A Spreadsheet for Grief?
My husband and I are starting over in the desert, having sold the house in Portland where we raised our daughter. It’s taken us five years to gather the energy and the courage to leave it behind. To be ready to meet new people and answer the inevitable question, “Do you have any children?” without choking up.
My 20-year-old daughter died by suicide in the spring of her sophomore year at college. Six months later, when winter’s heavy clouds returned to shed bitter tears every day, I was depleted and in despair. I visited my sister in California to escape the gloomy skies and the realities of my new life.
On a bright but cool morning, my sister joined me, with a cup of coffee in hand, next to the fireplace. She leaned towards me and inquired, “How are you doing these days? Is it getting any easier?”
It took a moment to find the words. “I’m worn out and can’t believe how much I still have to do. I feel as if I’m a character in one of those hero journeys; every day I pass through a gate into a strange world where I have to slay a dragon. But after I do, there’s another, more forbidding gate, and behind it, a more ferocious dragon.”
I turned my head to look out the window and hide the first tears of the day. “And I miss her so much, every minute of every day.”
The following week, back in Oregon, I admitted to my therapist, “I’m worried about myself. I’m having nightmares every night and I struggle to get out of bed in the morning.” I shared my hero’s journey analogy and my anxiety at the dragons lurking behind the upcoming holiday gates.
“But I have a crazy idea that I think might help.” I imagined Frodo with his magic sword Sting, King Arthur with Excalibur, and Like Skywalker with his green lightsaber.
My therapist shifted in her chair, “What do you have in mind?”
“I’m thinking of a spreadsheet. If I write down everything I still have to do, I won’t have to keep it all in my head. I can check off items as I complete them. That may give me a sense of progress. A sense of hope.”
I’d been a project manager in large companies and, more recently, in non-profits for 25 years. I treated every effort, both at work and at home, as a project. A vacation, a wedding, a house remodel, all projects. So, I thought, why not treat grief as a project too?
Spreadsheets are one of the tools that I rely on for every project. When I arrange a list of tasks in rows and columns, with bold headers, and some italics for emphasis, I see what I need to do. And usually, I discover aspects of the project that I might have overlooked.
I began by listing all the horrible death-related tasks before me. Tasks that triggered panic attacks and sleepless nights. Column A became Death Shit, as my husband called it.
A traumatic death wreaks havoc on the mind and body, so I also had a long list of medical appointments and treatments, such as acupuncture and grief therapy. I created Column B, labeled Self-Care.
When I reviewed the spreadsheet with my therapist, I wondered, what reason do I have to get out of bed for days filled with Death Shit and Self Care?
“I need something to look forward to and some breaks from all the Death Shit,” I told her.
Her eyes locked on mine, “You’ve mentioned that you love to travel. Imagine that you could go anywhere, take a break and get refreshed. Where would you choose?”
The lively, adventurous woman I used to be squeezed in to take my seat on the couch. “Oh, I have a long list. Birding in South America for sure, another walking trip with my friend Chris, and I’d love to visit a tropical island with a college roommate I haven’t seen in years.” I added a new column, Joy and Fulfillment, that becamea bucket list of sorts – places to visit, classes that intrigued me, and creative projects, like writing, to fill my soul.
First, I tackled a task that I wished to avoid. My therapist reminded me that facing difficult situations head-on builds strength and resilience. Then, I selected an item from the Joy and Fulfillment list as a reward. For months, the rewards were joyless, but I went through the motions anyway.
About two years after my daughter’s death, I rewarded myself with a bucket-list trip to the Amazon rainforest. I snuck out of my room during rest time and followed a trail to a ceiba tree, shaped like a gigantic head of broccoli, towering above the dense tangle of jungle trees and vines. I searched for birds in flamboyant attire among the thick layers of bromeliads and orchids on branches overhead. Many indigenous tribes consider the ceiba tree to be the sacred tree of life, connecting the earth to the heavens. I leaned against the massive roots buttressing the trunk and sank into her embrace. Birds chatted high above, branches waved rhythmically in the wind, and the damp scent of jungle shocked my heart into beating again. Tears, mixed with sweat, trickled down my cheeks. I registered a forgotten sensation – I was enjoying myself again.
Now, I wake up every morning to bright desert light. I’ve passed through more gates than I care to count, and I’ve slayed some terrifying dragons, but I rarely have panic attacks or nightmares, and I no longer cry every day. I’ve committed to self-careactivities, such as yoga and acupuncture, and I’ve decided that I don’t have to accomplish every task on the Death Shit list – some are still too daunting to face.
I accept that the hole in my heart will never be filled, and I will walk with grief at my side for the rest of my days. But I know that my daughter doesn’t want me to suffer, and I see her smile when I search the trees for a new bird, learn about the cacti in the desert, and try my hand at writing. And I smile too at the memory of the project manager who was just crazy enough, and just brave enough, to use a spreadsheet as her secret weapon for grief.
About the Author
Karen Howe raised a daughter who was adopted from China as a toddler. She enjoys tramping beneath mossy fir and hemlock trees during summers and amongst ancient Saguaro cacti in winters. In retirement she’s trying her hand at personal essays that explore grief, loss, and the healing gifts of the natural world.
