Reconstructing Existence Following Profound Grief

On August 22, 2018, my husband fell in our bedroom.

Rudy was my closest friend and my ally in every facet of life. His final utterance was “911.”

I administered CPR while my youngest daughter and my father-in-law were close by, and my oldest daughter kept our four-year-old occupied in another room. The EMTs attended to him before transporting him to the hospital, and my father-in-law and I trailed the ambulance.

After what seemed like an eternity, a nurse ushered us into a small waiting area at the rear of the ER. There was a lack of urgency in the establishment. It felt unsettlingly tranquil.

Eventually, a physician entered and softly said, “I’m sorry.”

The only response I could muster was, “Sorry? SORRY? How?”

Everything decelerated, and my brain enveloped itself in fog. This couldn’t be happening. It just couldn’t.

But it was.

This was merely eight days before our fifteenth wedding anniversary, and our family was already in mourning. My eldest son’s father had passed away just eighteen days prior. In less than three weeks, all four of my children had lost their fathers.

I needed time to gather the strength to see Rudy. It took everything within me to take off his wedding band. Then somehow, I was expected to leave.

I recall wandering through the hospital, unable to comprehend how everything continued to function. Nurses moved through the corridors. Vehicles persisted in their travel outside.

Somewhere people were dining, laughing, resting, planning for the next day.

How had the world not come to a halt?

Upon returning home, my children were gathered upstairs. I entered the room and informed them that their father had passed away.

Then I let out a scream.

It was a distressing scream that seemed to emanate from a deeper place than my physical form. My soul screamed.

This is what I mean when I say my life turned to ashes.

The sorrow was overwhelming, but I couldn’t fully succumb. My children were mourning as well, and I was the only parent still upright.

So I nurtured while grieving. I organized a memorial and funeral while unraveling. I prayed, led, handled documents, fielded inquiries, and took care of necessities even while I could scarcely breathe.

But my journal revealed the reality.

Surviving: I documented the as-found condition.

I have dedicated a significant portion of my career to planning, cost engineering, project controls, and project management. Early on in my journey, I organized refinery shutdowns from halt to restart. Later, I contributed to managing intricate projects valued in millions and billions of dollars.

Prior to repairing a troubled project, you must record the as-found condition: the truthful current status, not the state you wish were there. If the initial condition is inaccurate, the recovery strategy will also be flawed.

Unbeknownst to me, I began applying the same principle in my journals.

I am not sleeping.

I am angry at him for abandoning us.

I am angry at God for snatching him away from us.

I do not know how to navigate this existence without him.

A few weeks after Rudy’s passing, I compiled a list titled The Things I Lost When Rudy Died.

My companion. My partner. My closest friend. My confidant. My defender. My motivator.

Then came the mundane items: my mechanic, my barbecue expert, my fixer-upper, the one who shared my private humor.

I started to comprehend that I was grieving not just an individual. I was lamenting an entire life constructed around another person.

The journal provided me a space to cease pretending everything was “fine.” It allowed me to articulate the truth of my actual state.

That was the initial lesson of reconstruction: begin with reality.

Stabilizing: I minimized my world.

Less than a month after Rudy passed, I wrote, “The days are becoming tougher as reality dawns. I feel both empowered and shattered simultaneously.”

I also recorded, “As a planner, I am always seeking to plan for the future, yet now there is no future with him physically present.”

Planning wasn’t just what I did for a living; it was how I navigated through life.

There was always a subsequent milestone, a backup plan, something on the horizon. Now, the future I had envisioned was gone.

I understood how to plan for risks. I did not know how to plan for absence.

Thirty-four days post-Rudy’s departure, I penned another prayer: Teach me how to find peace.

I ceased trying to resolve the entirety of my life. I narrowed my focus.

Care for my children.

Care for myself.

Rest.

Do not make every decision today.

One second. One minute. One hour. One day.

Eventually, my body began to convey the truths my voice had been avoiding. My hair started to fall out. I had been managing so well that I’d even begun to confuse functioning with healing.

It wasn’t healing.

Remembering: I sought out Angie.

Rudy and I shared eighteen years together, with fifteen of those in marriage. We genuinely operated as a unit, and that was beautiful.

Death severed the we without my accord. Suddenly, it was just me.

I needed to make a choice. I had to parent. I had to construct a life I never intended to build.

And somewhere in that transition from we back to me, I encountered an unexpected question:

Who is me?

As part of my healing, I began searching far beyond my marriage.

I went in search of Angie.

Angie is the name my siblings and those who knew me during my youth call me. If someone addresses me as Angelina, I obviously respond. But if someone calls me Angie, I turn around in a different manner.

If you call me Angie, I recognize that you see me. You know my beginnings. You are aware of my foundation.

I kept reflecting on my nine-year-old self. She was fearless. She expressed her thoughts freely.

She was self-reliant.

And I realized I was unable to locate her.

I could not recall where I lost her. I could not remember where I last saw her. I could not remember where I placed her.

So I began digging.

I searched for the spaces where pain had taught me to conceal myself, shame had instructed me to dim my light, and fear had taught me that being completely exposed could be perilous.

There wasn’t a solitary moment when Angie vanished. The burial transpired in layers.

I matured, accomplished, served, mothered, built a career, and became highly adept at managing immense responsibilities. Externally, I was operating exceptionally well.

But functioning and being wholly yourself are not synonymous.

I also spent decades within male-dominated sectors, at times learning to soften my knowledge so as not to appear threatening and at other times becoming tougher, as toughness seemed to be the language that was respected in the room.

Those tactics assisted me in achieving success. That is why I didn’t immediately perceive what they had cost me.

