I've had to modify the settings of the blog to stop the recent spam comments.
You can still post comments as anonymous, but now you have to play the word verification game. This is supposed to stop the spammers. If it doesn't I'll have to disallow all comments.
Hope this helps.
Ron (Tally's tractor maintenance foreman, part time computer assistant, and scooter repairman)
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Last Blog Entry--One Year Mark
This is my last entry. It may be difficult to read, because I know it has been difficult to write. So many thoughts from so many days. It already feels overwhelming and I’m only in my first paragraph. It will be a long read, very emotional one as only this process and ending thereof can be. If only you could know how many times I had to stop, finish crying before taking up writing, again. If only. I’m already at my first set of tears in my first paragraph.
365 days since Jack’s passing. 365 painful, lonely, and just plain awful, awful days without him. 365 days later. Someone noted that the first year is the worst because so much of it is spent in reflecting on what was happening an year ago, when the loved one was still alive: “What were we(!) doing last year at this time?” And I did re-live and re-live these past 365 days doing just that, even more so this past week before his death, thinking of all those awful, awful moments entering into Jack’s last days. I cannot say that all with me is better, although it is better 365 days later than 365 days ago.
I have been changed and I have arrived at the end of the first year in one piece. I found a sense of “patience, courage, and strength” that I prayed for daily while Jack was dying. In recent months, I added “gentleness” for I held so little of it for myself as I adapt to my new life. There were dozens of “I’m sorry, I forgot,” or “ I’m sorry, I don’t remember,” be it in immediate conversations where I have no idea where I was taking a thought, or overlooking a previous commitment (ah, the havoc of so many double-booking myself), or unintentional omitting facts and/or people and creating numerous social faux pas, humbly returning to “I am so sorry.” Most recently I have add “stamina for my soul,” a concept of interest, something neither yet understood nor explored, but seeded within me. I will endure.
When Jack was in one of his treatments regimes, I remember thinking that I never knew what I wanted: life to hurry-up or slow down. Like waiting for a lab or scan result: did I want to know potential bad news sooner and get on with the next step, or let it wait, enjoying blissfully the last moments of ignorance? At times, I was walking when I wanted to run, and, at other times, running when I wanted the world to slow down so I could savor the moment. I found a note to myself dated shortly before Jack’s death that said, “With each day, all the ‘hurry-ups’ are diminishing in numbers.” 365 days later, all the “hurry-ups” or “slow downs” are now my own, self-created. I am in a new place, alone. No doubt, there were times that I just wanted to hurry up and get through the daily tears or deeply sad moments, but haven’t yet. Grieving is such a slow process. There is simply no hurrying it up.
No doubt in my heart I owe a debt of gratitude for so many of you reading this. With some, I have had regular contact and you get to see the day-to-day pain, growth, and changes. Others, your only link is this blog. Regardless, I have been touched by your compassionate presence or responses; I can feel you with me. I think of you as holding a healing light and prayer for me. You helped me to write today. I see your faces, I feel your light, I am grateful. I think of you who had time and the words, those words that are hard to find sometimes, to write back from your heart, life experiences, and from your light. I didn’t respond to all, but I read each one, usually crying. How do I ever thank-you for being with me these months? I don’t know, but my heart yearns to do something.
I often think of the millions and millions of widows and widowers before me, so many people with so many losses, many who had what I perceive as the “harder” death: the quick one (from diagnosis to death in so few months), the unplanned one (the fatal accident), the horribly slow heart-wretching debilitating ones (ALS, Alzheimer’s). The worst of the worst, I think, of the psychological incongruent ones, losing your child, that defies natural order of the “Parent dies first; child second.” I had 26+ years, out of which I had 4 and half years with the dying process. Oh, I know it could have been better, but I deeply know it could have been worst. That is a first-year reflection of gratitude, which I have now, 365 days later. I am thankful for the times we had, and, now I have.
I had sincere intentions of re-reading all the cards that came those week and months after Jack passed. I still have all of them, by the way, along with the thank-you notes I bought last year to those of you who donated to Jack’s and my favorite charities. I really did think I could get that task done in 365 days. I did re-read about a third of the cards around the 6-month mark, but it was simply too emotionally overwhelming. I still have the cards sent by many of you for Jack’s last birthday in May ’08. I just can’t find whatever I need to do, either read or dispose of them. It is at times like these that I find myself just as lost as I was 365 days ago, spinning in place, with “What do I do next?”
I so humbled and awed that my story could be shared with fellow grief path walkers, who say, “Me, too. You wrote my words,” but these people are not of my communities. They are friends of our/my friends, strangers, yet not strangers, as we are connected by our losses. Our common thread weaves empathy and familiarity. I am blessed that our paths crossed. Special thanks to those of you who were the “axle” in passing the message to others. I appreciate your efforts each month. You, too, have brought healing.
On June 6th, I laid Annie B to rest. (I don’t like the phrase, “Put her down.” Please don’t use it with me. It does not accurately reflect my caregiving of her soul.) I heard her “Enough,” although sat with it for four days, wanting the larger, louder “shout” to confirm what I knew I heard. That confirmation came from a dog-lover. Perhaps having some control of when and how with her passing, it was more peaceful, although as painful as Jack’s passing.
By the way, the “B” and I experienced the most loving vet and her assistant. This mobile service provided a compassionate death for Annie and compassion for me. Small world: the tech was a former student, no less, having Jack as a middle school teacher. Annie loved her and her treats, and the vet, as well. If I could have envisioned the perfect passing for her soul it materialized that Saturday morning with these two wonderful humans, who knew dogs, their owners’ struggles and grief, and brought a tenderness to the moment that is indescribable. (Note to friends with aging pets: most pet clinics will not do home visits any more for liability issues with their insurance companies. I found one that does. You pay a bit more, but for good, no make that great service.) Oh, I found one piece of irony as they carried Annie into the car: it was same model of car that took Jack out, only Jack’s was silver and Annie’s was gold. As I followed the vet and tech out of the house to the car, I was completely stunned to see a Honda in the driveway… again. What were the chances? And, again, 365 days later, a Honda in the driveway can stonewall me. Who would have guessed?
On June 7th, I woke to my first morning of “just me.” Now, a new normal, a new routine (and a loss of one), and a very unfamiliar path. I woke with a sinus headache and, for the first time ever, I got up, took some meds, and, instead of dragging myself into morning dog duty, feed and walk, I went back to bed until the headache broke. I laid there and thought of all those mornings when this return-to-bed was what I wanted, but put dog first, myself second, getting out of bed to take care of her. And I felt lonely without my companion and selfish that I was only taking care of myself. I walked out to get the paper, realizing that we always walked across the cul-de-sac, me with shovel in hand, to take care of emptying her “tanks.” I was going to walk it alone, but made three steps into cul-de-sac, and turned around in tears. She had left me 3 kibbles in her dish, something of an oddity, yet could be seen as a loving reminder that she was taking care of me until the end: “Here, have some of my meal to eat when I am gone”. I left it there until recently when a neighbor dog sneaked into the house and cleaned out the dish. On June 8th, I woke with the single thought of what I, I, Me alone(!) was going to do today. Just me, just my agenda, just my projects, just my list. And now, it’s been 20 more mornings just like that. My new normal: me first. It doesn’t fit at all with my soul.
Annie’s passing also accentuated the fact that major decisions are all now mine alone. Oh, I have people who will give me feedback, check my thinking, but it still my solo decision at the end. Within these moments, I feel my grief acutely, as I do not have my partner present to take half of the responsibility. It is mine…alone, 100%. I was the one who called the vet, kissed her goodbye, wrote the check, and will now bury her. Me, just me.
Small insignificant changes mark that first whole week alone. I had always turned off the vent on the driver’s side of the car so more air would be forced on my co-pilot. As I opened that vent for the first time ever, I cried. I had lunch out with some friends and tossed my left-overs into the back, laughing at all the times that I would carry them into the grocery store, as no way would they have lasted in the back seat, regardless of how short an errand it would have been if she was with me. I stopped and got myself a blended ice mocha drink, of which the first mouth full was always spit into her in-car watering dish and we slurped together. I drank it by myself and I cried. Every pocket of every jacket, pants, shorts always had a plastic bag for the poops. After one of my soccer games, I put on a soccer jacket, finding both a plastic bag and one dog biscuit. I left it that way for the next game. And I cried. The vehicles still have plastic bags of dog treats, her reward for keeping the car/truck safe, and I have not cleaned the car windows of “nose prints.”
“Ms. Annie B” has been cremated and her ashes will be placed at the cabin, about a foot above Jack’s, designated by another block in the same color as Jack’s. I’ve already brought over her poop shovel, a paw print marker given by neighbors years ago, along with our two blue well-used and well-cracked espresso coffee mugs. The dog knew that espresso stands meant dog treats and many barista knew her by name. All the pieces of a grave marker are in place, waiting for her ashes, which I now have, waiting for my next trip over to the cabin.
I knew that my husband, our dog, and my mother all would be gone within one year of each other. I never knew the order, although I had my preference in my prayers. My greatest gratitude, as I told Annie that morning, was that she pushed that body of hers, giving me 11 months of companionship, stopping what would be a worst undertaking after Jack’s passing, what could have been then, but is now: a totally empty house. I deeply appreciated her stamina to stay with me. Thanks, Annie B, thanks. Ya done did good, Girl.
While “The B and Me” were at the cabin for what would be her last time, I sat on the deck and pondered my living arrangements. I love the cabin. It is the one place that settles me. On the other hand, I have the Bellevue place, where friendships, medical, sports, support networks all are. If that house was newer, it would need less upkeep, maintenance, and repair, but a 1979 built home has begun to take more time, work, and money than I am willing to do anymore. The house was becoming burdensome, it was too much for me, and I needed to face that reality and act. On top of that, I have had a mental calendar ticking in my head that I had two years after Jack’s passing to take advantage of the widow’s benefit with selling the house and capital gains savings. That savings would diminish at the three-year mark. Simple logic said that it was time to sell.
