The "I HATE JOURNALING" Journal

In the year before I retired from my counseling job, I was struck by the feeling that something bad would happen around my last day of work. I mean, isn't that the classic killer of joy? Something great is on the horizon, you're about to get paid a pension for doing nothing (which can't possibly be real), and then wham! Along come those inner thoughts telling you that if it seems too good to be true, it must be fantasy.

But somehow I made it. The only glitch was that my husband, who had originally planned to retire at the same time, changed his mind. He wanted another year. Okay, I thought. I could handle that. After all, I had a lot of hobbies and interests and classes I wanted to take. So what was one more year?

Eight months later, with time on my hands, I became a caregiver for my elderly father. He lasted nearly two years, during which time I got what I thought was a lifetime of caregiving awareness. My support network consisted of a therapist sister and many friends, most of whom have mental health degrees and professions. I even met a few times with a grief counselor after my father's passing.

By the time my husband finally retired four years after I did, I was long past those feelings that something bad was about to happen. After all, we were both healthy and in good shape. We exercised regularly, ate well, and had low body weight, low blood pressure, and low cholesterol. Just as my decades of hard work were rewarded with a pension, I finally felt confident that our healthy lifestyles would give us many years of rewarding adventures. I had no reason to think otherwise.

Then it happened. Eight months after his retirement, my husband was vacuuming the living room rug while I sat on the couch watching. It was marital perfection.

Until he stumbled. Reached for the wall. Struggled to stand.

I thought I'd developed skills after caring for my father, but this was different. As sad as it was with my dad, I knew his situation was temporary. He was 92 years old and in poor health.

Initially, a couple of neurologists assured us that my husband would be back to 95% recovery within a year. We were hopeful, though exhausted.

He had therapy. A new team of doctors. New medicines. A personal trainer. He read books about what to expect, and he shared the information with me. He worked hard, and we waited eagerly for the day we could resume our travels, hikes, and visits to family.

We waited. And waited.

And waited.

Even though he continued with therapy and still works with a personal trainer, the improvements stopped after a few months. Our emotions, which began as hopeful but tiresome, turned to worry. Then sadness. Fear. A sense of defeat and hopelessness.

I made an appointment to see the same grief counselor I'd met after my father passed away. Although my husband had survived, everything we were dealing with reeked of loss and grief.

The therapist suggested I start a journal. Despite having spent decades as a counselor myself, though, I never enjoyed writing in one. That doesn't mean I haven't spewed out a geyser of emotions in the past on paper, but the last thing I wanted was to see my miserable words written out to remind me of my grief. I was already living it every minute of the day.

"A lot of people feel that way," the counselor told me. "So when I run grief groups," she added, "I ask everyone to write their feelings in only six words. No more, no less."

I had no idea what my own six words would be, but as I drove home, the idea of it sounded kind of nice. Sort of like a little poem, Haiku-ish. I've always liked the idea of doing something creative, and thought maybe I would give it a try.

Then another idea popped into my head. Since I sometimes think in pictures, why not journal our post-stroke experiences in cartoons? I've always been kind of fond of dark humor, especially during dark times.

When I reached my driveway and got out of my car, I knew I wanted to buy a blank journal, but a new weight suddenly befell me. It was all I could do to leave my husband alone for an hour while I saw the grief counselor, so when would I get a chance to shop for a journal?

I wondered about so many things I never thought I'd have time for. Dazed and far away mentally, I dreaded entry into my house where my half-paralyzed husband sat, hopefully upright rather than on the floor after another fall. I detoured to the front of my property, to the end of my driveway, and opened the mailbox.

Stuffed inside was a package. It was addressed to me.

A gift. From a sympathetic friend.

It was a blank journal. With funny words on the cover.

Since my first cartoon two years ago, I've amassed over 50 drawings. The grief counselor suggested I start blogging with them. I'm hoping my discoveries and sentiments will, at the very least, validate the feelings other caregivers or stroke survivors have had. Sometimes validation is all we need.

So, dear reader, I'll leave you with my own beginning, the very first cartoon I drew right after my grief counselor suggested a six-word entry. Please remember, though, that I drew it on one of my bluest days. Although my husband is still dealing with impairment two years later, we are far past that dark beginning. All along, though, he has surprised me with his eagerness to see the drawings. They've given us some of our best laughs together.

As in Nora McInerny's memoir, No Happy Endings, my husband and I didn't have a happy ending. The hope, instead, comes from starting the next chapter, however different it may be from the last one.