My life was reduced to ashes in 2018. What I hadn’t realized was that parts of me had been interred long before the fire.

The fire revealed the ground.

And as I continued to dig, I discovered her.

Angie was still present.

As I reestablished my connection with her, dreams resurfaced. Aspects of my personality came back. I recalled aspirations, stories, and parts of myself I had not contemplated in years.

I remembered who I was.

But remembering also uncovered wounds I had never fully addressed, shame I had learned to live around, and things I needed to forgive or release.

I was mourning my spouse, and I was mourning the distance I had traveled from myself.

Both required healing.

Rising: I discovered joy didn’t have to wait for grief to depart.

One of the clearest indicators of healing was concealed within a typical journal entry from those initial weeks.

I had penned how shattered I felt. Then, almost nonchalantly, I wrote: Went to the beach with friends. We had a pleasant time.

For years, I scarcely acknowledged that sentence.

Now, I believe it expresses the truth about returning to life more compellingly than nearly anything else I documented.

My husband was gone.

I was heartbroken.

And I enjoyed my time at the beach.

Both statements were accurate.

Joy had entered the space without demanding grief to depart first.

This shifted my understanding of healing. Progressing didn’t imply leaving Rudy behind. Embracing the life still accessible to me didn’t suggest I had loved our life any less.

Strategy aided me in making decisions concerning the life I could influence. However, strategy couldn’t bring back my husband or transform reality into something different than it was.

That called for surrender.

Not surrender in the sense of giving up, but surrender in the form of releasing my insistence that reality had to change before I permitted myself to live again.

Looking back, I can discern a pattern I couldn’t recognize while I was in the midst of it: survive, stabilize, remember, rebuild, rise.

I did not follow a prescribed framework. I lived it first. The vocabulary emerged later.

If your existence has turned into something you never intended, you do not need to solve it all today.

Commence with what is authentic.

Identify the next step as smaller.

Acknowledge what you are carrying.

Inquire about what you have been concealing.

And if you no longer identify with yourself, look back with compassion rather than criticism. You may not be lost. You may simply be buried beneath years of becoming who you needed to be.

I could not recall where I had left Angie either.

But she was there.

She had been there all along.

Given the chance, I would choose Rudy. I would reverse this loss in an instant if anyone permitted me.

But no one will.

So I ceased waiting for my previous life to return. I started nurturing the life that persisted.

And somewhere beneath the sorrow, the roles, the armor, the fear, and all those years of becoming who I needed to be, I uncovered the person who remained as well.

Angie was still present.

And so was I.

**Reconstructing Life After Enduring Profound Loss**

Enduring a profound loss can be among the most difficult experiences in a person’s life. Whether it pertains to the passing of a loved one, the termination of a significant relationship, or losing a job or residence, the emotional and psychological repercussions can be immense. Rebuilding life following such a loss demands time, patience, and a systematic approach to healing. Here are several essential strategies to help traverse this arduous path.

### Acknowledge Your Grief

The initial step in reconstructing life after a loss is to recognize and accept your grief. Grieving is a normal reaction to loss, and it can manifest in various forms, including sorrow, anger, confusion, and even relief. Permit yourself to experience these emotions without self-judgment. Acknowledging that grief is a personal and distinctive experience can enhance your ability to process your feelings.

### Seek Support

Isolation can intensify feelings of loneliness and despair. Seeking support is critical. This might involve confiding in friends and family, joining support groups, or seeking professional assistance from therapists or counselors. Sharing your sentiments and experiences with others who comprehend can provide consolation and affirmation.

### Establish a Routine

Following a significant loss, daily life can seem daunting. Developing a routine can bring a sense of normality and stability. Begin with small, manageable tasks and progressively introduce more activities into your daily life. This structure can aid in regaining a sense of control and purpose.

### Set Realistic Goals

Establishing goals can be a powerful method for moving ahead. Start with small, attainable objectives that can help you rebuild your confidence. These could encompass simple tasks like going for a walk, cooking a meal, or reaching out to an old friend. As you achieve these objectives, gradually set more ambitious ones that align with your long-term dreams.

### Practice Self-Care

Nurturing your physical and emotional well-being is vital during this period. Engage in self-care activities, such as exercising, eating healthily, and ensuring adequate rest. Mindfulness practices, including meditation or yoga, can also help alleviate stress and enhance emotional resilience.

### Embrace Change

Loss frequently brings about considerable changes in life. Embracing these transitions, rather than resisting them, can promote healing. This could mean exploring new interests, fostering new relationships, or even altering your living environment. Being receptive to new experiences can pave the way for personal growth and fresh opportunities.

### Honor Your Loss

Finding ways to honor the memory of what you have lost can be a meaningful aspect of the healing process. This could involve creating a commemorative tribute, participating in activities your loved one enjoyed, or simply reflecting on the positive moments you shared. Honoring your loss can help you integrate it into your life rather than allowing it to dictate your identity.

### Be Patient with Yourself

Rebuilding life after experiencing profound loss is not a straightforward journey. There will be good days and challenging days, and healing requires time. Exercise patience with yourself and recognize that it’s acceptable to seek assistance when necessary. Allow yourself to grieve at your own pace and understand that healing is a journey, not a destination.

### Conclusion

Reconstructing life after experiencing profound loss is an intensely personal and often daunting journey. By acknowledging your grief, seeking support, establishing routines, setting goals, practicing self-care, embracing change, honoring your loss, and exercising patience with yourself, you can navigate this challenging period. While the pain of loss may never vanish completely, it is possible to rediscover hope, meaning, and joy in life once more.