Metaphor and story time. When my siblings and I were younger, living in southern California, Easter Sunday was the traditional first jump into the unheated pool by us kids. Freezing water, running for your swim towel after your 3 second in the water, goose bumps, chattering teeth, year after year. No doubt, traditions were strong in my bio-family. We all know there are only two ways of getting into cold water: you either dive in quickly, shock the heck out of every cell in your body, or, (what I consider the more painful way), take one step in, “get use to it,” then another step, “get use to it,”etc. I rarely embraced the “get slowly use to it” approach and wanted to control when I got wet, getting all of it over quickly. You see, invaritably, standing on one of the steps, you didn’t see that someone had sneaked up behind you and was ready to give you the big push. You were usually going in quickly one way or another. Better to control when, I’d say. (For those who know him, yes, no doubt it would be Brother Mark as the sneak-up-push-your-arse-into-the-pool butthead.)
So, many times this year, I have just dove into the “pool of firsts,” knowing it was going to shock, hurt, and usually end up in tears, but I got through many “firsts” this year. A friend or two would note that I didn’t have to do a “first” now, but I would retort, “I will eventually have to do it. Let me dive in and get it over with.” I didn’t want to avoid doing things with my married friends because I enjoy theirs and their spouses’ friendship. I felt keenly the “5th wheel” role, but that’s how it is for me now. I need to learn to become more comfortable with it. I dove in, got the first one over with, so the next one will be easier. I am initiating more social events for myself, which is stretching my shyness streak. I’m buying my bicycle and maybe another scooter or motorcycle as my second “vehicle” for short trips. Last week, for the first time, I drove to Spokane to see Jack’s Dad without my co-pilot, feeling sad and somewhat guilty that I made the trip with fewer pit stops and dog walks. I dove into selling the house now approach. I made it through first holidays, birthdays, and anniversaries. I’m still coming up for air and still swimming.
In this past year, I bought a clothes washer on Craig’s List when our old one died, a vacuum for the cabin, my dining room table, and replaced old windows in the house, all big financial expenses and decisions made by myself. I’m getting rid of our plateware, getting new, brighter colored ones for myself. I got rid of the bed and mattress, a dresser, his desk, and a bookcase. I recall in detail the memories of purchases, assembling pieces, and using them. Snicker and sigh with me: as I tossed the mattress into the dump bin, I kissed it goodbye. I swear I could still smell him in it. Have you ever seen someone cry tossing an old mattress away at the dump? I was.
I never realized that the small seemingly insignificant moments, which, at any other time, would be nothing and ignored, are suddenly at another time of life so emotionally overwhelming. Get this: I have taken apart our bed, finding those “dust bunnies” all in those places the vacuum never reaches until the furniture is moved. I am in tears as I pick them up, looking for her hair and looking for his. I am desperate, desperate for that tangible physical reminder, that which I can actually touch in their absences, dust bunnies. I haven’t read about dust bunnies in any grief book I read in these last 365 days as a trigger for grief. Small stuff, people, can be the biggest.
Now, I am selling the house. It’s been a year and I’ve put in and put out a good battle to stay. The Bellevue house is both an albatross and a sanctuary of emotional memories of both Jack’s and Annie’s. I am in one of those “Damn if I do and damn if I don’t” spot. Again, this is another major decision being made alone, which only deepens that, yes, I am alone, and, yet, ironically, is showing me that I am clear and strong enough to do whatever needs to be done.
August 1st, the official listing day. Only now is another real layer of work unfolding, both in physical labor and renewed grief. As the agent/stager walks around each room, she is re-arranging, eliminating, moving things. She has a good eye, an artist no doubt, as well as, an ace salesperson and marketer. Following her, room to room with a given “To Do” list, I now painfully know why the older generation doesn’t let go of things, why their houses are sometimes so cluttered to us “younguns:” many, many things have stories that goes along with them, a moment, an anniversary, a laugh, a tear, a time intimately shared that it becomes part of the marriage fabric and each other’s hearts. These items are the ones by which the story is refreshed, often wordlessly, with just a look, followed by chuckles or sighs. Now, suddenly, this “story” is being moved to another room, or that “story” is being removed out of the house into storage. I miss Jack so much right now in helping me move “our stories,” as it would be much easier with him grieving with me. At least, with him, I would have that look, that chuckle, and then the tear. I’m probably getting more done without him, though, as I know we would stop with some items and retell the “story,” again, with each of us adding some tibbit and, then, arguing about the addition, “No, it didn’t happen that way.”
I don’t know where my new place will be, only that I want smaller and some dirt on the “Eastside” of the Puget Sound. It is where my friends, support network, medical, and sports are. I’ll keep the cabin, as it is where I find a different pace and peace. At worst, if the house would sell before finding a new spot, I could commute from the cabin. I have enough friends with spare rooms and couches to “guest” me on the nights of soccer games and/or other commitments (of which, I would now shove as many as possible into one day) until I find what I want, that perfect next home fit. I am lucky that I don’t have to rush and find something immediately. I have the cabin, which allows time to wait and not settle for less than what I want.
I’ve kept my wedding ring on. I had intended to find a new ring for my left hand and move my wedding ring to my right hand with the 1st year anniversary, but my heart says otherwise. I looked several weeks ago with a friend, a fellow widow, at place she found her ring. I lasted about 30 seconds and had to stop. I couldn’t imagine another ring on my left hand then. So, I have learned to honor my inner voice that says, “Not yet.” I tried to dive in, but found I needed to stand on the first step and “get use to it” first.
I have found that I can live alone, although I don’t particularly like it at times. Yet, honestly, at other times, I see my “stuck-in-mud” ways of doing things and not having to adjust to someone else’s style as both nice, yet very lonely. I discovered that I am not good alone all the time; I crave companionship. I miss the joking and child-like play that Jack and I had, our silliness if you will. I desperately, almost over all else, miss his laugh and smile. Gads, I miss laughing with him.
In the last 365 days, I have gone from not reading books to enjoy reading, again, flipping back and forth. My soccer was a physical escape and then it was a chore, a duty. Gardening, though, has been the one consistent respite through out the year. Touching the earth and being touched back was healing. I have not watched more than an hour of TV over the year. Jack was the TV watcher, sitting in that lazy-boy for hours on end, yelling to me about this and that was on the screen. I miss him on that couch with that noise so much so that I have not found it comfortable to be alone down there yet. The basement and the TV are no more mine than it was 365 days ago. If anywhere, it is there I want to find him, and it will be comforting, yes, that is the right word, comforting, to have a new “TV room” in my new residence.
I’ve cleaned and cleared so many “ours” and the hardest of “his” possessions this past years, honing the house down to the essentials. (FYI: his dress clothes still hang in his closet, but mine are in there, too, as my closet space is being remodeled.) I realize my inner strength and determination that says, “This tragedy will not define who I am, but it will change me forever.” I am greater than the event of his death and the events thereafter. I hold that my God, my Universe, my higher power, will bequeath upon me a new purpose and direction, when the pieces of healing are in a better place. Right now, it feels like I’ll never get 100% past these losses, and that will be an interesting statement to revisit in the years ahead. Thus, I do not know 100% of what is next. Is this wanting so desperately to dive in, but am being forced to stand on the steps, “getting use to it?” Where is my control now?
In Jack’s memory, I have purchased a goat from the Heifer organization. Our “story” with this was that I once wanted a pigmy goat and had already named it “Arrthur.” Yes, you have drag out the “Arrr” of “Arthur.” A large goat was nicknamed “Arnie.” So, when we would see goats on our travels, we didn’t say, “Oh, there are goats over there.” We would say, “There are Arnies (or Arrthurs).” (Lamb were called “Priscillas,” new foals were “Spunkers.” Ya get the picture of our game.) So, some village in the world will be getting an “Arnie” in Jack’s memory. When we retired, we bought the surgery to correct a child’s smile. Another child will now have a full normal smile for the rest of his/her life. Finally, the last third of the gift will be a donation to the Jack Reynolds’ Memorial Scholarship Fund. I think those gifts will adequately reflect his life and will honor his passing. The earth and the future will be better because he lived. To each of you, if you must do something, do an intentional act of kindness, an intentional act of beauty, regardless of how small, so that the world will be gifted by your act in his memory. Hold the energy within the gift.
My spirit is waiting my next path with great anticipation; I can feel that I have been getting prepared for it. My favorite word for new experiences has always been “adventures.” I know that I will have adventures in Greece, planning on being there on our wedding anniversary in October, toasting him on one of islands. I see more travel after that. I see my wedding ring being moved to make way for new relationships. I feel new paths will be walked, jogged, hiked, biked in many new places. I will both walk my family history and learn how small and rich this world is. I’ll either hang-glide or parachute for my birthday adventure this year, doing the other one next year. I’ve bought a water color set, have a dremel that I have not touched upon its potential, want to learn Spanish, expand my garden at the Birdhouse, putting in an extensive bird bathing pool there, learn to scuba, there are many books to read, and one to write. There is so little I can’t do if I put my mind and energy to it. There are so many inviting adventures waiting for me to RSVP.
I am sadden to close this blog down. I feel like I am saying goodbye to an old friend, to many dear friends. On the other hand, I know it is time. I think I’ll keep it for another year until the book is done, so my book readers may come to the beginning of it all.
My education friends: I know you’re on break now. I’ve used last year’s “summer” addresses, along with school ones. Thus, some will get this message twice.
I believe I have said all that my heart needs to say. It is time to take flight.
To the adventures in here and now,
Tally
Enlisting Help for Work Parties
If you can help in any way in the next 4 weeks, being it 15 minutes to 1-2 hours, would you please let me know. (Yes, 15 minutes will help!) I’m putting together an email group of helpers in the area to expedite asking for help. If you cannot, I both understand and would prefer you did not reply that you cannot. (Saves jamming up the inbox.) Time is limited. You understand, I know you all do. I will put out to the responders the dates of work parties.
365 days since Jack’s passing. 365 painful, lonely, and just plain awful, awful days without him. 365 days later. Someone noted that the first year is the worst because so much of it is spent in reflecting on what was happening an year ago, when the loved one was still alive: “What were we(!) doing last year at this time?” And I did re-live and re-live these past 365 days doing just that, even more so this past week before his death, thinking of all those awful, awful moments entering into Jack’s last days. I cannot say that all with me is better, although it is better 365 days later than 365 days ago.
