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.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Admin Note from Miss Tally's assistant
I've had to modify the settings of the blog to stop the recent spam comments.
You can still post comments as anonymous, but now you have to play the word verification game. This is supposed to stop the spammers. If it doesn't I'll have to disallow all comments.
Hope this helps.
Ron (Tally's tractor maintenance foreman, part time computer assistant, and scooter repairman)
You can still post comments as anonymous, but now you have to play the word verification game. This is supposed to stop the spammers. If it doesn't I'll have to disallow all comments.
Hope this helps.
Ron (Tally's tractor maintenance foreman, part time computer assistant, and scooter repairman)
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Last Blog Entry--One Year Mark
This is my last entry. It may be difficult to read, because I know it has been difficult to write. So many thoughts from so many days. It already feels overwhelming and I’m only in my first paragraph. It will be a long read, very emotional one as only this process and ending thereof can be. If only you could know how many times I had to stop, finish crying before taking up writing, again. If only. I’m already at my first set of tears in my first paragraph.
365 days since Jack’s passing. 365 painful, lonely, and just plain awful, awful days without him. 365 days later. Someone noted that the first year is the worst because so much of it is spent in reflecting on what was happening an year ago, when the loved one was still alive: “What were we(!) doing last year at this time?” And I did re-live and re-live these past 365 days doing just that, even more so this past week before his death, thinking of all those awful, awful moments entering into Jack’s last days. I cannot say that all with me is better, although it is better 365 days later than 365 days ago.
I have been changed and I have arrived at the end of the first year in one piece. I found a sense of “patience, courage, and strength” that I prayed for daily while Jack was dying. In recent months, I added “gentleness” for I held so little of it for myself as I adapt to my new life. There were dozens of “I’m sorry, I forgot,” or “ I’m sorry, I don’t remember,” be it in immediate conversations where I have no idea where I was taking a thought, or overlooking a previous commitment (ah, the havoc of so many double-booking myself), or unintentional omitting facts and/or people and creating numerous social faux pas, humbly returning to “I am so sorry.” Most recently I have add “stamina for my soul,” a concept of interest, something neither yet understood nor explored, but seeded within me. I will endure.
When Jack was in one of his treatments regimes, I remember thinking that I never knew what I wanted: life to hurry-up or slow down. Like waiting for a lab or scan result: did I want to know potential bad news sooner and get on with the next step, or let it wait, enjoying blissfully the last moments of ignorance? At times, I was walking when I wanted to run, and, at other times, running when I wanted the world to slow down so I could savor the moment. I found a note to myself dated shortly before Jack’s death that said, “With each day, all the ‘hurry-ups’ are diminishing in numbers.” 365 days later, all the “hurry-ups” or “slow downs” are now my own, self-created. I am in a new place, alone. No doubt, there were times that I just wanted to hurry up and get through the daily tears or deeply sad moments, but haven’t yet. Grieving is such a slow process. There is simply no hurrying it up.
No doubt in my heart I owe a debt of gratitude for so many of you reading this. With some, I have had regular contact and you get to see the day-to-day pain, growth, and changes. Others, your only link is this blog. Regardless, I have been touched by your compassionate presence or responses; I can feel you with me. I think of you as holding a healing light and prayer for me. You helped me to write today. I see your faces, I feel your light, I am grateful. I think of you who had time and the words, those words that are hard to find sometimes, to write back from your heart, life experiences, and from your light. I didn’t respond to all, but I read each one, usually crying. How do I ever thank-you for being with me these months? I don’t know, but my heart yearns to do something.
I often think of the millions and millions of widows and widowers before me, so many people with so many losses, many who had what I perceive as the “harder” death: the quick one (from diagnosis to death in so few months), the unplanned one (the fatal accident), the horribly slow heart-wretching debilitating ones (ALS, Alzheimer’s). The worst of the worst, I think, of the psychological incongruent ones, losing your child, that defies natural order of the “Parent dies first; child second.” I had 26+ years, out of which I had 4 and half years with the dying process. Oh, I know it could have been better, but I deeply know it could have been worst. That is a first-year reflection of gratitude, which I have now, 365 days later. I am thankful for the times we had, and, now I have.
I had sincere intentions of re-reading all the cards that came those week and months after Jack passed. I still have all of them, by the way, along with the thank-you notes I bought last year to those of you who donated to Jack’s and my favorite charities. I really did think I could get that task done in 365 days. I did re-read about a third of the cards around the 6-month mark, but it was simply too emotionally overwhelming. I still have the cards sent by many of you for Jack’s last birthday in May ’08. I just can’t find whatever I need to do, either read or dispose of them. It is at times like these that I find myself just as lost as I was 365 days ago, spinning in place, with “What do I do next?”
