10/1/10
In a few words, today, just today when I am writing this, I don’t like my life without Jack, but I have to learn to keep living it. It is simply that phrase that is the learning of 27 months without him: I keep on trying to do and add to my life something that would enrich it, but, truthfully, it is overshadowed at how much I miss him. It feels like I am trying to live with “50%-missing-thus-50%-is-good-enough” and go on. I still acutely know what/who is missing, what I wish for, and I also know my reality. He is simply not going to return. That thinking leaves me with asking “What now?” And my mantra for acting, “If not now, when?”
If given the average life expectancy, I have calculated that I will have more months without him than with him. Although somewhat a dreary thought, it is my reality and I need to fill those years with some adventures, learnings, and hope/joy/happiness. Truly, I have nothing else to lose by embracing my own dreams, and much to gain.
Almost without an exception when I unlock the door to my house, I realize that it is my house and he is not waiting for me inside. I am starting some “winterizing” tasks on the cabin and I am stunned that another winter is upon me. I have completed another year of maintaining that refuge. The cabin and my house are mine to maintain. In that, I realize my strength, determination, and courage to go forth. I can do because I have. Again, I can do for what will be my third winter without him.
I have gotten involved in a widowed support organization, which has 5 groups in the Puget Sound area, from Kent to Ballard and in Bellevue. I have attended all 5, both out of curiosity and a need to make connections. You see, I am chairperson of a fund-raising auction in November, and am encouraging the membership to both attend the dinner/auction/bingo/Texas Hold ‘Em night (Nov. 20th), and support my efforts on procuring items for the auction’s baskets. It has given me something to do for a good cause. It also provides a place for my energy to make an impact and a difference, something also missing in my life.
(Sales pitch: I am calling on friends to supplement the “holes” after the membership has given what they can. If you’re looking for something to do and support a good organization, you are invited to the evening dinner. Tickets are $20 for dinner, of which $5 is tax deductible, and Bingo participation is another $20 for 10 cards. Contact me for more information.)
I cannot capture in this entry the learning, the sadness of others’ losses, and the threads of what a support group shares. I have listened to stories, felt the tears of common experiences, and am in awe at the strength of individuals to keep on going. I’m 58 years old, and I listen to women (most widowed are women) in their 70’s and 80’s and 90’s trying to piece their remaining years into some purpose. I was at a group meeting at a retirement home and this 94 yr. old wanted to do something for the auction that she could do in her room. She wanted to give back with all her limitations at 94!! I watched a man with two young sons in tears of losing his wife in June. He couldn’t look at any of us in the eye and shared nothing more than he needed to be there at the meeting. There are people who have never written a check or balance financial statements, put gas in their car, attended school functions, cooked meals, shopped, and the list goes on and on. And they lose the one they loved and, now, they do these tasks. I am forever awed with people, and now, especially those who are grieving.
For my “learning-something new” event, the windshield wipers on Jack’s truck were kapputz . I went into an auto parts store for new ones. The sales clerk started outside to put them on the truck, but he didn’t know who he was dealing with, did he? He couldn’t do it because, (1) I drove my car and, (2) I wanted to do it myself, learning how. The story ends that I couldn’t figure it out after several tries. So, I’m going back to the store, conceding my defeat, and watching him put on ONE of the two, so I can learn and do the other. I bought a grease gun and grease, which I once owned in the old house, but so well moved/packed that I can’t find it, thus it is “re-moved” into an unknown spot. It is a wintering task to grease the tractor. I was up on the roof at the cabin to clean the chimney and checked the flashing. I built a retaining wall with 43-20+ lb bricks and got my first load of top soil put into the truck and shoveled into flower beds myself. Maybe it’s time to share some of my awe of other survivors with myself. It’s one of those learnings of being widowed that what was done by the other is now my responsibility: either someone does it, helps me, or I do it myself. Simple as that.
The widowed groups provide new social interactions, which I need. Once a week I have a place to go with people who understand the “widowed brain” and experiences. There are numerous social functions with each group, which anyone from any group may attend. I have casual friends in every group now, having attended so many meetings. Of course, my brain starts on how to make everything better, more supportive of the membership’s needs. I realize that I have a HUGE need to use my talents and gifts to better this world.