I have been changed and I have arrived at the end of the first year in one piece. I found a sense of “patience, courage, and strength” that I prayed for daily while Jack was dying. In recent months, I added “gentleness” for I held so little of it for myself as I adapt to my new life. There were dozens of “I’m sorry, I forgot,” or “ I’m sorry, I don’t remember,” be it in immediate conversations where I have no idea where I was taking a thought, or overlooking a previous commitment (ah, the havoc of so many double-booking myself), or unintentional omitting facts and/or people and creating numerous social faux pas, humbly returning to “I am so sorry.” Most recently I have add “stamina for my soul,” a concept of interest, something neither yet understood nor explored, but seeded within me. I will endure.
When Jack was in one of his treatments regimes, I remember thinking that I never knew what I wanted: life to hurry-up or slow down. Like waiting for a lab or scan result: did I want to know potential bad news sooner and get on with the next step, or let it wait, enjoying blissfully the last moments of ignorance? At times, I was walking when I wanted to run, and, at other times, running when I wanted the world to slow down so I could savor the moment. I found a note to myself dated shortly before Jack’s death that said, “With each day, all the ‘hurry-ups’ are diminishing in numbers.” 365 days later, all the “hurry-ups” or “slow downs” are now my own, self-created. I am in a new place, alone. No doubt, there were times that I just wanted to hurry up and get through the daily tears or deeply sad moments, but haven’t yet. Grieving is such a slow process. There is simply no hurrying it up.
No doubt in my heart I owe a debt of gratitude for so many of you reading this. With some, I have had regular contact and you get to see the day-to-day pain, growth, and changes. Others, your only link is this blog. Regardless, I have been touched by your compassionate presence or responses; I can feel you with me. I think of you as holding a healing light and prayer for me. You helped me to write today. I see your faces, I feel your light, I am grateful. I think of you who had time and the words, those words that are hard to find sometimes, to write back from your heart, life experiences, and from your light. I didn’t respond to all, but I read each one, usually crying. How do I ever thank-you for being with me these months? I don’t know, but my heart yearns to do something.
I often think of the millions and millions of widows and widowers before me, so many people with so many losses, many who had what I perceive as the “harder” death: the quick one (from diagnosis to death in so few months), the unplanned one (the fatal accident), the horribly slow heart-wretching debilitating ones (ALS, Alzheimer’s). The worst of the worst, I think, of the psychological incongruent ones, losing your child, that defies natural order of the “Parent dies first; child second.” I had 26+ years, out of which I had 4 and half years with the dying process. Oh, I know it could have been better, but I deeply know it could have been worst. That is a first-year reflection of gratitude, which I have now, 365 days later. I am thankful for the times we had, and, now I have.
I had sincere intentions of re-reading all the cards that came those week and months after Jack passed. I still have all of them, by the way, along with the thank-you notes I bought last year to those of you who donated to Jack’s and my favorite charities. I really did think I could get that task done in 365 days. I did re-read about a third of the cards around the 6-month mark, but it was simply too emotionally overwhelming. I still have the cards sent by many of you for Jack’s last birthday in May ’08. I just can’t find whatever I need to do, either read or dispose of them. It is at times like these that I find myself just as lost as I was 365 days ago, spinning in place, with “What do I do next?”
I so humbled and awed that my story could be shared with fellow grief path walkers, who say, “Me, too. You wrote my words,” but these people are not of my communities. They are friends of our/my friends, strangers, yet not strangers, as we are connected by our losses. Our common thread weaves empathy and familiarity. I am blessed that our paths crossed. Special thanks to those of you who were the “axle” in passing the message to others. I appreciate your efforts each month. You, too, have brought healing.
On June 6th, I laid Annie B to rest. (I don’t like the phrase, “Put her down.” Please don’t use it with me. It does not accurately reflect my caregiving of her soul.) I heard her “Enough,” although sat with it for four days, wanting the larger, louder “shout” to confirm what I knew I heard. That confirmation came from a dog-lover. Perhaps having some control of when and how with her passing, it was more peaceful, although as painful as Jack’s passing.
By the way, the “B” and I experienced the most loving vet and her assistant. This mobile service provided a compassionate death for Annie and compassion for me. Small world: the tech was a former student, no less, having Jack as a middle school teacher. Annie loved her and her treats, and the vet, as well. If I could have envisioned the perfect passing for her soul it materialized that Saturday morning with these two wonderful humans, who knew dogs, their owners’ struggles and grief, and brought a tenderness to the moment that is indescribable. (Note to friends with aging pets: most pet clinics will not do home visits any more for liability issues with their insurance companies. I found one that does. You pay a bit more, but for good, no make that great service.) Oh, I found one piece of irony as they carried Annie into the car: it was same model of car that took Jack out, only Jack’s was silver and Annie’s was gold. As I followed the vet and tech out of the house to the car, I was completely stunned to see a Honda in the driveway… again. What were the chances? And, again, 365 days later, a Honda in the driveway can stonewall me. Who would have guessed?
On June 7th, I woke to my first morning of “just me.” Now, a new normal, a new routine (and a loss of one), and a very unfamiliar path. I woke with a sinus headache and, for the first time ever, I got up, took some meds, and, instead of dragging myself into morning dog duty, feed and walk, I went back to bed until the headache broke. I laid there and thought of all those mornings when this return-to-bed was what I wanted, but put dog first, myself second, getting out of bed to take care of her. And I felt lonely without my companion and selfish that I was only taking care of myself. I walked out to get the paper, realizing that we always walked across the cul-de-sac, me with shovel in hand, to take care of emptying her “tanks.” I was going to walk it alone, but made three steps into cul-de-sac, and turned around in tears. She had left me 3 kibbles in her dish, something of an oddity, yet could be seen as a loving reminder that she was taking care of me until the end: “Here, have some of my meal to eat when I am gone”. I left it there until recently when a neighbor dog sneaked into the house and cleaned out the dish. On June 8th, I woke with the single thought of what I, I, Me alone(!) was going to do today. Just me, just my agenda, just my projects, just my list. And now, it’s been 20 more mornings just like that. My new normal: me first. It doesn’t fit at all with my soul.
Annie’s passing also accentuated the fact that major decisions are all now mine alone. Oh, I have people who will give me feedback, check my thinking, but it still my solo decision at the end. Within these moments, I feel my grief acutely, as I do not have my partner present to take half of the responsibility. It is mine…alone, 100%. I was the one who called the vet, kissed her goodbye, wrote the check, and will now bury her. Me, just me.
Small insignificant changes mark that first whole week alone. I had always turned off the vent on the driver’s side of the car so more air would be forced on my co-pilot. As I opened that vent for the first time ever, I cried. I had lunch out with some friends and tossed my left-overs into the back, laughing at all the times that I would carry them into the grocery store, as no way would they have lasted in the back seat, regardless of how short an errand it would have been if she was with me. I stopped and got myself a blended ice mocha drink, of which the first mouth full was always spit into her in-car watering dish and we slurped together. I drank it by myself and I cried. Every pocket of every jacket, pants, shorts always had a plastic bag for the poops. After one of my soccer games, I put on a soccer jacket, finding both a plastic bag and one dog biscuit. I left it that way for the next game. And I cried. The vehicles still have plastic bags of dog treats, her reward for keeping the car/truck safe, and I have not cleaned the car windows of “nose prints.”
“Ms. Annie B” has been cremated and her ashes will be placed at the cabin, about a foot above Jack’s, designated by another block in the same color as Jack’s. I’ve already brought over her poop shovel, a paw print marker given by neighbors years ago, along with our two blue well-used and well-cracked espresso coffee mugs. The dog knew that espresso stands meant dog treats and many barista knew her by name. All the pieces of a grave marker are in place, waiting for her ashes, which I now have, waiting for my next trip over to the cabin.
I knew that my husband, our dog, and my mother all would be gone within one year of each other. I never knew the order, although I had my preference in my prayers. My greatest gratitude, as I told Annie that morning, was that she pushed that body of hers, giving me 11 months of companionship, stopping what would be a worst undertaking after Jack’s passing, what could have been then, but is now: a totally empty house. I deeply appreciated her stamina to stay with me. Thanks, Annie B, thanks. Ya done did good, Girl.
While “The B and Me” were at the cabin for what would be her last time, I sat on the deck and pondered my living arrangements. I love the cabin. It is the one place that settles me. On the other hand, I have the Bellevue place, where friendships, medical, sports, support networks all are. If that house was newer, it would need less upkeep, maintenance, and repair, but a 1979 built home has begun to take more time, work, and money than I am willing to do anymore. The house was becoming burdensome, it was too much for me, and I needed to face that reality and act. On top of that, I have had a mental calendar ticking in my head that I had two years after Jack’s passing to take advantage of the widow’s benefit with selling the house and capital gains savings. That savings would diminish at the three-year mark. Simple logic said that it was time to sell.
Metaphor and story time. When my siblings and I were younger, living in southern California, Easter Sunday was the traditional first jump into the unheated pool by us kids. Freezing water, running for your swim towel after your 3 second in the water, goose bumps, chattering teeth, year after year. No doubt, traditions were strong in my bio-family. We all know there are only two ways of getting into cold water: you either dive in quickly, shock the heck out of every cell in your body, or, (what I consider the more painful way), take one step in, “get use to it,” then another step, “get use to it,”etc. I rarely embraced the “get slowly use to it” approach and wanted to control when I got wet, getting all of it over quickly. You see, invaritably, standing on one of the steps, you didn’t see that someone had sneaked up behind you and was ready to give you the big push. You were usually going in quickly one way or another. Better to control when, I’d say. (For those who know him, yes, no doubt it would be Brother Mark as the sneak-up-push-your-arse-into-the-pool butthead.)
So, many times this year, I have just dove into the “pool of firsts,” knowing it was going to shock, hurt, and usually end up in tears, but I got through many “firsts” this year. A friend or two would note that I didn’t have to do a “first” now, but I would retort, “I will eventually have to do it. Let me dive in and get it over with.” I didn’t want to avoid doing things with my married friends because I enjoy theirs and their spouses’ friendship. I felt keenly the “5th wheel” role, but that’s how it is for me now. I need to learn to become more comfortable with it. I dove in, got the first one over with, so the next one will be easier. I am initiating more social events for myself, which is stretching my shyness streak. I’m buying my bicycle and maybe another scooter or motorcycle as my second “vehicle” for short trips. Last week, for the first time, I drove to Spokane to see Jack’s Dad without my co-pilot, feeling sad and somewhat guilty that I made the trip with fewer pit stops and dog walks. I dove into selling the house now approach. I made it through first holidays, birthdays, and anniversaries. I’m still coming up for air and still swimming.
