One Step Forward, Two Steps Back

Feb. 17^th 

Last week I had to go through a presentation and an interview related to a possible promotion at my place of work. These tasks were welcome in that the preparation for them was so absorbing that they served as welcome distractions from other thoughts.

The presentation went well, I thought. I was immensely relieved that I hadn’t humiliated myself. In fact, I experienced a sense of elation, more because of the seemingly positive reaction of the audience than because my sense of job satisfaction relies on getting this promotion. But when I got back to my office my first thought was: yes, but K.B. is still dead.

The next morning I drove to my workplace for the interview. I still can’t listen to the news or current affairs shows, so I turned the radio dial to CBC2 and heard Yo-Yo Ma playing Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major. Yes, I thought, this is what I want to hear. This only, for a very long time. The deep, plaintive tones of the solo cello, uncluttered by any other instruments, had a sort of purity that touched some part of me. Here was music I could listen to. (I downloaded it when I got home.)

The interview was also more like a pleasant conversation than an interrogation. That sense of elation returned after it was over. I think it comes from the satisfaction of a job well done, whatever the outcome might be. But with that sense of delight immediately came a sense of guilt: oh, this feels rather like happiness, and how can I be experiencing this when K.B. is dead?

Then yesterday afternoon friend numbness returned. I can’t think of a specific trigger, but as the hours passed the deadened feeling, like fog moving up the streets of a Newfoundland town, crept up to and around me. By the time people were arriving for games—we were having a little board games get-together—I was barely capable of being either a hostess or a gamer. In fact, my energy level was so low I really couldn’t do both. I incompetently taught a game to two friends, barely participated in a game they brought, and, once they left, was merely an observer of a game B. played with the young people.

As an introvert, I always find that social occasions, especially ones I host, drain me of energy as they go on (even though I like to think I am a relatively high-functioning introvert). What I am learning about myself is that grieving reduces my stores of social energy even more. At least at this point, the possibility that grief-induced numbness might affect my ability to entertain people needs to be factored into any plans for future events like this.