I leave for Egypt for 15 days in October. What an adventure, uh? House/dog sitter all in place. Almost packed. It will be my second big trip without Jack, the cruise last year being the first. There will be more, no doubt. It was what we saved to do in our retirement years, and don’t I know it. Doing it alone has guilt overtones, as it was his money, too, his dreams, our dreams. Now, it’s all my dreams and plans.
I’ll celebrate our 29th wedding anniversary on Oct. 10th. It pains me at meetings to hear the widowed speak of 30+ years, 40+ years, and 50+ years of marriage. I shake my first at the Heavens for not giving us more. My God knows that I am still angry over this…and we still talk about it often. If nothing else, I have learned that it could have been less, and, for that, I am grateful, as I have heard those stories, too.
I have found a phrase or sentence that says what Oct. 10th is, as “wedding anniversary” doesn’t sound right. “I am celebrating that I married Jack 29 years ago on Oct. 10th.” I think that is it.
Although still surreal at times, it is really my life. I pick up my mail, walk my dog, pick fresh veggies from my garden, and now, prepare for winter. I still have to dismiss those moments when I want to apologize to Jack, my love, for keep on going, doing things we would have done, but I now do with some enjoyment alone or with friends. I’m me, Jackson, I gotta do it for us, for me. You wouldn’t want otherwise, as I would for you. I know, I know, and life goes on.
To Life and living on,
Tally
P.S. A few days later now. I’ve been told that the anticipation of the wedding anniversary is usually worst than the day itself. So true, so true.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Blog: 2.2
Blog: 2.2
Watching the Cashmere sun set and the stars emerge, I did what was our evening ritual of sitting on the front deck, which we built, and, now, with a dog that I bought, alone, thinking of my day, which always includes how much I miss him. I ponder my life without Jack and whether it would have gone this way or that way if he was still alive. I am flying solo, sometimes competently and other times not so good, but nevertheless, living my life. It still so surreal at times, even 26 months out, or as I abbreviate it to “2.2” for “two years two months.”
My birthday a few weeks back was a difficult one, which contributed to the lack of blog entry last month. It was my third time of celebrating it without him. I desperately missed our rituals, the card from him and the card from the dog, and our dinner out. I missed our adventure as a gift, which I skipped this year. My heart wasn’t in it. I did have a gathering of women friends at a place I wanted to try, and their company was heart filling and heart-felt. But I still came home to an empty house.
And that is the common denominator that I experience in all the good times I have done, the empty house, the empty car. I can go out and enjoy the company of so many friends and events….and I leave and come home to an empty house. I have discovered that, ironically, I can get phenomenal single theater seats. I sit in this awesome seat, watching a great production, wishing I had someone to share it with and ….I come home to an empty house. Wait, it hurts before entering the house: I first notice Jack’s absence when I get to the empty car, too, drive myself to the performance and back home. No, back that up even further: I know I am alone when I order the ticket for one. Ordering a ticket for one in an empty house. Ordering a ticket for one because I am determined to experience life and its offerings, even if it means coming home alone. I notice the aloneness when I dress to go out and not getting those up-and-down seductive stares and the “You look great tonight” comments. So, I order tickets, get dress, drive myself back and forth to the performance, and come home. I am determined to experience what I can, in lieu of the discomforts of being widowed. I don’t want to miss Life, but it can be lonely.
I am late with this blog because I left the cabin mid-morning to return to attend an American Cancer Relay for Life on Saturday night. I wasn’t on a team. My plan was to just walk a few laps with others from a widowed support group, which I’ve been attending, donate some money, and leave. I wish it was that easy. I saw a man with his survivor t-shirt and medallion and I flashed back to the year when, at a Relay for Life at Issaquah High School, Jack walked his survivor lap, both of us in tears of joy and painful truth of what it took for him to say that he was a “survivor.” I found his survivor t-shirt and medal when I was packing up the house, and cried at the irony, the pain, and in anger that he wasn’t still a survivor. I cried those same tears tonight. I hadn’t anticipated the depth of my grief. I had avoided any volunteering or participation in any and all cancer cure programs thus far. It seemed too emotionally raw an event. It was. Add the bagpiper with lit luminaries and I crumbled.
In this week alone, I’ve had two older widowed people say, “Oh, you’re so young [to be widowed],” and all I can say is, “Yes, you’re right, and thank-you for the acknowledgement. “ I look around the room at the support groups and I am usually one of the youngest. I suspect those younger than me are not retired, are with limited time and energy with work, possibly with children, and their grief. Thus, their absence from meetings is most understandable. Nevertheless, as it stands, I am one of the youngest retired widowed women. It is not a distinction that I like, but it is my life.