In this past year, I bought a clothes washer on Craig’s List when our old one died, a vacuum for the cabin, my dining room table, and replaced old windows in the house, all big financial expenses and decisions made by myself. I’m getting rid of our plateware, getting new, brighter colored ones for myself. I got rid of the bed and mattress, a dresser, his desk, and a bookcase. I recall in detail the memories of purchases, assembling pieces, and using them. Snicker and sigh with me: as I tossed the mattress into the dump bin, I kissed it goodbye. I swear I could still smell him in it. Have you ever seen someone cry tossing an old mattress away at the dump? I was.
I never realized that the small seemingly insignificant moments, which, at any other time, would be nothing and ignored, are suddenly at another time of life so emotionally overwhelming. Get this: I have taken apart our bed, finding those “dust bunnies” all in those places the vacuum never reaches until the furniture is moved. I am in tears as I pick them up, looking for her hair and looking for his. I am desperate, desperate for that tangible physical reminder, that which I can actually touch in their absences, dust bunnies. I haven’t read about dust bunnies in any grief book I read in these last 365 days as a trigger for grief. Small stuff, people, can be the biggest.
Now, I am selling the house. It’s been a year and I’ve put in and put out a good battle to stay. The Bellevue house is both an albatross and a sanctuary of emotional memories of both Jack’s and Annie’s. I am in one of those “Damn if I do and damn if I don’t” spot. Again, this is another major decision being made alone, which only deepens that, yes, I am alone, and, yet, ironically, is showing me that I am clear and strong enough to do whatever needs to be done.
August 1st, the official listing day. Only now is another real layer of work unfolding, both in physical labor and renewed grief. As the agent/stager walks around each room, she is re-arranging, eliminating, moving things. She has a good eye, an artist no doubt, as well as, an ace salesperson and marketer. Following her, room to room with a given “To Do” list, I now painfully know why the older generation doesn’t let go of things, why their houses are sometimes so cluttered to us “younguns:” many, many things have stories that goes along with them, a moment, an anniversary, a laugh, a tear, a time intimately shared that it becomes part of the marriage fabric and each other’s hearts. These items are the ones by which the story is refreshed, often wordlessly, with just a look, followed by chuckles or sighs. Now, suddenly, this “story” is being moved to another room, or that “story” is being removed out of the house into storage. I miss Jack so much right now in helping me move “our stories,” as it would be much easier with him grieving with me. At least, with him, I would have that look, that chuckle, and then the tear. I’m probably getting more done without him, though, as I know we would stop with some items and retell the “story,” again, with each of us adding some tibbit and, then, arguing about the addition, “No, it didn’t happen that way.”
I don’t know where my new place will be, only that I want smaller and some dirt on the “Eastside” of the Puget Sound. It is where my friends, support network, medical, and sports are. I’ll keep the cabin, as it is where I find a different pace and peace. At worst, if the house would sell before finding a new spot, I could commute from the cabin. I have enough friends with spare rooms and couches to “guest” me on the nights of soccer games and/or other commitments (of which, I would now shove as many as possible into one day) until I find what I want, that perfect next home fit. I am lucky that I don’t have to rush and find something immediately. I have the cabin, which allows time to wait and not settle for less than what I want.
I’ve kept my wedding ring on. I had intended to find a new ring for my left hand and move my wedding ring to my right hand with the 1st year anniversary, but my heart says otherwise. I looked several weeks ago with a friend, a fellow widow, at place she found her ring. I lasted about 30 seconds and had to stop. I couldn’t imagine another ring on my left hand then. So, I have learned to honor my inner voice that says, “Not yet.” I tried to dive in, but found I needed to stand on the first step and “get use to it” first.
I have found that I can live alone, although I don’t particularly like it at times. Yet, honestly, at other times, I see my “stuck-in-mud” ways of doing things and not having to adjust to someone else’s style as both nice, yet very lonely. I discovered that I am not good alone all the time; I crave companionship. I miss the joking and child-like play that Jack and I had, our silliness if you will. I desperately, almost over all else, miss his laugh and smile. Gads, I miss laughing with him.
In the last 365 days, I have gone from not reading books to enjoy reading, again, flipping back and forth. My soccer was a physical escape and then it was a chore, a duty. Gardening, though, has been the one consistent respite through out the year. Touching the earth and being touched back was healing. I have not watched more than an hour of TV over the year. Jack was the TV watcher, sitting in that lazy-boy for hours on end, yelling to me about this and that was on the screen. I miss him on that couch with that noise so much so that I have not found it comfortable to be alone down there yet. The basement and the TV are no more mine than it was 365 days ago. If anywhere, it is there I want to find him, and it will be comforting, yes, that is the right word, comforting, to have a new “TV room” in my new residence.
I’ve cleaned and cleared so many “ours” and the hardest of “his” possessions this past years, honing the house down to the essentials. (FYI: his dress clothes still hang in his closet, but mine are in there, too, as my closet space is being remodeled.) I realize my inner strength and determination that says, “This tragedy will not define who I am, but it will change me forever.” I am greater than the event of his death and the events thereafter. I hold that my God, my Universe, my higher power, will bequeath upon me a new purpose and direction, when the pieces of healing are in a better place. Right now, it feels like I’ll never get 100% past these losses, and that will be an interesting statement to revisit in the years ahead. Thus, I do not know 100% of what is next. Is this wanting so desperately to dive in, but am being forced to stand on the steps, “getting use to it?” Where is my control now?
In Jack’s memory, I have purchased a goat from the Heifer organization. Our “story” with this was that I once wanted a pigmy goat and had already named it “Arrthur.” Yes, you have drag out the “Arrr” of “Arthur.” A large goat was nicknamed “Arnie.” So, when we would see goats on our travels, we didn’t say, “Oh, there are goats over there.” We would say, “There are Arnies (or Arrthurs).” (Lamb were called “Priscillas,” new foals were “Spunkers.” Ya get the picture of our game.) So, some village in the world will be getting an “Arnie” in Jack’s memory. When we retired, we bought the surgery to correct a child’s smile. Another child will now have a full normal smile for the rest of his/her life. Finally, the last third of the gift will be a donation to the Jack Reynolds’ Memorial Scholarship Fund. I think those gifts will adequately reflect his life and will honor his passing. The earth and the future will be better because he lived. To each of you, if you must do something, do an intentional act of kindness, an intentional act of beauty, regardless of how small, so that the world will be gifted by your act in his memory. Hold the energy within the gift.
My spirit is waiting my next path with great anticipation; I can feel that I have been getting prepared for it. My favorite word for new experiences has always been “adventures.” I know that I will have adventures in Greece, planning on being there on our wedding anniversary in October, toasting him on one of islands. I see more travel after that. I see my wedding ring being moved to make way for new relationships. I feel new paths will be walked, jogged, hiked, biked in many new places. I will both walk my family history and learn how small and rich this world is. I’ll either hang-glide or parachute for my birthday adventure this year, doing the other one next year. I’ve bought a water color set, have a dremel that I have not touched upon its potential, want to learn Spanish, expand my garden at the Birdhouse, putting in an extensive bird bathing pool there, learn to scuba, there are many books to read, and one to write. There is so little I can’t do if I put my mind and energy to it. There are so many inviting adventures waiting for me to RSVP.
I am sadden to close this blog down. I feel like I am saying goodbye to an old friend, to many dear friends. On the other hand, I know it is time. I think I’ll keep it for another year until the book is done, so my book readers may come to the beginning of it all.
My education friends: I know you’re on break now. I’ve used last year’s “summer” addresses, along with school ones. Thus, some will get this message twice.
I believe I have said all that my heart needs to say. It is time to take flight.
To the adventures in here and now,
Tally
Enlisting Help for Work Parties
If you can help in any way in the next 4 weeks, being it 15 minutes to 1-2 hours, would you please let me know. (Yes, 15 minutes will help!) I’m putting together an email group of helpers in the area to expedite asking for help. If you cannot, I both understand and would prefer you did not reply that you cannot. (Saves jamming up the inbox.) Time is limited. You understand, I know you all do. I will put out to the responders the dates of work parties.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Update--Month 11
Eleven months ago, the “dance of grief” entailed just standing in one spot, being so busy with all the details and business of death: paperwork, more paperwork, the Celebration, and the monumental task of getting up each day. After all that busy work was done, my steps felt continuously backwards, deeper in grief, sadness, and loss: “one step back, one more step back, another step back.” Day after day, it was the same. Somewhere along the way (and I was going to check my journal to see when), I took that first step forward. I felt the difference, the significance of learning to face life without Jack. Those forward steps were followed by one or more back steps, though. “One step forward, one step back. Repeat.” Now, without notice or fanfare, it has become “three steps forward, one step back.” (Sometimes, but not often, two). I figured that the back steps are necessary, as it is anatomically impossible to leap forward unless one foot steps back. Learning that back steps are not necessary bad, make them easier, more accepting, though not less painful. I can anticipate that I am getting ready to leap, again, as I'm in a two step back "funk.". Eleven months of dancing and learning and adapting.
There’s a fine line between “deeply missing” and “desperately missing” Jack, one having greater intensity. For me, it all depends on the amount of rest (or lack thereof and my sleep pattern is still not consistent or solid), the draining energy tasks, like making a financial impacting decision, removing another of Jack’s possessions out of the house, planning something fun for me alone, or a simple song from our repertoire of significant songs. Songs that transports me back to a time and place, when he was there with me, when I could describe you the moment in fine detail with the association of that music. Then, at that moment, I desperately miss him with my whole heart and soul.
The smallest recalls at such odd times still bring tears. Small stuff, like half moons, at which we use to pretend we were wolves and howl, only stopping abruptly halfway, because-Duh! - it was only a half moon. (Did it with a quarter moon, too.) Oh, how we laughed at our silliness. While riding his tractor doing the first mow of this spring, I so recall watching him doing it and how he loved “Boomer,” his tractor’s name. Tears. Simple and seemingly non-relevant moments layered with years of sharing and creating. Multiple that by dozens and dozens of times per day and you get a snippet of my life.
