Grieving, Seinfeld-Style (No Festivus Pole Required)
I pride myself on being fairly knowledgeable when it comes to pop culture. However, for years, I was admittedly behind the eight-ball about one of the top American sitcoms of all time…you know, that little “show about nothing.”
Enter my late husband Matt Goebel, and all that changed. While I had previously seen a Seinfeld episode or two, Matt fully indoctrinated me to the show to the point where I’ve now seen all of them multiple times. I can even quote specific lines and correlate the antics of Jerry and friends into daily life. I’m especially proud of this feat, because what started as a way for us to “have a laugh” every night — especially after Matt’s cancer diagnosis — now serves as a literal series of reminders of him and something that never failed to elicit that contagious chuckle of his.
Even during the not-so-funny moments now, as I grieve the incredible loss of Matt, a particular Seinfeld line keeps popping into my head: “it’s not you…it’s me.” Not the context of the phrase — which involved George Costanza being told those words as he was getting broken up with via the routine he supposedly invented — but more of the deeper meaning now that I am a widow.
Let me preface this by saying that I am truly grateful for all the love and support that my family and I have received over the past year and half, and I certainly don’t want to downplay that whatsoever. I’m not referring to the kindness you have generously extended, but more of the loneliness that exists within me despite your kindness.
For instance, I whole-heartedly appreciate being included in get-togethers with other couples. They are so sweet to invite me, and I’m almost certain they aren’t thinking that I’ll feel like the “fifth wheel.” That’s where the whole “it’s not you…it’s me” comes in.
This is my issue to deal with, not yours. You keep being your awesome, inclusive selves, and I’ll continue trying to give myself grace when I feel alone at times—even in a group of people. After all, as Matt and the title of this blog say: “It’s all part of the experience.”
Giddy-Up
There’s just no sugar coating it. I can’t speak for anyone else, but Matt’s absence has created a black hole inside me that is difficult to describe. Even though I have an amazing support system, and I am taking steps to move forward (such as writing this blog), facing life without my person is difficult—even if I don’t always show it.
One of my closest friends, who’s been by my side through all of this, recently told me I “present too well” for someone deep in grief. She’s seen me at my worst and expects my outside to look as tattered as my heart feels. Another friend confessed last week that she’s never seen me cry, which honestly made me giggle. If only she knew the ocean of tears I’ve managed to keep behind closed doors.
Maybe I’m just fumbling my way through this, hoping that a perma-smile and put-together exterior will keep my pain neatly tucked away from view. I’m no expert at grieving, and most days I’m just trying to figure out how to show up. Sometimes that means looking braver than I feel, and sometimes it’s pure luck if I don’t fall apart right in front of you.
My behavior isn’t a total façade, though. I like to think I’m channeling my inner Matt. He would often say we needed to “saddle up” for whatever challenge we were facing or an adventure we were about to embark on. It cracked me up every time, even when I’d rather run for cover than face whatever was coming.
However, as we learned all too well during Matt’s battle with cancer, there is no sidestepping this disease—or the crater it left behind. He faced down every twist and turn with grit and humor to the bitter end, and that’s the energy I’m channeling now. If he could saddle up and stare down the tough stuff, so can I.
Festivus for the Rest of Us
Here’s another classic Matt-ism for you: nothing beats the satisfaction of grumbling “these people” with a dramatic eyeroll when someone’s driving you up the wall. I’ve passed this gem onto family and friends—I highly recommend giving it a whirl. Very cathartic.
If you know Seinfeld, you’ll remember the Costanza’s Festivus tradition: the annual “airing of grievances.” I’m not staging a full-blown Festivus or calling out “these people” by name, but trust me, if you’re grieving, you get it. Again, no hard feelings. It’s not you…it’s me.
I know my nerves are a little frayed right now because I’m grieving. And honestly, my gripes aren’t all aimed at people; some are just the unavoidable, messy realities that crash down on you when you lose your partner. That’s where I’ll kick things off.
As I mentioned in an earlier post, nothing prepares you for the avalanche of paperwork that comes with losing a loved one. But let me tell you about a curveball I didn’t see coming: the dreaded emergency contact update. There I was, in the doctor’s office lobby, blindsided by a simple kiosk prompt—cue total meltdown. Sure, it’s logical to update that information, but grief doesn’t exactly operate on logic. Just this week, the universe decided to take another swing at me when I renewed my driver’s license online. Up pops “Would you like to change or remove your emergency contact information?” Absolutely not—but I suppose I should. Sigh.
Here’s another grievance for you—and a universal truth for anyone who’s been sucker-punched by grief, heartbreak or any number of life’s challenges. Hearing “I know how you feel” is like nails on a chalkboard. No, you don’t—and honestly, I barely know how I feel half the time! We’re all walking our own wild paths, and those shoes fit differently for everyone. So next time you’re tempted to dish out that line, do yourself (and me) a favor and skip it.
Yada, Yada, Yada
So, as I carry on—armed with Seinfeld quotes, Matt’s “saddle up” spirit and a rolodex of grievances worthy of a Festivus miracle—I’m learning that it’s okay to be a little messy, a little lonely and a whole lot human.
Grief may not come with a laugh track, but I promise to keep showing up, finding humor where I can and loving fiercely in the face of it all. If you’re riding your own emotional rollercoaster, remember: it’s not you…it’s me. And together, we’ll just keep giddy-upping through the wild, unpredictable and strangely beautiful ride of life after loss.
It's All Part of the Experience 