If given the probability of my life expectancy, I have long recognized that I will probably live more years without Jack than I did with him. That thought wrecks havoc with my heart when I think of that and then hear other widowed people talk about losing their partner after 40 year, 50 years, and even 60 years of marriage. Why not us, I scream at the Heavens, why not us? And then I hear years fewer than our 26 ½ years being spoken, and I am grateful we had such a relatively long time. Ah, the other side of that anger coin is gratitude I see. My reality, my new normal, is that I will live a long time in this empty house, attempting to experience Life, do adventures, see-hear-taste what I haven’t yet.
I’ve been retired from the “start of school” rituals for 5 years now, and the educator in me still feels the excitement and thrill of starting a new year with lofty goals. I miss being a part of something so wonderful, so creative and powerful: working with children and their future. I miss the creative force of passionate and gifted staff, working other for a cause. Bottom line, I miss being “a part” of something.
I am the chair of a silent auction for the widowed support group, a Puget Sound organization with several “chapters” in the area. It’s something to do with my time, energy, and organizational skills, but it’s not the same as helping kids and I know that. (By the way, mentioning the auction, plan on me hitting ya’ll up for donations and help. :->)
In early August, a lightening-caused summer fire in the canyon of the Cashmere cabin took out what I estimate to be a quarter of my landscape and acres of hillside around me. Thankfully, no building loss or damage. I lost trees, bushes, colorful grasses, and plants. The darken soil and blackened trunks and stalks serve as a reminder of what I cannot control and need to accept as simply, “Life.” It will be even more beautiful in the spring, all the locals tell me, but I am not a total believer just yet. I have to live with what looks like “destruction, ” believing in a future I cannot imagine just yet. I walked the land in tears that Jack wasn’t with me to witness the power of Mother Nature and the losses I felt standing in the midst of the burnt land. Yes, I see the parallels of the fire and my life. I need to believe in the spring, re-growth and new growth. The fall changes are coming and it will get quiet under the winter snow. I have to believe there is something growing now or resting dormant for the spring’s blooms underneath what I can neither see nor feel. Tell Mother Earth I am watching Her carefully, as I am a student in Her care this school year.
To Life and Living On,
And to the Here and Now,
Tally
Watching the Cashmere sun set and the stars emerge, I did what was our evening ritual of sitting on the front deck, which we built, and, now, with a dog that I bought, alone, thinking of my day, which always includes how much I miss him. I ponder my life without Jack and whether it would have gone this way or that way if he was still alive. I am flying solo, sometimes competently and other times not so good, but nevertheless, living my life. It still so surreal at times, even 26 months out, or as I abbreviate it to “2.2” for “two years two months.”
My birthday a few weeks back was a difficult one, which contributed to the lack of blog entry last month. It was my third time of celebrating it without him. I desperately missed our rituals, the card from him and the card from the dog, and our dinner out. I missed our adventure as a gift, which I skipped this year. My heart wasn’t in it. I did have a gathering of women friends at a place I wanted to try, and their company was heart filling and heart-felt. But I still came home to an empty house.
And that is the common denominator that I experience in all the good times I have done, the empty house, the empty car. I can go out and enjoy the company of so many friends and events….and I leave and come home to an empty house. I have discovered that, ironically, I can get phenomenal single theater seats. I sit in this awesome seat, watching a great production, wishing I had someone to share it with and ….I come home to an empty house. Wait, it hurts before entering the house: I first notice Jack’s absence when I get to the empty car, too, drive myself to the performance and back home. No, back that up even further: I know I am alone when I order the ticket for one. Ordering a ticket for one in an empty house. Ordering a ticket for one because I am determined to experience life and its offerings, even if it means coming home alone. I notice the aloneness when I dress to go out and not getting those up-and-down seductive stares and the “You look great tonight” comments. So, I order tickets, get dress, drive myself back and forth to the performance, and come home. I am determined to experience what I can, in lieu of the discomforts of being widowed. I don’t want to miss Life, but it can be lonely.