Those intimate moments and memories are rich, treasured, and leads easily to envy. I am envious of marriages that get to celebrate years beyond our 26 years. I am envious of travels that we did not experience together. I am envious of couples together, but who don’t really enjoy their marriage like we did. I miss our grace at meals, toasting our glasses with our private toast, walking hand-in-hand no matter wherever we went, and a daily kiss “Good Morning” and “Good Night.” I miss seeing and feeling love for me in his eyes. And I sincerely wish for every relationship to have the good stuff we had.
I have had to relive many moments of Jack’s declining health with our dog, Annie B, and her deterioration. I saw her 3 (!) prescriptions for pain on the counter earlier today and I had this huge flashback to the bathroom counter with Jack’s 5 or 6, remembering how overwhelmed I was initially, trying to organize a system to insure his pills were on time. And when Annie had an awful reaction to one pain pill, I felt that same frantic energy of trying everything and anything to make her comfortable. I saved the grocery receipt from our last trip to the cabin last June ‘08, when I drove into town, trying to find something that might taste good, settle Jack’s gut, give him some nutrients, walking aisle after aisle of the store, searching for that special, magical something. I can easily recall my desperation in trying to fix things that were out of my control…and how much I didn’t face or know how powerless I was to stop his fate. It was all tumbling down on me, again, as I try to “mend” my dog. Tears for her, tears for him, tears for me being back in that same despicable spot.
Annie B is stable now, but I am facing that her fate is in my hands. His first puppy and dog and it’s my decision. Damn! A big task with tears and prayers that I am listening to them both. I had this flash thought out of nowhere, while looking at her sleeping so soundly one day, that it was my job to keep her alive until he got back. “Say, what??!?!” Even my brain messes with me. Her time is limited, although she has not given her definitive message that says to me, “Enough already.” She eats and drinks well, takes care of her business outside, sight and hearing are fading, but still good enough to get around. I am clear that there is a difference between being slow and pain free (or nearly) verses being painfully slow. Someone told me that I don’t know the line because (1) she hasn’t given it to me and (2) she isn’t there, yet. I watch, listen, and tell her daily to let me know; I am listening as best I can.
In one more month, it will be one year since Jack died. Already. There’s a part of me that celebrates—and that seems an odd word, but best describes things-celebrates that I made it. Next month, I will let you know of my plans to acknowledge the anniversary of Jack’s death and thoughts around changing my wedding ring to my right hand. I will summarizes what I celebrate in myself, looking back on 12 months of work, damn hard painful work.
There is the beginning of two books. Yes, two books, an additional one beyond my story here. I had this thought that my second book will be entitled, “The Last 35Years.” This will be the book about what I did to fill my last 35 years. You know that I’m making it until I am at least 91 years old, don’t you? To live that long for no other reason than I gotta live long enough to see those young’uns with their saggin’ tattoos in their 60’s. Just to have a good laugh on life.
To the here and now, dancing.
Tally
There’s a fine line between “deeply missing” and “desperately missing” Jack, one having greater intensity. For me, it all depends on the amount of rest (or lack thereof and my sleep pattern is still not consistent or solid), the draining energy tasks, like making a financial impacting decision, removing another of Jack’s possessions out of the house, planning something fun for me alone, or a simple song from our repertoire of significant songs. Songs that transports me back to a time and place, when he was there with me, when I could describe you the moment in fine detail with the association of that music. Then, at that moment, I desperately miss him with my whole heart and soul.
The smallest recalls at such odd times still bring tears. Small stuff, like half moons, at which we use to pretend we were wolves and howl, only stopping abruptly halfway, because-Duh! - it was only a half moon. (Did it with a quarter moon, too.) Oh, how we laughed at our silliness. While riding his tractor doing the first mow of this spring, I so recall watching him doing it and how he loved “Boomer,” his tractor’s name. Tears. Simple and seemingly non-relevant moments layered with years of sharing and creating. Multiple that by dozens and dozens of times per day and you get a snippet of my life.
Those intimate moments and memories are rich, treasured, and leads easily to envy. I am envious of marriages that get to celebrate years beyond our 26 years. I am envious of travels that we did not experience together. I am envious of couples together, but who don’t really enjoy their marriage like we did. I miss our grace at meals, toasting our glasses with our private toast, walking hand-in-hand no matter wherever we went, and a daily kiss “Good Morning” and “Good Night.” I miss seeing and feeling love for me in his eyes. And I sincerely wish for every relationship to have the good stuff we had.
I have had to relive many moments of Jack’s declining health with our dog, Annie B, and her deterioration. I saw her 3 (!) prescriptions for pain on the counter earlier today and I had this huge flashback to the bathroom counter with Jack’s 5 or 6, remembering how overwhelmed I was initially, trying to organize a system to insure his pills were on time. And when Annie had an awful reaction to one pain pill, I felt that same frantic energy of trying everything and anything to make her comfortable. I saved the grocery receipt from our last trip to the cabin last June ‘08, when I drove into town, trying to find something that might taste good, settle Jack’s gut, give him some nutrients, walking aisle after aisle of the store, searching for that special, magical something. I can easily recall my desperation in trying to fix things that were out of my control…and how much I didn’t face or know how powerless I was to stop his fate. It was all tumbling down on me, again, as I try to “mend” my dog. Tears for her, tears for him, tears for me being back in that same despicable spot.
Annie B is stable now, but I am facing that her fate is in my hands. His first puppy and dog and it’s my decision. Damn! A big task with tears and prayers that I am listening to them both. I had this flash thought out of nowhere, while looking at her sleeping so soundly one day, that it was my job to keep her alive until he got back. “Say, what??!?!” Even my brain messes with me. Her time is limited, although she has not given her definitive message that says to me, “Enough already.” She eats and drinks well, takes care of her business outside, sight and hearing are fading, but still good enough to get around. I am clear that there is a difference between being slow and pain free (or nearly) verses being painfully slow. Someone told me that I don’t know the line because (1) she hasn’t given it to me and (2) she isn’t there, yet. I watch, listen, and tell her daily to let me know; I am listening as best I can.
In one more month, it will be one year since Jack died. Already. There’s a part of me that celebrates—and that seems an odd word, but best describes things-celebrates that I made it. Next month, I will let you know of my plans to acknowledge the anniversary of Jack’s death and thoughts around changing my wedding ring to my right hand. I will summarizes what I celebrate in myself, looking back on 12 months of work, damn hard painful work.
There is the beginning of two books. Yes, two books, an additional one beyond my story here. I had this thought that my second book will be entitled, “The Last 35Years.” This will be the book about what I did to fill my last 35 years. You know that I’m making it until I am at least 91 years old, don’t you? To live that long for no other reason than I gotta live long enough to see those young’uns with their saggin’ tattoos in their 60’s. Just to have a good laugh on life.
To the here and now, dancing.
Tally
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Month 10 Update
Dear Peoples,
In my dream, I was driving alone to the cabin through Blewett Pass. There's a campground there (really is). I look down and I see Jack. He is wearing sky blue shorts, a madras plaid shirt (he had one when we first dated), and an ivory Carrigan sweater (which he has never owned; I bought him one once, discovered that he didn't like that style of sweater, and off to the Goodwill it went.). He has a small totally black dog on a red leash and the dog is pulling him to go on. He is smiling at me, as I drive by. I begin to frantically wave at him, feeling so excited to see him, and wanting him to wave back with the same enthusiasm. But, his right hand stays on his hip and he just smiles at me. As I continue pass the campground heading towards the cabin, I know that he is continuing in the other direction, but I think, "If he hurries up and gets in the car, he could turn around and catch-up with me."
Then, just last week, I was searching in the basement storage closet for a box to mail something. I find his radio-control car, and my first thought was, "Oh, he forgot to take this with him." I am stunned when I realize this means. There was not an emotional response, not a "Oh, we had so much fun with these cars." I had removed enough of his possessions that finding one sent me down a totally different path.
Those two incidents sums up well the 10th month. I still cling to some snippet of wanting him desperately back with me, desperately wanting what we had together back now. Yet, on some level, I know that we are continuing in different directions and I must go on. If nothing else, I am glad some canine soul found him in the next life and I will treasure this dream, as it is still quite vivid in my head now as when it happened. (Dream insights: I definitely dream in color and Jack is dressing himself in the next life.)
There are still "sacred" corners, shelves, places where I have not moved his possessions. But there are fewer of them now. And even those places are not as "sacred" as they once were. I am entering a new place, a place where I want it to be for me, recognizing it is also without him, as I make changes to the house. I am saddened by these changes, as I know I am removing what was "ours," and that is what is essence of what that "sacredness."
I look around the house and see how much I have changed. The piles and incomplete projects, the start and stops, are numerous. "Ms. File Everything" has what her brother calls, "Horizonal Filing:" a stack of papers on the floor in front of the file cabinets. I am moving my study from upstairs down to what was Jack's. (Oh, Freudian slip there: I had typed, "what is Jack's." Caught it and "ouch" to my heart.) I have decided that when I totally take over his/my work room, I will have to paint it a different color. Again, removing his color is a reminder of removing another of his possession.
I have some carpal tunnel issues, and I think that having to do ALL the gardening and paperwork has aggravated that joint.
I still don't watch much TV and am not comfortable in the family room yet. I so feel his absence in that room. I can easily see his body on the couch, TV on (always too loud for me). It is the one place that I simply EXPECT him to be and am startled each time that he is not there and I am dragged back into the reality that he won't ever be, again and again, when I go downstairs.
Same goes for the sports section of the paper, which he always read first. I am finding that I am reading it more than I ever did before. Sometimes, I see something that he would have read to me. Now, I say to him, "Look at this, Jack, can you believe this?" or "Jack would have loved this team."
Probably the most significant progress at this very moment is the weight the 28th of the month has. That number still causes an ache, but it is more of a number now, and a reminder that I am continuing on. And, conversely, just as I finished putting a period onto that sentence, tears started rolling down my cheeks, and I find that I still miss him deeply. Three steps forward, one back in my new direction. Such is my new normal.
