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.
Monday, March 30, 2009
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
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