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