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