I so humbled and awed that my story could be shared with fellow grief path walkers, who say, “Me, too. You wrote my words,” but these people are not of my communities. They are friends of our/my friends, strangers, yet not strangers, as we are connected by our losses. Our common thread weaves empathy and familiarity. I am blessed that our paths crossed. Special thanks to those of you who were the “axle” in passing the message to others. I appreciate your efforts each month. You, too, have brought healing.
On June 6th, I laid Annie B to rest. (I don’t like the phrase, “Put her down.” Please don’t use it with me. It does not accurately reflect my caregiving of her soul.) I heard her “Enough,” although sat with it for four days, wanting the larger, louder “shout” to confirm what I knew I heard. That confirmation came from a dog-lover. Perhaps having some control of when and how with her passing, it was more peaceful, although as painful as Jack’s passing.
By the way, the “B” and I experienced the most loving vet and her assistant. This mobile service provided a compassionate death for Annie and compassion for me. Small world: the tech was a former student, no less, having Jack as a middle school teacher. Annie loved her and her treats, and the vet, as well. If I could have envisioned the perfect passing for her soul it materialized that Saturday morning with these two wonderful humans, who knew dogs, their owners’ struggles and grief, and brought a tenderness to the moment that is indescribable. (Note to friends with aging pets: most pet clinics will not do home visits any more for liability issues with their insurance companies. I found one that does. You pay a bit more, but for good, no make that great service.) Oh, I found one piece of irony as they carried Annie into the car: it was same model of car that took Jack out, only Jack’s was silver and Annie’s was gold. As I followed the vet and tech out of the house to the car, I was completely stunned to see a Honda in the driveway… again. What were the chances? And, again, 365 days later, a Honda in the driveway can stonewall me. Who would have guessed?
On June 7th, I woke to my first morning of “just me.” Now, a new normal, a new routine (and a loss of one), and a very unfamiliar path. I woke with a sinus headache and, for the first time ever, I got up, took some meds, and, instead of dragging myself into morning dog duty, feed and walk, I went back to bed until the headache broke. I laid there and thought of all those mornings when this return-to-bed was what I wanted, but put dog first, myself second, getting out of bed to take care of her. And I felt lonely without my companion and selfish that I was only taking care of myself. I walked out to get the paper, realizing that we always walked across the cul-de-sac, me with shovel in hand, to take care of emptying her “tanks.” I was going to walk it alone, but made three steps into cul-de-sac, and turned around in tears. She had left me 3 kibbles in her dish, something of an oddity, yet could be seen as a loving reminder that she was taking care of me until the end: “Here, have some of my meal to eat when I am gone”. I left it there until recently when a neighbor dog sneaked into the house and cleaned out the dish. On June 8th, I woke with the single thought of what I, I, Me alone(!) was going to do today. Just me, just my agenda, just my projects, just my list. And now, it’s been 20 more mornings just like that. My new normal: me first. It doesn’t fit at all with my soul.
Annie’s passing also accentuated the fact that major decisions are all now mine alone. Oh, I have people who will give me feedback, check my thinking, but it still my solo decision at the end. Within these moments, I feel my grief acutely, as I do not have my partner present to take half of the responsibility. It is mine…alone, 100%. I was the one who called the vet, kissed her goodbye, wrote the check, and will now bury her. Me, just me.
Small insignificant changes mark that first whole week alone. I had always turned off the vent on the driver’s side of the car so more air would be forced on my co-pilot. As I opened that vent for the first time ever, I cried. I had lunch out with some friends and tossed my left-overs into the back, laughing at all the times that I would carry them into the grocery store, as no way would they have lasted in the back seat, regardless of how short an errand it would have been if she was with me. I stopped and got myself a blended ice mocha drink, of which the first mouth full was always spit into her in-car watering dish and we slurped together. I drank it by myself and I cried. Every pocket of every jacket, pants, shorts always had a plastic bag for the poops. After one of my soccer games, I put on a soccer jacket, finding both a plastic bag and one dog biscuit. I left it that way for the next game. And I cried. The vehicles still have plastic bags of dog treats, her reward for keeping the car/truck safe, and I have not cleaned the car windows of “nose prints.”
“Ms. Annie B” has been cremated and her ashes will be placed at the cabin, about a foot above Jack’s, designated by another block in the same color as Jack’s. I’ve already brought over her poop shovel, a paw print marker given by neighbors years ago, along with our two blue well-used and well-cracked espresso coffee mugs. The dog knew that espresso stands meant dog treats and many barista knew her by name. All the pieces of a grave marker are in place, waiting for her ashes, which I now have, waiting for my next trip over to the cabin.
