various healing practices and meditation Andy had stored in a large, clear plastic container. I recognized the spine of the naked light blue book cover missing it's sleeve immediately, without seeing the spine.

I opened his copy of the book and the first page I turned to was the start of a chapter with the first sentence underlined. "Healing is the long journey of returning to our bodies”.

In this moment, when I am feeling the grief so deeply in my body, finding this felt like a gift directly from Andy. A sense that he had planted that for me, intended for me to find it, and somehow knew his marks would would later be needed. While he may not have had an intended recipient when he underlined this part of the book, the words were clearly marked as important, and the message I heard behind the words was powerful. You are beginning to heal. This is the journey. You are just embarking on it.

In the same stack of books was Bessel van der Kolk's book, The Body Keeps the Score, a bible of sorts for people who have experienced trauma. Another book with two copies in our household, as Andy had repeatedly asked me to read it and I got and read my own copy just a few months before his death. One of many attempts to try to show him I cared about him, was invested in learning and understanding him, and wanted to support him. van der Kolk wrote, "Physical self-awareness is the first step in releasing the tyranny of the past”.

A few weeks after the leg weakness started, I planned a fun day for Natalie. I felt like she needed this, to be reminded that her mom could do more than grieve and survive. I also needed it, I needed to remember my capacity as a parent, and that I could find bandwidth to show up for her, and do something fun. She had been wanting to get her ears pierced for a long time, and I previously told her she had to wait until she was 12 (like me) so she could be responsible enough to take care of them. One of those parenting calls that doesn't have a lot of rhyme or reason, that you continue because it was the way things were when you were a kid and it seemed like a good enough rule. At age 9, I surprised her with a spontaneous trip to a get her ears pierced.

I took her to University Village to grab lunch and try a new bubble tea restaurant. The afternoon started off well. Natalie appreciated getting bubble tea, the kids latest obsession, and a novel new treat - bubble waffles. Next, we stopped by the Amazon bookstore, and Natalie started looking at books. We were in the children's section, and I see a book cover on display that says something uplifting, like "You're in control of your life". I start to breathe heavier, feeling the weight of grief, and how these positive well-meaning messages are a false truth. They tell us the story that life will great, we'll have amazing lives full of puppies, kitties, and rainbows. I look around at all of the books on display, and the titles all have similarly, happy, uplifting titles. But I know, they are a lie.

The weakness in my legs has returned and I'm finding it difficult to stand. I hold onto the bookshelves around me, and scan the nearby aisles of the store for a bench. None exist. It's a basic store, devoid of places to explore the books. It's meant for purchasing only, I mean it is Amazon... I'm beginning to worry about my ability to get out of the store. The walls feel like they are closing in. I focus on my breath, breathing slowly with intention, but I know my time is limited. I need to get out of there as fast as I can. I can't even remember if we bought a book. Somehow, I escaped and found my way back to the car, and sunk into the leather seats offering me comfort. The fear that I'd collapse dissipated.

But our day is not done, we're onto the main event. I take Natalie to a tattoo parlor recommended by a friend that also does piercings. It seems odd to bring a 9 year old into a tattoo parlor, too mature for her age. Yet it was also an experience, entering a world so different than our everyday. The staff were fantastic, offering her a range of earrings. The selection process was lengthy, but Natalie was clearly happy, and I was feeling good about deciding to do this with her.

We move to the back of the building for the procedure, where multiple bays are set up for clients to receive tattoos or piercings. We had a late afternoon appointment and no one else was there, it was just me and Natalie. Natalie was offered a spot on a medical table. The counseling process was long, but extremely thorough. They walked through the procedure at least a dozen times. Any other day I'd be pleased at the time and care they took to make Natalie feel as comfortable as possible. On this day, I was starting to fade. The leg weakness returns, again, and I attempt to sit on one of the empty tables, until a staff member tells me not to. I resume standing. The fear is rising in me now, I'm feeling lightheaded. I'm already hanging onto the side of the wall, bracing myself, shifting my weight back and forth trying to balance the needs my body has for each of my legs. I'm watching each minute on the clock go by, wondering how long I can withstand this. I wished for language to be able to communicate how I'm feeling, and for understanding about these physical aspects of grief. But I can't. I'm too green to grief, I don't understand that what I'm going through is normal. And even if I did, I didn't believe anyone could make sense of what I was saying.

An hour later, we walked out the door. Natalie, with sparkly new studs through her ears and a big smile on her face. Me, pale, ready to collapse and grateful for the solace of the car. It was hard, but I did it. A theme that would continually run through my life.