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.