I knew that my husband, our dog, and my mother all would be gone within one year of each other. I never knew the order, although I had my preference in my prayers. My greatest gratitude, as I told Annie that morning, was that she pushed that body of hers, giving me 11 months of companionship, stopping what would be a worst undertaking after Jack’s passing, what could have been then, but is now: a totally empty house. I deeply appreciated her stamina to stay with me. Thanks, Annie B, thanks. Ya done did good, Girl.
While “The B and Me” were at the cabin for what would be her last time, I sat on the deck and pondered my living arrangements. I love the cabin. It is the one place that settles me. On the other hand, I have the Bellevue place, where friendships, medical, sports, support networks all are. If that house was newer, it would need less upkeep, maintenance, and repair, but a 1979 built home has begun to take more time, work, and money than I am willing to do anymore. The house was becoming burdensome, it was too much for me, and I needed to face that reality and act. On top of that, I have had a mental calendar ticking in my head that I had two years after Jack’s passing to take advantage of the widow’s benefit with selling the house and capital gains savings. That savings would diminish at the three-year mark. Simple logic said that it was time to sell.
Metaphor and story time. When my siblings and I were younger, living in southern California, Easter Sunday was the traditional first jump into the unheated pool by us kids. Freezing water, running for your swim towel after your 3 second in the water, goose bumps, chattering teeth, year after year. No doubt, traditions were strong in my bio-family. We all know there are only two ways of getting into cold water: you either dive in quickly, shock the heck out of every cell in your body, or, (what I consider the more painful way), take one step in, “get use to it,” then another step, “get use to it,”etc. I rarely embraced the “get slowly use to it” approach and wanted to control when I got wet, getting all of it over quickly. You see, invaritably, standing on one of the steps, you didn’t see that someone had sneaked up behind you and was ready to give you the big push. You were usually going in quickly one way or another. Better to control when, I’d say. (For those who know him, yes, no doubt it would be Brother Mark as the sneak-up-push-your-arse-into-the-pool butthead.)
So, many times this year, I have just dove into the “pool of firsts,” knowing it was going to shock, hurt, and usually end up in tears, but I got through many “firsts” this year. A friend or two would note that I didn’t have to do a “first” now, but I would retort, “I will eventually have to do it. Let me dive in and get it over with.” I didn’t want to avoid doing things with my married friends because I enjoy theirs and their spouses’ friendship. I felt keenly the “5th wheel” role, but that’s how it is for me now. I need to learn to become more comfortable with it. I dove in, got the first one over with, so the next one will be easier. I am initiating more social events for myself, which is stretching my shyness streak. I’m buying my bicycle and maybe another scooter or motorcycle as my second “vehicle” for short trips. Last week, for the first time, I drove to Spokane to see Jack’s Dad without my co-pilot, feeling sad and somewhat guilty that I made the trip with fewer pit stops and dog walks. I dove into selling the house now approach. I made it through first holidays, birthdays, and anniversaries. I’m still coming up for air and still swimming.
In this past year, I bought a clothes washer on Craig’s List when our old one died, a vacuum for the cabin, my dining room table, and replaced old windows in the house, all big financial expenses and decisions made by myself. I’m getting rid of our plateware, getting new, brighter colored ones for myself. I got rid of the bed and mattress, a dresser, his desk, and a bookcase. I recall in detail the memories of purchases, assembling pieces, and using them. Snicker and sigh with me: as I tossed the mattress into the dump bin, I kissed it goodbye. I swear I could still smell him in it. Have you ever seen someone cry tossing an old mattress away at the dump? I was.
I never realized that the small seemingly insignificant moments, which, at any other time, would be nothing and ignored, are suddenly at another time of life so emotionally overwhelming. Get this: I have taken apart our bed, finding those “dust bunnies” all in those places the vacuum never reaches until the furniture is moved. I am in tears as I pick them up, looking for her hair and looking for his. I am desperate, desperate for that tangible physical reminder, that which I can actually touch in their absences, dust bunnies. I haven’t read about dust bunnies in any grief book I read in these last 365 days as a trigger for grief. Small stuff, people, can be the biggest.
Now, I am selling the house. It’s been a year and I’ve put in and put out a good battle to stay. The Bellevue house is both an albatross and a sanctuary of emotional memories of both Jack’s and Annie’s. I am in one of those “Damn if I do and damn if I don’t” spot. Again, this is another major decision being made alone, which only deepens that, yes, I am alone, and, yet, ironically, is showing me that I am clear and strong enough to do whatever needs to be done.