I am late with this blog because I left the cabin mid-morning to return to attend an American Cancer Relay for Life on Saturday night. I wasn’t on a team. My plan was to just walk a few laps with others from a widowed support group, which I’ve been attending, donate some money, and leave. I wish it was that easy. I saw a man with his survivor t-shirt and medallion and I flashed back to the year when, at a Relay for Life at Issaquah High School, Jack walked his survivor lap, both of us in tears of joy and painful truth of what it took for him to say that he was a “survivor.” I found his survivor t-shirt and medal when I was packing up the house, and cried at the irony, the pain, and in anger that he wasn’t still a survivor. I cried those same tears tonight. I hadn’t anticipated the depth of my grief. I had avoided any volunteering or participation in any and all cancer cure programs thus far. It seemed too emotionally raw an event. It was. Add the bagpiper with lit luminaries and I crumbled.
In this week alone, I’ve had two older widowed people say, “Oh, you’re so young [to be widowed],” and all I can say is, “Yes, you’re right, and thank-you for the acknowledgement. “ I look around the room at the support groups and I am usually one of the youngest. I suspect those younger than me are not retired, are with limited time and energy with work, possibly with children, and their grief. Thus, their absence from meetings is most understandable. Nevertheless, as it stands, I am one of the youngest retired widowed women. It is not a distinction that I like, but it is my life.
If given the probability of my life expectancy, I have long recognized that I will probably live more years without Jack than I did with him. That thought wrecks havoc with my heart when I think of that and then hear other widowed people talk about losing their partner after 40 year, 50 years, and even 60 years of marriage. Why not us, I scream at the Heavens, why not us? And then I hear years fewer than our 26 ½ years being spoken, and I am grateful we had such a relatively long time. Ah, the other side of that anger coin is gratitude I see. My reality, my new normal, is that I will live a long time in this empty house, attempting to experience Life, do adventures, see-hear-taste what I haven’t yet.
I’ve been retired from the “start of school” rituals for 5 years now, and the educator in me still feels the excitement and thrill of starting a new year with lofty goals. I miss being a part of something so wonderful, so creative and powerful: working with children and their future. I miss the creative force of passionate and gifted staff, working other for a cause. Bottom line, I miss being “a part” of something.
I am the chair of a silent auction for the widowed support group, a Puget Sound organization with several “chapters” in the area. It’s something to do with my time, energy, and organizational skills, but it’s not the same as helping kids and I know that. (By the way, mentioning the auction, plan on me hitting ya’ll up for donations and help. :->)
In early August, a lightening-caused summer fire in the canyon of the Cashmere cabin took out what I estimate to be a quarter of my landscape and acres of hillside around me. Thankfully, no building loss or damage. I lost trees, bushes, colorful grasses, and plants. The darken soil and blackened trunks and stalks serve as a reminder of what I cannot control and need to accept as simply, “Life.” It will be even more beautiful in the spring, all the locals tell me, but I am not a total believer just yet. I have to live with what looks like “destruction, ” believing in a future I cannot imagine just yet. I walked the land in tears that Jack wasn’t with me to witness the power of Mother Nature and the losses I felt standing in the midst of the burnt land. Yes, I see the parallels of the fire and my life. I need to believe in the spring, re-growth and new growth. The fall changes are coming and it will get quiet under the winter snow. I have to believe there is something growing now or resting dormant for the spring’s blooms underneath what I can neither see nor feel. Tell Mother Earth I am watching Her carefully, as I am a student in Her care this school year.
To Life and Living On,
And to the Here and Now,
Tally
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Twenty-three Months
Blog 5/28/10
When adding more wood to the cabin fireplace, three sparks jetted out so quickly that I had only one thought of gratitude that my face wasn’t in their trajectories. Then, I saw the smoldering spots on the carpet and quickly stomped on them. Now left are three melted spots on what was, for all these years, a flawless carpet, same as the day was laid. This event was soon followed by a spill of tea and a dog’s vomit, leaving stains, on his truck’s upholstery. It was with these two incidences that I realized that I had given myself the duty of preserving, of guarding what was ours and what was his. But not only preserving it, but maintaining it exactly as it was before Jack died, as if to say, “Because I loved you so much and everything that was yours and ours, I will keep it as your left it.” I own the duty and the responsibility to preserve what we had and what he had; it’s all mine now, I know…sometimes. I now understand the intact bedrooms of children and partners who have died, preserved by survivors: someone takes the job of preserving the past. Change is not easy. It is a frugal attempt of preserving what was and of keeping or re-enforcing some threads of denial on the tapestry of one’s life. Because, even though it has been 23 months, there is still a part of me that struggles with making it “real,” that this is how my life is now, minus all the “we’s” and “our’s.”