In the hear and now,
Tally
In my dream, I was driving alone to the cabin through Blewett Pass. There's a campground there (really is). I look down and I see Jack. He is wearing sky blue shorts, a madras plaid shirt (he had one when we first dated), and an ivory Carrigan sweater (which he has never owned; I bought him one once, discovered that he didn't like that style of sweater, and off to the Goodwill it went.). He has a small totally black dog on a red leash and the dog is pulling him to go on. He is smiling at me, as I drive by. I begin to frantically wave at him, feeling so excited to see him, and wanting him to wave back with the same enthusiasm. But, his right hand stays on his hip and he just smiles at me. As I continue pass the campground heading towards the cabin, I know that he is continuing in the other direction, but I think, "If he hurries up and gets in the car, he could turn around and catch-up with me."
Then, just last week, I was searching in the basement storage closet for a box to mail something. I find his radio-control car, and my first thought was, "Oh, he forgot to take this with him." I am stunned when I realize this means. There was not an emotional response, not a "Oh, we had so much fun with these cars." I had removed enough of his possessions that finding one sent me down a totally different path.
Those two incidents sums up well the 10th month. I still cling to some snippet of wanting him desperately back with me, desperately wanting what we had together back now. Yet, on some level, I know that we are continuing in different directions and I must go on. If nothing else, I am glad some canine soul found him in the next life and I will treasure this dream, as it is still quite vivid in my head now as when it happened. (Dream insights: I definitely dream in color and Jack is dressing himself in the next life.)
There are still "sacred" corners, shelves, places where I have not moved his possessions. But there are fewer of them now. And even those places are not as "sacred" as they once were. I am entering a new place, a place where I want it to be for me, recognizing it is also without him, as I make changes to the house. I am saddened by these changes, as I know I am removing what was "ours," and that is what is essence of what that "sacredness."
I look around the house and see how much I have changed. The piles and incomplete projects, the start and stops, are numerous. "Ms. File Everything" has what her brother calls, "Horizonal Filing:" a stack of papers on the floor in front of the file cabinets. I am moving my study from upstairs down to what was Jack's. (Oh, Freudian slip there: I had typed, "what is Jack's." Caught it and "ouch" to my heart.) I have decided that when I totally take over his/my work room, I will have to paint it a different color. Again, removing his color is a reminder of removing another of his possession.
I have some carpal tunnel issues, and I think that having to do ALL the gardening and paperwork has aggravated that joint.
I still don't watch much TV and am not comfortable in the family room yet. I so feel his absence in that room. I can easily see his body on the couch, TV on (always too loud for me). It is the one place that I simply EXPECT him to be and am startled each time that he is not there and I am dragged back into the reality that he won't ever be, again and again, when I go downstairs.
Same goes for the sports section of the paper, which he always read first. I am finding that I am reading it more than I ever did before. Sometimes, I see something that he would have read to me. Now, I say to him, "Look at this, Jack, can you believe this?" or "Jack would have loved this team."
Probably the most significant progress at this very moment is the weight the 28th of the month has. That number still causes an ache, but it is more of a number now, and a reminder that I am continuing on. And, conversely, just as I finished putting a period onto that sentence, tears started rolling down my cheeks, and I find that I still miss him deeply. Three steps forward, one back in my new direction. Such is my new normal.
In the hear and now,
Tally
Monday, March 30, 2009
Month 9 Update
Dear Peoples,
9th months since our Jack left our physical presence. Can you believe it? We've all moved on, in our jobs, our lives, our day-to-day existence. There are times that his memory floods back to the forefront or his presence and comfort is desperately needed; his absence is keenly felt. A moment, a recollection, a flashback from in-the-now experience. He is far from gone.
For me, I have had the painful awareness of the distance growing between what "we were" and "what I am." I initially grieved his absence, his leaving, the quiet without him. I am now grieving that I am living and managing, even growing without him. It's not that I don't still cry, almost daily, facing situations that bellow "we" and "ours," but, I am building my world around his absence. I am living my life without him, and I almost want to apologize to him for doing it. Then, I hear his voice in my heart that says, "Go on" and I do, often with tears and resistance.
It all started with my buying a new dining room table this month, something that Jack could have liked, but wasn't part of the decision-making process. I acutely was aware of that absence of a "second opinion." I did it without him. Also, I hired a contractor to begin the remodel what we always dreamed of doing together. It is done partly in that memory and for my own comfort, for me, for my house. A friend came over and helped sort one more phrase of his clothes to be donated to two charities. His closets are now 3/4th empty and his dresser drawers are totally. (I still cannot give away his dress clothes and I figured out why: they were worn on such special dates and/or for special occasions. They carry too many tied-on emotional ribbons, of which I am not ready to let go.... yet. I can go in that closet, pull the clothes around my nose and body, and sob at my loss, which signals that I am not ready.) I cleaned off his half of the bathroom sink, donating the items to a charity, keeping only his cologne, so I can smell him and memories at any time. I re-ordered my 5th Avenue Theatre season tickets (yes, I kept the subscription at two) and added another local awesome theatre subscription(for one), inviting others to join me as a part of an "Adventure Club." My life is going on...without him. I leaving the "we" behind in my living moments. It is becoming time to make choices and I find myself saying goodbye to what was, something of his, something of us. He will be forever in my heart. And I cry that I am, that I can.
The theme song from the movie, "The Titanic," which was Celine Dion's ending song to her concert this past December says it all: "My Heart Will Go On." I just have to make it "right" when it feels so "wrong" to be embracing the fun, the joy, the new, the excitement of life without him by my side. I am doing it, still missing his companionship in the moment. My heart AND life are going on. FYI: I cry deeply hearing that song. I know the words speak of my heart and life.
I knew the months between Jack's passing and his first anniversary would be filled with other losses. On March 22nd, my mother passed away, after a long time of deteriorating health. I had said my goodbyes two weeks beforehand and was only waiting for the call. This is news for some of you on this link. What I ask for is not to send cards, but for you to do a random act of kindness to counterbalance. I leave it at that; no explanation as to why of this request. Please just consider it.
My brother Mark came up from Arizona and was of great comfort. I can't tell you how many times that the conversation was so fluid and comfortable that I called him "Jack." How startled I was that I had said that, and how I was so keenly aware that Jack wasn't here...again, as I corrected myself. And how many times that I desperately needed Jack by my side, his arms around me, his words of comfort, his reality checks. I truly know that I cried for losing him, again, more than my mother now, in the moments of this week. It was all so fresh to feel his loss, again. The house suddenly became quieter and my life lonelier coming home from the rosary on Wednesday, the mass on Thursday, and dropping Mark off at the airport on Friday.
This is a relatively short blog entry. I find myself exhausted and depleted of any further thought to add tonight. I skipped a whole week of journal writing, too, which is unlike my usual routine, but tells me that my heart and body are wanting to take over, demanding rest. So, I shall.
In the here and now,
Tally
P.S. I have decided to close this blog at the one year mark, with June 28th being my final entry. I shall begin to formally put my journal, the blog notes, and miscellaneous notes into my book of this journey. In his death, I have my voice in my words. What a gift he gave! Gads, I miss him.
9th months since our Jack left our physical presence. Can you believe it? We've all moved on, in our jobs, our lives, our day-to-day existence. There are times that his memory floods back to the forefront or his presence and comfort is desperately needed; his absence is keenly felt. A moment, a recollection, a flashback from in-the-now experience. He is far from gone.
For me, I have had the painful awareness of the distance growing between what "we were" and "what I am." I initially grieved his absence, his leaving, the quiet without him. I am now grieving that I am living and managing, even growing without him. It's not that I don't still cry, almost daily, facing situations that bellow "we" and "ours," but, I am building my world around his absence. I am living my life without him, and I almost want to apologize to him for doing it. Then, I hear his voice in my heart that says, "Go on" and I do, often with tears and resistance.
It all started with my buying a new dining room table this month, something that Jack could have liked, but wasn't part of the decision-making process. I acutely was aware of that absence of a "second opinion." I did it without him. Also, I hired a contractor to begin the remodel what we always dreamed of doing together. It is done partly in that memory and for my own comfort, for me, for my house. A friend came over and helped sort one more phrase of his clothes to be donated to two charities. His closets are now 3/4th empty and his dresser drawers are totally. (I still cannot give away his dress clothes and I figured out why: they were worn on such special dates and/or for special occasions. They carry too many tied-on emotional ribbons, of which I am not ready to let go.... yet. I can go in that closet, pull the clothes around my nose and body, and sob at my loss, which signals that I am not ready.) I cleaned off his half of the bathroom sink, donating the items to a charity, keeping only his cologne, so I can smell him and memories at any time. I re-ordered my 5th Avenue Theatre season tickets (yes, I kept the subscription at two) and added another local awesome theatre subscription(for one), inviting others to join me as a part of an "Adventure Club." My life is going on...without him. I leaving the "we" behind in my living moments. It is becoming time to make choices and I find myself saying goodbye to what was, something of his, something of us. He will be forever in my heart. And I cry that I am, that I can.
The theme song from the movie, "The Titanic," which was Celine Dion's ending song to her concert this past December says it all: "My Heart Will Go On." I just have to make it "right" when it feels so "wrong" to be embracing the fun, the joy, the new, the excitement of life without him by my side. I am doing it, still missing his companionship in the moment. My heart AND life are going on. FYI: I cry deeply hearing that song. I know the words speak of my heart and life.
I knew the months between Jack's passing and his first anniversary would be filled with other losses. On March 22nd, my mother passed away, after a long time of deteriorating health. I had said my goodbyes two weeks beforehand and was only waiting for the call. This is news for some of you on this link. What I ask for is not to send cards, but for you to do a random act of kindness to counterbalance. I leave it at that; no explanation as to why of this request. Please just consider it.
My brother Mark came up from Arizona and was of great comfort. I can't tell you how many times that the conversation was so fluid and comfortable that I called him "Jack." How startled I was that I had said that, and how I was so keenly aware that Jack wasn't here...again, as I corrected myself. And how many times that I desperately needed Jack by my side, his arms around me, his words of comfort, his reality checks. I truly know that I cried for losing him, again, more than my mother now, in the moments of this week. It was all so fresh to feel his loss, again. The house suddenly became quieter and my life lonelier coming home from the rosary on Wednesday, the mass on Thursday, and dropping Mark off at the airport on Friday.
