“I don’t think we’re going to make it.”

This is what I wanted to respond to my friends when they’d check in to see how I was doing.

“How are you adjusting, love?” they’d ask.

“Is it wonderful to be home?!” they’d inquire.

“How is your Boyfriend?” they’d wonder.

“Do you miss New York?” “Have you found a job?” “How is The Cat?” “I miss you so much!!”

And all I could think to reply was:

“I don’t think we’re going to make it.”

But I never said that.  Because I didn’t want anyone to worry about me.

In the three weeks since My Boyfriend and I had arrived in California, I’d become completely overwhelmed with organizing my Mom’s affairs, managing her house, answering the kind condolences from her friends and family. My Mom had been incredibly organized, but as my friend Nancy, who’d recently gone through a loss of her own, put it: “Dismantling a life takes a lot of time.”

Indeed.

When I had to call the phone company for the third time to try to disconnect the service and they asked me AGAIN for the four digit code associated with the account, I’d had to grit my teeth to keep from shrieking, “I don’t have the fucking access code because, see -she’s DEAD!”

In addition, my things had finally arrived from NYC and I realized that in my grief, I’d done a pretty sloppy job of packing.  Our small rental house was overtaken with boxes and bags of all my stuff, scattered everywhere in teetering, messy piles. I’d get up after another sleepless night and the chaos around me would make my heart race with anxiety.

My Boyfriend and I were spending every weekend at  my Mom’s house prepping for a celebration in her honor we were hosting for my family. This entailed hours of work on the house, work in the garden, ordering supplies, creating the menu. We had no downtime together, no time to disengage, and we started to really, really grate on each other.

I’d accuse most mornings, “Your snoring is keeping me up all night!”

And he’d retort with, “You keep kicking the all the sheets onto the floor! You’re like a tornado!”

As time went by, the combination of fatigue, sadness, and the sense of drowning with everything I had to do, started to pull me down further. My moods became erratic, red rage shooting out from nowhere, intense grief crippling me in the oddest of moments.

“You’re doing too much,” My Boyfriend would say. “You need to slow down.”

“If I don’t do it, who will?” I’d snap. And then I’d want to punch him.

Many, many nights I threatened to leave and move into my Mom’s house with The Cat.

And to be honest, the only thing that stopped me was – the thought of packing again was too exhausting.

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