August 1st, the official listing day. Only now is another real layer of work unfolding, both in physical labor and renewed grief. As the agent/stager walks around each room, she is re-arranging, eliminating, moving things. She has a good eye, an artist no doubt, as well as, an ace salesperson and marketer. Following her, room to room with a given “To Do” list, I now painfully know why the older generation doesn’t let go of things, why their houses are sometimes so cluttered to us “younguns:” many, many things have stories that goes along with them, a moment, an anniversary, a laugh, a tear, a time intimately shared that it becomes part of the marriage fabric and each other’s hearts. These items are the ones by which the story is refreshed, often wordlessly, with just a look, followed by chuckles or sighs. Now, suddenly, this “story” is being moved to another room, or that “story” is being removed out of the house into storage. I miss Jack so much right now in helping me move “our stories,” as it would be much easier with him grieving with me. At least, with him, I would have that look, that chuckle, and then the tear. I’m probably getting more done without him, though, as I know we would stop with some items and retell the “story,” again, with each of us adding some tibbit and, then, arguing about the addition, “No, it didn’t happen that way.”
I don’t know where my new place will be, only that I want smaller and some dirt on the “Eastside” of the Puget Sound. It is where my friends, support network, medical, and sports are. I’ll keep the cabin, as it is where I find a different pace and peace. At worst, if the house would sell before finding a new spot, I could commute from the cabin. I have enough friends with spare rooms and couches to “guest” me on the nights of soccer games and/or other commitments (of which, I would now shove as many as possible into one day) until I find what I want, that perfect next home fit. I am lucky that I don’t have to rush and find something immediately. I have the cabin, which allows time to wait and not settle for less than what I want.
I’ve kept my wedding ring on. I had intended to find a new ring for my left hand and move my wedding ring to my right hand with the 1st year anniversary, but my heart says otherwise. I looked several weeks ago with a friend, a fellow widow, at place she found her ring. I lasted about 30 seconds and had to stop. I couldn’t imagine another ring on my left hand then. So, I have learned to honor my inner voice that says, “Not yet.” I tried to dive in, but found I needed to stand on the first step and “get use to it” first.
I have found that I can live alone, although I don’t particularly like it at times. Yet, honestly, at other times, I see my “stuck-in-mud” ways of doing things and not having to adjust to someone else’s style as both nice, yet very lonely. I discovered that I am not good alone all the time; I crave companionship. I miss the joking and child-like play that Jack and I had, our silliness if you will. I desperately, almost over all else, miss his laugh and smile. Gads, I miss laughing with him.
In the last 365 days, I have gone from not reading books to enjoy reading, again, flipping back and forth. My soccer was a physical escape and then it was a chore, a duty. Gardening, though, has been the one consistent respite through out the year. Touching the earth and being touched back was healing. I have not watched more than an hour of TV over the year. Jack was the TV watcher, sitting in that lazy-boy for hours on end, yelling to me about this and that was on the screen. I miss him on that couch with that noise so much so that I have not found it comfortable to be alone down there yet. The basement and the TV are no more mine than it was 365 days ago. If anywhere, it is there I want to find him, and it will be comforting, yes, that is the right word, comforting, to have a new “TV room” in my new residence.
I’ve cleaned and cleared so many “ours” and the hardest of “his” possessions this past years, honing the house down to the essentials. (FYI: his dress clothes still hang in his closet, but mine are in there, too, as my closet space is being remodeled.) I realize my inner strength and determination that says, “This tragedy will not define who I am, but it will change me forever.” I am greater than the event of his death and the events thereafter. I hold that my God, my Universe, my higher power, will bequeath upon me a new purpose and direction, when the pieces of healing are in a better place. Right now, it feels like I’ll never get 100% past these losses, and that will be an interesting statement to revisit in the years ahead. Thus, I do not know 100% of what is next. Is this wanting so desperately to dive in, but am being forced to stand on the steps, “getting use to it?” Where is my control now?
In Jack’s memory, I have purchased a goat from the Heifer organization. Our “story” with this was that I once wanted a pigmy goat and had already named it “Arrthur.” Yes, you have drag out the “Arrr” of “Arthur.” A large goat was nicknamed “Arnie.” So, when we would see goats on our travels, we didn’t say, “Oh, there are goats over there.” We would say, “There are Arnies (or Arrthurs).” (Lamb were called “Priscillas,” new foals were “Spunkers.” Ya get the picture of our game.) So, some village in the world will be getting an “Arnie” in Jack’s memory. When we retired, we bought the surgery to correct a child’s smile. Another child will now have a full normal smile for the rest of his/her life. Finally, the last third of the gift will be a donation to the Jack Reynolds’ Memorial Scholarship Fund. I think those gifts will adequately reflect his life and will honor his passing. The earth and the future will be better because he lived. To each of you, if you must do something, do an intentional act of kindness, an intentional act of beauty, regardless of how small, so that the world will be gifted by your act in his memory. Hold the energy within the gift.