This is a relatively short blog entry. I find myself exhausted and depleted of any further thought to add tonight. I skipped a whole week of journal writing, too, which is unlike my usual routine, but tells me that my heart and body are wanting to take over, demanding rest. So, I shall.
In the here and now,
Tally
P.S. I have decided to close this blog at the one year mark, with June 28th being my final entry. I shall begin to formally put my journal, the blog notes, and miscellaneous notes into my book of this journey. In his death, I have my voice in my words. What a gift he gave! Gads, I miss him.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Month 8 Update
Dear Peoples,
If every month was a short as February, we would be already In the spring, or so it feels. It seems like just last week I wrote my last update, yet another month has elapsed by. I'm often asked how I spend my days, what do I do, and, with a short month like February, it's even harder to give an answer that seems to have worth. In my own personal judgmental ways, I, too, ask myself what have I done with my life in the last 28 days: have I made a difference in my community, my world, myself? Have I pursued anything new, explored, expanded my own horizons? Alas, the answer is not simple when facing each day, doing small things, continuing to grieve, maintaining a routine. I see the sad contrast of pushing myself for 31 years in a career that demanded much time and energy, helping children, staff, and families, out of which I felt a sense of accomplishment, of making a difference, and yes, having personal worth. Now, I have the slow pace of healing and what feels like insignificant tasks to check-off, e.g. laundry is done, folded, and put-away; food is in the refrig; dog gets her daily walk. I truly am retired now, out of the caregiving role, too. Truly a new territory, one that I am wandering in rather aimlessly.
When Annie was a pup, I kept a list of everything she ate/chewed/destroyed, knowing it would be a humorous story one day, "Well, if you think your pup is bad, can you top this list?" In that light, I started to keep track of everything I've busted, dropped, or bungled in some way, hoping some day it would be funny or, at the least, a mark that I am "less" of whatever I was back then when I did those things. Now, my list contains my favorite glass tea cup that Jack bought me years ago, one of a pair of wine glasses that he bought on his last wine trip in Yakima, one of a pair of our Sunday morning mocha mugs (Yes, I see the symbolism to go from from a pair to one), a glass vase from flowers he gave me months ago, three letters sent either without stamps and/or complete addresses, one pair of readers out there in the world somewhere, misplaced car keys (had friends move table and bench when I thought my car keys fell out of my pocket at an eatery, as they weren't in the pocket of my bag...only to find that I put the keys in the wrong pocket. I started to keep the second set with me and made it a rule to always lock the car from the outside with the key),and dozen of shopping or/ to do lists left somewhere unnoticed until I am at the store. I know that the clumsiness is part of the grieving process, but it's painful when something of a sentimental value is destroyed. I thought of using paper plates and styrofoam cups, and, if nothing else, I can find humor in that I am beginning to bypass the dog's list.
I looked in the mirror one morning this month and saw that same tired face looking at me, for the umpteenth time, and heard the body yell, "Enough, already! Do something!" I've placed ego and pride on the shelf and requested a sleeping aid from my doctor, to get a couple of nights a week of solid sleep, like anything over 7 hours. The trick now is to coordinate Annie B's once or twice a week 12:30-4 am bathroom breaks with the nights I don't take a pill. So, if it isn't grief or menopause interrupting my sleep, it's the dog. When I hear her jump off the bed, I know it will be a few seconds until she whines to be let out. At that moment, I am desperately missing Jack, again, as he would always take "duty." ( I took over duty when he got sicker.) Simple moments like that are the times that I miss the team, the partnership that we were. It's all on my shoulders now. So, I'm putting on my shoes at 2:30 am, thinking, "Gads, I miss you Jack."
There are still tears every day. Songs, moments in movies, stories still can bring tears, but fewer now than months ago. I can shower now without crying, and I think that goes for the entire month. I know the spot in my heart that is accumulating the deep tears, that reservoir of pain that hurts so bad, so unbelievably intense, that I am knocked to my knees, curled up, sobbing when it erupts. That happens less frequently now. Then I'm back to "sad tears" for days and days. I know the valleys, mountains, glens, hills, and the abyss cycle of grieving for me.
The difference from month to month is how long I stay at each spot, with the "upside" becoming longer, and, strangely, becoming my new normal, a recognition that I am maintaining my house and life in some sort of order. I can do it. With that "new normal" comes the sadness that I am living, I am existing without Jack, and I have to separate that that has nothing to do with my love for him. Simply, it's easy to think that, if I really loved him, I should be wrapped in black, cloistered in the house, fasting, etc for the rest of my life. Instead. I am now thinking about "adventures" that we didn't do, but I will, making new friends, trying/doing/tasting something new once a week...all without him. It would be what he would want of me, as I would for him, if places reversed. Easier said than accepted by the heart, and a work in progress. I know it ALL would all be more fun with him by my side, all of it. So, each "adventure" is tainted by the recognition that I am alone and this is my normal. Oh, he is so with me, though, wherever I go, whatever I do, as we did so much in our short 27 years. I mean, I can't go by a Red Robin without thinking of our first date and numerous "anniversaries." I think of him hundreds times a day and memories are forever floating back. That is, too, a part of my "normal," flipping from the reality before me into the memories in my head/heart and back, again, to the here and now.
Denial is one tough wall to climb, to get through.
I went to the state wrestling finals at the Tacoma Dome last weekend to hear Jack's name announced. (They announced any officials and/or coaches who have died during the year before the final matches on Saturday.) (Oh, how he loved being there in that venue!) I drove 45 minutes to hear his name, to, once again, tell my heart that he is gone, and then turned around and drove 45 minutes home. Well, actually, I made it to my car, sobbed, and waited until I was under control, and then drove home....to an empty house....again. And after soccer games and errands with Annie B, I come home to an empty house....again and again. More often than not, now, I know he is not there, but wishing he was, and it is hurts. My "normal" is the empty house. I am now responsible for filling it. I think that has worth.
To the here and now,
Tally
If every month was a short as February, we would be already In the spring, or so it feels. It seems like just last week I wrote my last update, yet another month has elapsed by. I'm often asked how I spend my days, what do I do, and, with a short month like February, it's even harder to give an answer that seems to have worth. In my own personal judgmental ways, I, too, ask myself what have I done with my life in the last 28 days: have I made a difference in my community, my world, myself? Have I pursued anything new, explored, expanded my own horizons? Alas, the answer is not simple when facing each day, doing small things, continuing to grieve, maintaining a routine. I see the sad contrast of pushing myself for 31 years in a career that demanded much time and energy, helping children, staff, and families, out of which I felt a sense of accomplishment, of making a difference, and yes, having personal worth. Now, I have the slow pace of healing and what feels like insignificant tasks to check-off, e.g. laundry is done, folded, and put-away; food is in the refrig; dog gets her daily walk. I truly am retired now, out of the caregiving role, too. Truly a new territory, one that I am wandering in rather aimlessly.
When Annie was a pup, I kept a list of everything she ate/chewed/destroyed, knowing it would be a humorous story one day, "Well, if you think your pup is bad, can you top this list?" In that light, I started to keep track of everything I've busted, dropped, or bungled in some way, hoping some day it would be funny or, at the least, a mark that I am "less" of whatever I was back then when I did those things. Now, my list contains my favorite glass tea cup that Jack bought me years ago, one of a pair of wine glasses that he bought on his last wine trip in Yakima, one of a pair of our Sunday morning mocha mugs (Yes, I see the symbolism to go from from a pair to one), a glass vase from flowers he gave me months ago, three letters sent either without stamps and/or complete addresses, one pair of readers out there in the world somewhere, misplaced car keys (had friends move table and bench when I thought my car keys fell out of my pocket at an eatery, as they weren't in the pocket of my bag...only to find that I put the keys in the wrong pocket. I started to keep the second set with me and made it a rule to always lock the car from the outside with the key),and dozen of shopping or/ to do lists left somewhere unnoticed until I am at the store. I know that the clumsiness is part of the grieving process, but it's painful when something of a sentimental value is destroyed. I thought of using paper plates and styrofoam cups, and, if nothing else, I can find humor in that I am beginning to bypass the dog's list.
I looked in the mirror one morning this month and saw that same tired face looking at me, for the umpteenth time, and heard the body yell, "Enough, already! Do something!" I've placed ego and pride on the shelf and requested a sleeping aid from my doctor, to get a couple of nights a week of solid sleep, like anything over 7 hours. The trick now is to coordinate Annie B's once or twice a week 12:30-4 am bathroom breaks with the nights I don't take a pill. So, if it isn't grief or menopause interrupting my sleep, it's the dog. When I hear her jump off the bed, I know it will be a few seconds until she whines to be let out. At that moment, I am desperately missing Jack, again, as he would always take "duty." ( I took over duty when he got sicker.) Simple moments like that are the times that I miss the team, the partnership that we were. It's all on my shoulders now. So, I'm putting on my shoes at 2:30 am, thinking, "Gads, I miss you Jack."
There are still tears every day. Songs, moments in movies, stories still can bring tears, but fewer now than months ago. I can shower now without crying, and I think that goes for the entire month. I know the spot in my heart that is accumulating the deep tears, that reservoir of pain that hurts so bad, so unbelievably intense, that I am knocked to my knees, curled up, sobbing when it erupts. That happens less frequently now. Then I'm back to "sad tears" for days and days. I know the valleys, mountains, glens, hills, and the abyss cycle of grieving for me.
The difference from month to month is how long I stay at each spot, with the "upside" becoming longer, and, strangely, becoming my new normal, a recognition that I am maintaining my house and life in some sort of order. I can do it. With that "new normal" comes the sadness that I am living, I am existing without Jack, and I have to separate that that has nothing to do with my love for him. Simply, it's easy to think that, if I really loved him, I should be wrapped in black, cloistered in the house, fasting, etc for the rest of my life. Instead. I am now thinking about "adventures" that we didn't do, but I will, making new friends, trying/doing/tasting something new once a week...all without him. It would be what he would want of me, as I would for him, if places reversed. Easier said than accepted by the heart, and a work in progress. I know it ALL would all be more fun with him by my side, all of it. So, each "adventure" is tainted by the recognition that I am alone and this is my normal. Oh, he is so with me, though, wherever I go, whatever I do, as we did so much in our short 27 years. I mean, I can't go by a Red Robin without thinking of our first date and numerous "anniversaries." I think of him hundreds times a day and memories are forever floating back. That is, too, a part of my "normal," flipping from the reality before me into the memories in my head/heart and back, again, to the here and now.