Now, with these “damages” done, I want to apologize to Jack for not doing a good job with his and our possessions. I want him to know that I really, really have tried to keep everything running, in good conditions, just as he left it. I felt like I failed with those three burnt spots on the floor and the stained car seats now. How I wish he had done it and not me. I want him to know that I value his stuff, our stuff, and I am doing the best I can. It seems to me that it’s the only way I can hold on to what was is by freezing in time how things were. I know that things would be stained, dented, scratched, and eventually replaced even if he was here. (I like to think more due to his missteps than mine, , although my track record is not so good right now. ) Without him, it is all my errors. I am the only one to blame.
His truck was less than a month old when I backed it into a light pole and dented the fender. I was devastated and crying as I told him how sorry I was. It is in that moment now, memories of his kindness and compassion, how he forgave me so easily, that I cling when carpets are burnt, car seats stained (OK, dog takes 50% responsibility, too), and other mishaps. Yes, I have asked him for that compassion and kindness and forgiveness.
Sometimes, I think that Jack’s and my love story will not end until I die. Our love did not end with his death. I would carry it, be responsible for preserving the love and its story. That thinking certainly makes moving on difficult, if not a plain ol’ tug-of-war.
Basically, if I hold our [my] material things with such value, imagine my struggles as I begin to think about stepping out and try dating. Imagine how I treasure what we had and how that would delay the process. It is like stepping out of my sacred marriage vows. Yes, I know they were “until death do we part,” but that’s easier to write than for my heart to accept. Am I betraying my commitment to preserving “The Reynolds Story,” because that responsibility to maintain that “story” is a part of the hesitation to open to seeing someone new across a restaurant table or next to me at a movie theater.
I miss hearing telling someone about my day. I miss hearing another’s thoughts, ideas, and moments of the day. Sadly, the bottom line is that it’s Jack’s voice I yearn to hear.
And it is time to move on, I know it. I also know that it’s not a light switch that one day I make this decision to enjoy my living [switch off grief] and not feel the pain of his not being by my side ever again [switch on my life]. The switch doesn’t stay in one spot. Gads, that would make it all easier: done with that, check it off the list, move on. I wish.
With the lapse of 23 months, I am still amazed at how the mind and heart still struggles with loss. Two years next month and how easy it would be to think, “Two years. How much more do I need to put it all to rest?” Simultaneously, I also think, “Is that all? Already?”
Questions to ponder: when do I take his picture off the screen saver on his now my laptop? Move his picture out of the bathroom, kitchen, and by the bed? When do I stop wishing he was here to play with the new dog, or quit imagining her curled up on his lap while he watches TV? When do I stop passing a new barbeque spot and think, “Oh, gotta tell Jack about that one”? When do I drop our rituals of grace before meals, leaving on a trip, or our toast with wine? Only very recently did I drop our toast, which I have done to an empty chair all these months (or in my head with company) and created a new one for me.
I keep measuring the passage of time with odd things, as well as, another “28” comes and goes: toilet paper rolls that were used just by me, food shops that contained foods I liked only, new clothes that are not “modeled” for approval, and I hold the TV remote all the time. The Kenmore house is almost 100% mine, while the cabin carries the “us” in ever wall, on every inch of land. And it is there, in Cashmere, that I seek him the most and find the consolation of missing him so much in Kenmore.
I know he is letting me go. He knows that I have survived the worst, as I am a survivor. He knows that I am resourceful and creative, and will figure out what to do next, even though I miss his consultation and feedback. I forever am thankful that it is me in this spot and not him. I loved him too much to imagine him with this pain and these struggles. Maybe I am stronger than I give myself credit for, as I have survived 23 months.