My spirit is waiting my next path with great anticipation; I can feel that I have been getting prepared for it. My favorite word for new experiences has always been “adventures.” I know that I will have adventures in Greece, planning on being there on our wedding anniversary in October, toasting him on one of islands. I see more travel after that. I see my wedding ring being moved to make way for new relationships. I feel new paths will be walked, jogged, hiked, biked in many new places. I will both walk my family history and learn how small and rich this world is. I’ll either hang-glide or parachute for my birthday adventure this year, doing the other one next year. I’ve bought a water color set, have a dremel that I have not touched upon its potential, want to learn Spanish, expand my garden at the Birdhouse, putting in an extensive bird bathing pool there, learn to scuba, there are many books to read, and one to write. There is so little I can’t do if I put my mind and energy to it. There are so many inviting adventures waiting for me to RSVP.
I am sadden to close this blog down. I feel like I am saying goodbye to an old friend, to many dear friends. On the other hand, I know it is time. I think I’ll keep it for another year until the book is done, so my book readers may come to the beginning of it all.
My education friends: I know you’re on break now. I’ve used last year’s “summer” addresses, along with school ones. Thus, some will get this message twice.
I believe I have said all that my heart needs to say. It is time to take flight.
To the adventures in here and now,
Tally
Enlisting Help for Work Parties
If you can help in any way in the next 4 weeks, being it 15 minutes to 1-2 hours, would you please let me know. (Yes, 15 minutes will help!) I’m putting together an email group of helpers in the area to expedite asking for help. If you cannot, I both understand and would prefer you did not reply that you cannot. (Saves jamming up the inbox.) Time is limited. You understand, I know you all do. I will put out to the responders the dates of work parties.
365 days since Jack’s passing. 365 painful, lonely, and just plain awful, awful days without him. 365 days later. Someone noted that the first year is the worst because so much of it is spent in reflecting on what was happening an year ago, when the loved one was still alive: “What were we(!) doing last year at this time?” And I did re-live and re-live these past 365 days doing just that, even more so this past week before his death, thinking of all those awful, awful moments entering into Jack’s last days. I cannot say that all with me is better, although it is better 365 days later than 365 days ago.
I have been changed and I have arrived at the end of the first year in one piece. I found a sense of “patience, courage, and strength” that I prayed for daily while Jack was dying. In recent months, I added “gentleness” for I held so little of it for myself as I adapt to my new life. There were dozens of “I’m sorry, I forgot,” or “ I’m sorry, I don’t remember,” be it in immediate conversations where I have no idea where I was taking a thought, or overlooking a previous commitment (ah, the havoc of so many double-booking myself), or unintentional omitting facts and/or people and creating numerous social faux pas, humbly returning to “I am so sorry.” Most recently I have add “stamina for my soul,” a concept of interest, something neither yet understood nor explored, but seeded within me. I will endure.
When Jack was in one of his treatments regimes, I remember thinking that I never knew what I wanted: life to hurry-up or slow down. Like waiting for a lab or scan result: did I want to know potential bad news sooner and get on with the next step, or let it wait, enjoying blissfully the last moments of ignorance? At times, I was walking when I wanted to run, and, at other times, running when I wanted the world to slow down so I could savor the moment. I found a note to myself dated shortly before Jack’s death that said, “With each day, all the ‘hurry-ups’ are diminishing in numbers.” 365 days later, all the “hurry-ups” or “slow downs” are now my own, self-created. I am in a new place, alone. No doubt, there were times that I just wanted to hurry up and get through the daily tears or deeply sad moments, but haven’t yet. Grieving is such a slow process. There is simply no hurrying it up.
No doubt in my heart I owe a debt of gratitude for so many of you reading this. With some, I have had regular contact and you get to see the day-to-day pain, growth, and changes. Others, your only link is this blog. Regardless, I have been touched by your compassionate presence or responses; I can feel you with me. I think of you as holding a healing light and prayer for me. You helped me to write today. I see your faces, I feel your light, I am grateful. I think of you who had time and the words, those words that are hard to find sometimes, to write back from your heart, life experiences, and from your light. I didn’t respond to all, but I read each one, usually crying. How do I ever thank-you for being with me these months? I don’t know, but my heart yearns to do something.
I often think of the millions and millions of widows and widowers before me, so many people with so many losses, many who had what I perceive as the “harder” death: the quick one (from diagnosis to death in so few months), the unplanned one (the fatal accident), the horribly slow heart-wretching debilitating ones (ALS, Alzheimer’s). The worst of the worst, I think, of the psychological incongruent ones, losing your child, that defies natural order of the “Parent dies first; child second.” I had 26+ years, out of which I had 4 and half years with the dying process. Oh, I know it could have been better, but I deeply know it could have been worst. That is a first-year reflection of gratitude, which I have now, 365 days later. I am thankful for the times we had, and, now I have.