Denial is one tough wall to climb, to get through.
I went to the state wrestling finals at the Tacoma Dome last weekend to hear Jack's name announced. (They announced any officials and/or coaches who have died during the year before the final matches on Saturday.) (Oh, how he loved being there in that venue!) I drove 45 minutes to hear his name, to, once again, tell my heart that he is gone, and then turned around and drove 45 minutes home. Well, actually, I made it to my car, sobbed, and waited until I was under control, and then drove home....to an empty house....again. And after soccer games and errands with Annie B, I come home to an empty house....again and again. More often than not, now, I know he is not there, but wishing he was, and it is hurts. My "normal" is the empty house. I am now responsible for filling it. I think that has worth.
To the here and now,
Tally
Friday, January 30, 2009
Month 7 Update
Dear Peoples,
I have discovered that there's truly not much difference between Month #6 and Month #7, only in what "first's" were experienced. I suspect that #8 through 11 months will be similar, too. Nevertheless, I'm at #7, on the other side of the "first year hill." As a wise friend said, the first year is full of "firsts." Sorta obvious when I step back and think about it, but emotionally consoling when I am in the midst of one. There should be firsts going on. Right? It's the first year. Right? So, this is all my "new normal." Right?
I went on my first trip out of state this month, visiting a dear "Snowbird" friend in Arizona, having another retired counselor-friend as companion. (Blessing to have a neighborhood of friends who quickly and willingly took on dog care. Makes traveling easier.) Upon my return, I was back in the "deep end of the grief pool"when all the quick firsts hit: Jack's not driving me to the airport; Jack's not hiding our little "travel bear" in my luggage (a stuffed animal that always showed up somewhere in the traveler's luggage unexpectedly. I did it for myself this time. A first.); I didn't call home when I arrived to let him know I had arrived safely; we didn't exchange phone calls during the week; Jack wasn't there to pick me up at the airport and all the emotions around being back together, again; and he wasn't at the house as I unlocked the door and entered. Oh, Annie B was most happy to see me, but I so missed the "reunion dance" couples do when re-united.
I can only describe my physical response from being overwhelmed with so many firsts, especially in a relatively small amount of time, as having a migraine. For me, like others who suffer those debilitating, painful headache, I go to bed , seek absolute quiet, darkness, and stillness until it "breaks." Then, afterwards, I am left with a drain of energy, a dullness, a "cotton-filled brain" for a good day or so. I function, but I know I am not whole yet. WIth grief, I don't need the bed rest, but I am deeply emotionally, tearful most of the day, and then over two days, that dull headed/body-ness ebbs, and I feel myself come back with some sort of footing in the pool.
The next trip will be easier, I hope, as this first is under the belt.
Seven months has brought more energy to face tasks that have piled up or simply been avoided. I actually found the floor in Jack's study-it's not done, but it's a heck of a lot better. I have begun work on taxes, but, honestly, avoid it as much, too. I've started to figure out what will go when I am ready and what will replace what to fill the house with "my taste" vs. "our tastes." New bedroom furniture, new plateware, new glassware. Gotta get rid of the old stuff before buying new, but I am proud of myself for even moving into "new," and not still desperately grasping to whatever was ours. (A friend bought me the first 4 dinner plates of the Fiestaware line, to be my start, my impetus to get more . I love the bright colors compared to what I have/we had. I want "happy plates" to greet me when I open the cabinet. Isn't that step, alone, sound like movement through the grief and into living what comes next? It does to me.
Counselors call it "reframing": to look at something in a different way. I've felt stuck with cleaning out his t-shirts and polos, because there was an emotional value to them, AND, at the same time, I'm ready to move them.(Note: just the t's and polos. Not the dress clothes.) A friend suggested making a quilt of them. Instantly, my heart went from the anguish of letting go of the shirts with memories to choosing which shirts would be donated and which go into the quilt. This project totally changed the emotional energy from "loss" to "creativity"and transition. And everyone knows of Jack's and my investments and energy into remodeling. So, you all can easily understand that that drawer of shirts was "remodeled" into something I can handle.
A couple of weeks ago, I passed a store that had a heart flag out front. It felt like it was waving Valentine's Day in my face, more than just an advertisement, as it was intended to be. What an ouch! I'll be in a bereavement workshop for those of us who have lost a partner/spouse and are facing Valentine's Day on the Day. Plus, I am thinking of doing something that will symbolically pass on our love. I don't have a definitive plan of action at this time, but I know the opportunity is waiting for me out there. I live by the mantra, "Whether I believe it or not , the world is unfolding exactly as it should." The world will drop something in my lap in the next few weeks, unfolding an opportunity to share love, our love, my love of living. All I need to do is figure if I want to listen and act....or not. So I will face this "first" with support and a plan to do something healing.
In this month, I've heard my laugh several times come out fully, not with a restrained or a forced feeling. It was just a good laugh. I think it was even more remarkable that I noticed. I so feel the difference. And, oh, it felt good. Months ago, it felt like I would never come back with it. Aside, someone noted that perhaps I misspelled the "wit" of my last month's comment dealing with my "Irish wit." (Clue: a 4-letter word that rhythms with "wit.") Oh, that's coming back, too. And, oh that playful side of dishing it out feels good, too. Jack is laughing with me, egging me on. You just know it, I just know it.
To the here and now,
Tally
I have discovered that there's truly not much difference between Month #6 and Month #7, only in what "first's" were experienced. I suspect that #8 through 11 months will be similar, too. Nevertheless, I'm at #7, on the other side of the "first year hill." As a wise friend said, the first year is full of "firsts." Sorta obvious when I step back and think about it, but emotionally consoling when I am in the midst of one. There should be firsts going on. Right? It's the first year. Right? So, this is all my "new normal." Right?
I went on my first trip out of state this month, visiting a dear "Snowbird" friend in Arizona, having another retired counselor-friend as companion. (Blessing to have a neighborhood of friends who quickly and willingly took on dog care. Makes traveling easier.) Upon my return, I was back in the "deep end of the grief pool"when all the quick firsts hit: Jack's not driving me to the airport; Jack's not hiding our little "travel bear" in my luggage (a stuffed animal that always showed up somewhere in the traveler's luggage unexpectedly. I did it for myself this time. A first.); I didn't call home when I arrived to let him know I had arrived safely; we didn't exchange phone calls during the week; Jack wasn't there to pick me up at the airport and all the emotions around being back together, again; and he wasn't at the house as I unlocked the door and entered. Oh, Annie B was most happy to see me, but I so missed the "reunion dance" couples do when re-united.
I can only describe my physical response from being overwhelmed with so many firsts, especially in a relatively small amount of time, as having a migraine. For me, like others who suffer those debilitating, painful headache, I go to bed , seek absolute quiet, darkness, and stillness until it "breaks." Then, afterwards, I am left with a drain of energy, a dullness, a "cotton-filled brain" for a good day or so. I function, but I know I am not whole yet. WIth grief, I don't need the bed rest, but I am deeply emotionally, tearful most of the day, and then over two days, that dull headed/body-ness ebbs, and I feel myself come back with some sort of footing in the pool.
The next trip will be easier, I hope, as this first is under the belt.
Seven months has brought more energy to face tasks that have piled up or simply been avoided. I actually found the floor in Jack's study-it's not done, but it's a heck of a lot better. I have begun work on taxes, but, honestly, avoid it as much, too. I've started to figure out what will go when I am ready and what will replace what to fill the house with "my taste" vs. "our tastes." New bedroom furniture, new plateware, new glassware. Gotta get rid of the old stuff before buying new, but I am proud of myself for even moving into "new," and not still desperately grasping to whatever was ours. (A friend bought me the first 4 dinner plates of the Fiestaware line, to be my start, my impetus to get more . I love the bright colors compared to what I have/we had. I want "happy plates" to greet me when I open the cabinet. Isn't that step, alone, sound like movement through the grief and into living what comes next? It does to me.
Counselors call it "reframing": to look at something in a different way. I've felt stuck with cleaning out his t-shirts and polos, because there was an emotional value to them, AND, at the same time, I'm ready to move them.(Note: just the t's and polos. Not the dress clothes.) A friend suggested making a quilt of them. Instantly, my heart went from the anguish of letting go of the shirts with memories to choosing which shirts would be donated and which go into the quilt. This project totally changed the emotional energy from "loss" to "creativity"and transition. And everyone knows of Jack's and my investments and energy into remodeling. So, you all can easily understand that that drawer of shirts was "remodeled" into something I can handle.
A couple of weeks ago, I passed a store that had a heart flag out front. It felt like it was waving Valentine's Day in my face, more than just an advertisement, as it was intended to be. What an ouch! I'll be in a bereavement workshop for those of us who have lost a partner/spouse and are facing Valentine's Day on the Day. Plus, I am thinking of doing something that will symbolically pass on our love. I don't have a definitive plan of action at this time, but I know the opportunity is waiting for me out there. I live by the mantra, "Whether I believe it or not , the world is unfolding exactly as it should." The world will drop something in my lap in the next few weeks, unfolding an opportunity to share love, our love, my love of living. All I need to do is figure if I want to listen and act....or not. So I will face this "first" with support and a plan to do something healing.
In this month, I've heard my laugh several times come out fully, not with a restrained or a forced feeling. It was just a good laugh. I think it was even more remarkable that I noticed. I so feel the difference. And, oh, it felt good. Months ago, it felt like I would never come back with it. Aside, someone noted that perhaps I misspelled the "wit" of my last month's comment dealing with my "Irish wit." (Clue: a 4-letter word that rhythms with "wit.") Oh, that's coming back, too. And, oh that playful side of dishing it out feels good, too. Jack is laughing with me, egging me on. You just know it, I just know it.
To the here and now,
Tally
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