In the here and now,
Tally
P.S. My new toast: To Life and Living On
When adding more wood to the cabin fireplace, three sparks jetted out so quickly that I had only one thought of gratitude that my face wasn’t in their trajectories. Then, I saw the smoldering spots on the carpet and quickly stomped on them. Now left are three melted spots on what was, for all these years, a flawless carpet, same as the day was laid. This event was soon followed by a spill of tea and a dog’s vomit, leaving stains, on his truck’s upholstery. It was with these two incidences that I realized that I had given myself the duty of preserving, of guarding what was ours and what was his. But not only preserving it, but maintaining it exactly as it was before Jack died, as if to say, “Because I loved you so much and everything that was yours and ours, I will keep it as your left it.” I own the duty and the responsibility to preserve what we had and what he had; it’s all mine now, I know…sometimes. I now understand the intact bedrooms of children and partners who have died, preserved by survivors: someone takes the job of preserving the past. Change is not easy. It is a frugal attempt of preserving what was and of keeping or re-enforcing some threads of denial on the tapestry of one’s life. Because, even though it has been 23 months, there is still a part of me that struggles with making it “real,” that this is how my life is now, minus all the “we’s” and “our’s.”
Now, with these “damages” done, I want to apologize to Jack for not doing a good job with his and our possessions. I want him to know that I really, really have tried to keep everything running, in good conditions, just as he left it. I felt like I failed with those three burnt spots on the floor and the stained car seats now. How I wish he had done it and not me. I want him to know that I value his stuff, our stuff, and I am doing the best I can. It seems to me that it’s the only way I can hold on to what was is by freezing in time how things were. I know that things would be stained, dented, scratched, and eventually replaced even if he was here. (I like to think more due to his missteps than mine, , although my track record is not so good right now. ) Without him, it is all my errors. I am the only one to blame.
His truck was less than a month old when I backed it into a light pole and dented the fender. I was devastated and crying as I told him how sorry I was. It is in that moment now, memories of his kindness and compassion, how he forgave me so easily, that I cling when carpets are burnt, car seats stained (OK, dog takes 50% responsibility, too), and other mishaps. Yes, I have asked him for that compassion and kindness and forgiveness.
Sometimes, I think that Jack’s and my love story will not end until I die. Our love did not end with his death. I would carry it, be responsible for preserving the love and its story. That thinking certainly makes moving on difficult, if not a plain ol’ tug-of-war.
Basically, if I hold our [my] material things with such value, imagine my struggles as I begin to think about stepping out and try dating. Imagine how I treasure what we had and how that would delay the process. It is like stepping out of my sacred marriage vows. Yes, I know they were “until death do we part,” but that’s easier to write than for my heart to accept. Am I betraying my commitment to preserving “The Reynolds Story,” because that responsibility to maintain that “story” is a part of the hesitation to open to seeing someone new across a restaurant table or next to me at a movie theater.
I miss hearing telling someone about my day. I miss hearing another’s thoughts, ideas, and moments of the day. Sadly, the bottom line is that it’s Jack’s voice I yearn to hear.
And it is time to move on, I know it. I also know that it’s not a light switch that one day I make this decision to enjoy my living [switch off grief] and not feel the pain of his not being by my side ever again [switch on my life]. The switch doesn’t stay in one spot. Gads, that would make it all easier: done with that, check it off the list, move on. I wish.
With the lapse of 23 months, I am still amazed at how the mind and heart still struggles with loss. Two years next month and how easy it would be to think, “Two years. How much more do I need to put it all to rest?” Simultaneously, I also think, “Is that all? Already?”
Questions to ponder: when do I take his picture off the screen saver on his now my laptop? Move his picture out of the bathroom, kitchen, and by the bed? When do I stop wishing he was here to play with the new dog, or quit imagining her curled up on his lap while he watches TV? When do I stop passing a new barbeque spot and think, “Oh, gotta tell Jack about that one”? When do I drop our rituals of grace before meals, leaving on a trip, or our toast with wine? Only very recently did I drop our toast, which I have done to an empty chair all these months (or in my head with company) and created a new one for me.
I keep measuring the passage of time with odd things, as well as, another “28” comes and goes: toilet paper rolls that were used just by me, food shops that contained foods I liked only, new clothes that are not “modeled” for approval, and I hold the TV remote all the time. The Kenmore house is almost 100% mine, while the cabin carries the “us” in ever wall, on every inch of land. And it is there, in Cashmere, that I seek him the most and find the consolation of missing him so much in Kenmore.
I know he is letting me go. He knows that I have survived the worst, as I am a survivor. He knows that I am resourceful and creative, and will figure out what to do next, even though I miss his consultation and feedback. I forever am thankful that it is me in this spot and not him. I loved him too much to imagine him with this pain and these struggles. Maybe I am stronger than I give myself credit for, as I have survived 23 months.