I had sincere intentions of re-reading all the cards that came those week and months after Jack passed. I still have all of them, by the way, along with the thank-you notes I bought last year to those of you who donated to Jack’s and my favorite charities. I really did think I could get that task done in 365 days. I did re-read about a third of the cards around the 6-month mark, but it was simply too emotionally overwhelming. I still have the cards sent by many of you for Jack’s last birthday in May ’08. I just can’t find whatever I need to do, either read or dispose of them. It is at times like these that I find myself just as lost as I was 365 days ago, spinning in place, with “What do I do next?”
I so humbled and awed that my story could be shared with fellow grief path walkers, who say, “Me, too. You wrote my words,” but these people are not of my communities. They are friends of our/my friends, strangers, yet not strangers, as we are connected by our losses. Our common thread weaves empathy and familiarity. I am blessed that our paths crossed. Special thanks to those of you who were the “axle” in passing the message to others. I appreciate your efforts each month. You, too, have brought healing.
On June 6th, I laid Annie B to rest. (I don’t like the phrase, “Put her down.” Please don’t use it with me. It does not accurately reflect my caregiving of her soul.) I heard her “Enough,” although sat with it for four days, wanting the larger, louder “shout” to confirm what I knew I heard. That confirmation came from a dog-lover. Perhaps having some control of when and how with her passing, it was more peaceful, although as painful as Jack’s passing.
By the way, the “B” and I experienced the most loving vet and her assistant. This mobile service provided a compassionate death for Annie and compassion for me. Small world: the tech was a former student, no less, having Jack as a middle school teacher. Annie loved her and her treats, and the vet, as well. If I could have envisioned the perfect passing for her soul it materialized that Saturday morning with these two wonderful humans, who knew dogs, their owners’ struggles and grief, and brought a tenderness to the moment that is indescribable. (Note to friends with aging pets: most pet clinics will not do home visits any more for liability issues with their insurance companies. I found one that does. You pay a bit more, but for good, no make that great service.) Oh, I found one piece of irony as they carried Annie into the car: it was same model of car that took Jack out, only Jack’s was silver and Annie’s was gold. As I followed the vet and tech out of the house to the car, I was completely stunned to see a Honda in the driveway… again. What were the chances? And, again, 365 days later, a Honda in the driveway can stonewall me. Who would have guessed?
On June 7th, I woke to my first morning of “just me.” Now, a new normal, a new routine (and a loss of one), and a very unfamiliar path. I woke with a sinus headache and, for the first time ever, I got up, took some meds, and, instead of dragging myself into morning dog duty, feed and walk, I went back to bed until the headache broke. I laid there and thought of all those mornings when this return-to-bed was what I wanted, but put dog first, myself second, getting out of bed to take care of her. And I felt lonely without my companion and selfish that I was only taking care of myself. I walked out to get the paper, realizing that we always walked across the cul-de-sac, me with shovel in hand, to take care of emptying her “tanks.” I was going to walk it alone, but made three steps into cul-de-sac, and turned around in tears. She had left me 3 kibbles in her dish, something of an oddity, yet could be seen as a loving reminder that she was taking care of me until the end: “Here, have some of my meal to eat when I am gone”. I left it there until recently when a neighbor dog sneaked into the house and cleaned out the dish. On June 8th, I woke with the single thought of what I, I, Me alone(!) was going to do today. Just me, just my agenda, just my projects, just my list. And now, it’s been 20 more mornings just like that. My new normal: me first. It doesn’t fit at all with my soul.
Annie’s passing also accentuated the fact that major decisions are all now mine alone. Oh, I have people who will give me feedback, check my thinking, but it still my solo decision at the end. Within these moments, I feel my grief acutely, as I do not have my partner present to take half of the responsibility. It is mine…alone, 100%. I was the one who called the vet, kissed her goodbye, wrote the check, and will now bury her. Me, just me.
Small insignificant changes mark that first whole week alone. I had always turned off the vent on the driver’s side of the car so more air would be forced on my co-pilot. As I opened that vent for the first time ever, I cried. I had lunch out with some friends and tossed my left-overs into the back, laughing at all the times that I would carry them into the grocery store, as no way would they have lasted in the back seat, regardless of how short an errand it would have been if she was with me. I stopped and got myself a blended ice mocha drink, of which the first mouth full was always spit into her in-car watering dish and we slurped together. I drank it by myself and I cried. Every pocket of every jacket, pants, shorts always had a plastic bag for the poops. After one of my soccer games, I put on a soccer jacket, finding both a plastic bag and one dog biscuit. I left it that way for the next game. And I cried. The vehicles still have plastic bags of dog treats, her reward for keeping the car/truck safe, and I have not cleaned the car windows of “nose prints.”
“Ms. Annie B” has been cremated and her ashes will be placed at the cabin, about a foot above Jack’s, designated by another block in the same color as Jack’s. I’ve already brought over her poop shovel, a paw print marker given by neighbors years ago, along with our two blue well-used and well-cracked espresso coffee mugs. The dog knew that espresso stands meant dog treats and many barista knew her by name. All the pieces of a grave marker are in place, waiting for her ashes, which I now have, waiting for my next trip over to the cabin.
I knew that my husband, our dog, and my mother all would be gone within one year of each other. I never knew the order, although I had my preference in my prayers. My greatest gratitude, as I told Annie that morning, was that she pushed that body of hers, giving me 11 months of companionship, stopping what would be a worst undertaking after Jack’s passing, what could have been then, but is now: a totally empty house. I deeply appreciated her stamina to stay with me. Thanks, Annie B, thanks. Ya done did good, Girl.
While “The B and Me” were at the cabin for what would be her last time, I sat on the deck and pondered my living arrangements. I love the cabin. It is the one place that settles me. On the other hand, I have the Bellevue place, where friendships, medical, sports, support networks all are. If that house was newer, it would need less upkeep, maintenance, and repair, but a 1979 built home has begun to take more time, work, and money than I am willing to do anymore. The house was becoming burdensome, it was too much for me, and I needed to face that reality and act. On top of that, I have had a mental calendar ticking in my head that I had two years after Jack’s passing to take advantage of the widow’s benefit with selling the house and capital gains savings. That savings would diminish at the three-year mark. Simple logic said that it was time to sell.
Metaphor and story time. When my siblings and I were younger, living in southern California, Easter Sunday was the traditional first jump into the unheated pool by us kids. Freezing water, running for your swim towel after your 3 second in the water, goose bumps, chattering teeth, year after year. No doubt, traditions were strong in my bio-family. We all know there are only two ways of getting into cold water: you either dive in quickly, shock the heck out of every cell in your body, or, (what I consider the more painful way), take one step in, “get use to it,” then another step, “get use to it,”etc. I rarely embraced the “get slowly use to it” approach and wanted to control when I got wet, getting all of it over quickly. You see, invaritably, standing on one of the steps, you didn’t see that someone had sneaked up behind you and was ready to give you the big push. You were usually going in quickly one way or another. Better to control when, I’d say. (For those who know him, yes, no doubt it would be Brother Mark as the sneak-up-push-your-arse-into-the-pool butthead.)
So, many times this year, I have just dove into the “pool of firsts,” knowing it was going to shock, hurt, and usually end up in tears, but I got through many “firsts” this year. A friend or two would note that I didn’t have to do a “first” now, but I would retort, “I will eventually have to do it. Let me dive in and get it over with.” I didn’t want to avoid doing things with my married friends because I enjoy theirs and their spouses’ friendship. I felt keenly the “5th wheel” role, but that’s how it is for me now. I need to learn to become more comfortable with it. I dove in, got the first one over with, so the next one will be easier. I am initiating more social events for myself, which is stretching my shyness streak. I’m buying my bicycle and maybe another scooter or motorcycle as my second “vehicle” for short trips. Last week, for the first time, I drove to Spokane to see Jack’s Dad without my co-pilot, feeling sad and somewhat guilty that I made the trip with fewer pit stops and dog walks. I dove into selling the house now approach. I made it through first holidays, birthdays, and anniversaries. I’m still coming up for air and still swimming.
In this past year, I bought a clothes washer on Craig’s List when our old one died, a vacuum for the cabin, my dining room table, and replaced old windows in the house, all big financial expenses and decisions made by myself. I’m getting rid of our plateware, getting new, brighter colored ones for myself. I got rid of the bed and mattress, a dresser, his desk, and a bookcase. I recall in detail the memories of purchases, assembling pieces, and using them. Snicker and sigh with me: as I tossed the mattress into the dump bin, I kissed it goodbye. I swear I could still smell him in it. Have you ever seen someone cry tossing an old mattress away at the dump? I was.
I never realized that the small seemingly insignificant moments, which, at any other time, would be nothing and ignored, are suddenly at another time of life so emotionally overwhelming. Get this: I have taken apart our bed, finding those “dust bunnies” all in those places the vacuum never reaches until the furniture is moved. I am in tears as I pick them up, looking for her hair and looking for his. I am desperate, desperate for that tangible physical reminder, that which I can actually touch in their absences, dust bunnies. I haven’t read about dust bunnies in any grief book I read in these last 365 days as a trigger for grief. Small stuff, people, can be the biggest.
Now, I am selling the house. It’s been a year and I’ve put in and put out a good battle to stay. The Bellevue house is both an albatross and a sanctuary of emotional memories of both Jack’s and Annie’s. I am in one of those “Damn if I do and damn if I don’t” spot. Again, this is another major decision being made alone, which only deepens that, yes, I am alone, and, yet, ironically, is showing me that I am clear and strong enough to do whatever needs to be done.