In the here and now,
Tally
P.S. My new toast: To Life and Living On
Monday, May 3, 2010
Twenty-Two Months
Update
It is now a whole 5 days after the 22nd month anniversary. A whole 5 days have passed without my frantic rush to complete the task of updating “my life after Jack’s.” I have learned that that proverbial phrase, “Time heals all wounds,” is so true. There is less urgency, fewer “sacred emotional cows” to avoid, and what was once 22-months ago thought as “I’ll never be able to do that” has been done. Truly, life goes on and my life WITH IT.
And it isn’t like he’s not still with me. I look at the walls of my home and I realize that, although he had absolutely nothing to do with any part of remodeling I have done, I missed him for that very reason: he wasn’t a part of the remodeling I have done. In another unrelated incident this month, in a softball game, I jammed my left ring finger and my first thought when I pulled the already swelling digit out of my softball mitt, was “Oh, no, I won’t be able to get my wedding ring on.” I haven’t worn it there for over 8 months, but I quickly reverted back to what was. Upon my lap, as I type, is my new dog, a 10.5 year 9 lb. rat terrier, a rescue. On numerous occasions, I can see Jack just loving her, she loving him, and she would be on his lap watching ESPN. It is then that I am struck how much I miss sharing my life now with the man I knew then…and how all of that implies that time has passed by without him.
I intentionally avoid the 28th in writing this update, but didn’t intend to go pass the date quite this far. I found that the 28th carries such sadness for me and I write more depressed than I am the previous or even following day. I thought the other day that I am looking forward to the passing of time when I won’t be able to pinpoint exactly and quickly how long we’ve been apart; that I would have to stop and figure it out. I think the 28th will always be a day that I pause and reflect, though. I hope that I just lose the “count-up” of how many months and it becomes only the anniversary of “the day” that carries the most weight. I hope.
At times, I am amazed of what I have done, that I am moving forward, or as someone as noted, “I show up” for my life. On some level, what I have done is very empowering and I have to chuckle to myself that I’m one tough dog to endure such a tragedy and keep going on. It just hurts to do it alone, and so young, too.
That was why the dog has been such a gift to my heart and soul, making this house more of a home. At one point, I had the option of remaining a foster owner with the rescue agency, because then they would take all responsibility for medical and decisions. I realized that, in adopting “Anna BB,” no one had my back, it was all my decisions and responsibilities, just like it was with Annie B at her end. I was missing Jack, again, who had and would have had my back with this dog’s care. I don’t have him, I know that, and this experience reminds that I don’t. After Jack passed, I took care of our dog until her end; I can do this one, too. It’s just another one of those experiences that glares in my face, “You’re alone in this” and I end up, again, initially questioning whether I can.
“I hope I can be the person my dog thinks I am” couldn’t be a truer statement for me. Who is rescuing whom?
To the here and now,
Tally
Saturday, January 2, 2010
A year and a half..................
December 31, 2009
Today is three days over 18 months since Jack passed on. Wording it as “a year and half” feels like less time, though. I have done so much, been to many places, made major shifts in my life:
- I sold the Bellevue house.
- I vacationed on the Oregon Coast without Jack and without a dog. First time alone.
- I drove an U-Haul 16’ truck from Bellevue, Washington to Virginia to help a friend and her family move.
- I took the 14-day Mediterranean Cruise that Jack and I had planned for last year.
- I went to Mexico for 9 days to visit my brother and have Thanksgiving with his wife and him.
- I journeyed back and forth from Eastern Washington’s cabin and to friends’ guest rooms for two months.
- I bought a new home.
But truly, the common denominator through all of it was and still is the grief. It is the same regardless of where I am. I am still missing Jack with a fervor that is truly without words. I only know the depth when I am sent to my knees, wrapped in a ball on the floor, sobbing. My mind cannot comprehend this death and my heart cannot process it. In other words, as I have so often noted to friends, it feels like my mind is going to explode and my heart implode. I literally have to hold my hands around my head to stop the frenzy of what feels like incomprehensible and repetitive thoughts of “Yes, he dead. No he’s not. Yes, he is.” My heart hurts after a deep cry, as if the grief has ripped a hole in and, in my breath, I feel the tear and mending for days later.
Alas, better than the “18 months” phrase, a “year and a half” reminds me that not much time has come and gone. Really, not much. How I wish I was further along in my healing, but I also know “it is what it is.” I simply want to wake up in the morning and not miss him so much. For such a goal-oriented person, I have not reached that moment. Every morning and every night and every grace at every meal and every toast with an evening glass of wine, I know I am not there, yet. Painfully so.
This holiday season without Jack was worse than last year’s. This one has been deeply felt on a new and different level. Perhaps it’s personal growth or continued grief work with a therapist, which leaves fewer places to be in denial. It is simply rawer than last year. Everything, every aspect of the holidays, every moment that I felt should be a “couple” still, was painful and difficult. And there was so many of them. With some, I had an inkling what was coming; others came out of the blue. But, no matter, the result was the same.
Looking back to last year to find some explanation for the differences, I can only find a blur in my memory. What did I do differently last year to help myself through this season? I cannot recall but small flashes of people and moments. So, while last year was a blur, this year’s pain seems to be held under a magnifying glass so I can feel each tug on my heart, each punch to my gut, each moment my brain confuses “then” with “now.” I was more irritated with the music in the stores, couples holding hands, ads for the “perfect gift,” favorite candies, shopping together, wrapping presents (which Jack loved to do and I gladly gave him the duty since I had done almost 99% of the shopping list). Family traditions entails having family in the house. Traditions for “one” seems frivolous.
By the third holiday meal at homes of dear friends, I was both “family weary” and “family envy,” particularly when I came home to an empty house. I am facing creating new traditions for just me, an “one,” to fit into others’ celebrations. I felt tired of putting myself forward into a new arena, hoping it will fill the hole of missing my own family and traditions we had. For now, I know I don’t fit, although we are all trying to make it look like an acceptable “new normal” for me.
The first time of any new experience is the hardest, I suppose, which I try to keep in the forefront of my thinking. Next year has to be easier, I think, it has to get better if I get the first time over with now. Only that thinking didn’t work this year: it was harder. I can only guess that the “blur” of last year was a level of denial and shock that allowed the holidays to be endured. There was no denial or shock to hide behind this year. Reality hit hard, without any sensitivity or leniency.
The tears have returned to a daily event, again. I had days strung together without them for awhile, moving into more of a weekly crying session. Now, I am having several crying episodes in a day over big stuff, over small stuff, stuff I know is coming, stuff that creeps up and knocks the wind out of me. I thought 18 months would be different, easier. I was wrong.
I know that with the new year of 2010, my language will change when I note Jack’s death. In 2009, I could say, “He died June of last year.” Although it will be 19 months in January, I will have to say, “He died in June of 2008” or specify how many months. I resist and resent this complication, of things being more difficult to convey the passage of time. I need easier and am, again, in one day, given another stretch to my patience and thinking.
There wasn’t a tree this year, although I did get the tree stand in place, hoping that it would give me an incentive to fill it. As Christmas came closer, I had neither the motivation to buy a tree, get a friend to decorate it, like I did last year, nor face the chore of taking it down with needles falling everywhere and disposing of it. Clean-up alone seemed too much and served as the deterrent for purchasing one. So, the tree stand is still in the corner, waiting for its annual banishment to a garage shelf.
In the move, I had the clearly marked “Christmas” boxes to be brought into the house. I really thought that two weeks ago, I would put up some lights outside to let neighbors know I wanted holiday spirit in this new house. Like the tree stand, they will return to the garage with hopes that things will be different next year and I will decorate my new home. I truly hope so, I truly do.
Death is so surreal. On numerous occasions I have acted as if Jack is coming back. I have had what feels like sane and rational thoughts that treat him as still being alive. The new kitchen appliances arrived and I had the succinct thought, “Jack will be so surprised to see what I have done.” I am drilling the holes into the kitchen cabinet doors for the new knobs, and I am thinking that (1) he would be doing this job if he was here and (2) I knew what to do because he taught me so much. I have to stop and finish my crying, aching that he is not here with me now. Right now. This moment. And he should be. Right now, next to me, helping. I shouldn’t be doing this alone. Damn it.
So, my new house is my house. I left the Bellevue house because he was in every wall. A new house wouldn’t have him in the remodeling, the discussions, the shops, the partnership of making this house our home. No, it would be my house now, become my home. I miss him in every task I do, every purchase I make, every plan I dream. It is not real that it is all “I” and “Me” in this place…until I get into bed a night alone, or make breakfast for one, or put away my travel clothes for a future adventure for a “single.” Then, I am reminded that I am alone, he is gone, and only the walls have changed.
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