August 1st, the official listing day. Only now is another real layer of work unfolding, both in physical labor and renewed grief. As the agent/stager walks around each room, she is re-arranging, eliminating, moving things. She has a good eye, an artist no doubt, as well as, an ace salesperson and marketer. Following her, room to room with a given “To Do” list, I now painfully know why the older generation doesn’t let go of things, why their houses are sometimes so cluttered to us “younguns:” many, many things have stories that goes along with them, a moment, an anniversary, a laugh, a tear, a time intimately shared that it becomes part of the marriage fabric and each other’s hearts. These items are the ones by which the story is refreshed, often wordlessly, with just a look, followed by chuckles or sighs. Now, suddenly, this “story” is being moved to another room, or that “story” is being removed out of the house into storage. I miss Jack so much right now in helping me move “our stories,” as it would be much easier with him grieving with me. At least, with him, I would have that look, that chuckle, and then the tear. I’m probably getting more done without him, though, as I know we would stop with some items and retell the “story,” again, with each of us adding some tibbit and, then, arguing about the addition, “No, it didn’t happen that way.”
I don’t know where my new place will be, only that I want smaller and some dirt on the “Eastside” of the Puget Sound. It is where my friends, support network, medical, and sports are. I’ll keep the cabin, as it is where I find a different pace and peace. At worst, if the house would sell before finding a new spot, I could commute from the cabin. I have enough friends with spare rooms and couches to “guest” me on the nights of soccer games and/or other commitments (of which, I would now shove as many as possible into one day) until I find what I want, that perfect next home fit. I am lucky that I don’t have to rush and find something immediately. I have the cabin, which allows time to wait and not settle for less than what I want.
I’ve kept my wedding ring on. I had intended to find a new ring for my left hand and move my wedding ring to my right hand with the 1st year anniversary, but my heart says otherwise. I looked several weeks ago with a friend, a fellow widow, at place she found her ring. I lasted about 30 seconds and had to stop. I couldn’t imagine another ring on my left hand then. So, I have learned to honor my inner voice that says, “Not yet.” I tried to dive in, but found I needed to stand on the first step and “get use to it” first.
I have found that I can live alone, although I don’t particularly like it at times. Yet, honestly, at other times, I see my “stuck-in-mud” ways of doing things and not having to adjust to someone else’s style as both nice, yet very lonely. I discovered that I am not good alone all the time; I crave companionship. I miss the joking and child-like play that Jack and I had, our silliness if you will. I desperately, almost over all else, miss his laugh and smile. Gads, I miss laughing with him.
In the last 365 days, I have gone from not reading books to enjoy reading, again, flipping back and forth. My soccer was a physical escape and then it was a chore, a duty. Gardening, though, has been the one consistent respite through out the year. Touching the earth and being touched back was healing. I have not watched more than an hour of TV over the year. Jack was the TV watcher, sitting in that lazy-boy for hours on end, yelling to me about this and that was on the screen. I miss him on that couch with that noise so much so that I have not found it comfortable to be alone down there yet. The basement and the TV are no more mine than it was 365 days ago. If anywhere, it is there I want to find him, and it will be comforting, yes, that is the right word, comforting, to have a new “TV room” in my new residence.
I’ve cleaned and cleared so many “ours” and the hardest of “his” possessions this past years, honing the house down to the essentials. (FYI: his dress clothes still hang in his closet, but mine are in there, too, as my closet space is being remodeled.) I realize my inner strength and determination that says, “This tragedy will not define who I am, but it will change me forever.” I am greater than the event of his death and the events thereafter. I hold that my God, my Universe, my higher power, will bequeath upon me a new purpose and direction, when the pieces of healing are in a better place. Right now, it feels like I’ll never get 100% past these losses, and that will be an interesting statement to revisit in the years ahead. Thus, I do not know 100% of what is next. Is this wanting so desperately to dive in, but am being forced to stand on the steps, “getting use to it?” Where is my control now?
In Jack’s memory, I have purchased a goat from the Heifer organization. Our “story” with this was that I once wanted a pigmy goat and had already named it “Arrthur.” Yes, you have drag out the “Arrr” of “Arthur.” A large goat was nicknamed “Arnie.” So, when we would see goats on our travels, we didn’t say, “Oh, there are goats over there.” We would say, “There are Arnies (or Arrthurs).” (Lamb were called “Priscillas,” new foals were “Spunkers.” Ya get the picture of our game.) So, some village in the world will be getting an “Arnie” in Jack’s memory. When we retired, we bought the surgery to correct a child’s smile. Another child will now have a full normal smile for the rest of his/her life. Finally, the last third of the gift will be a donation to the Jack Reynolds’ Memorial Scholarship Fund. I think those gifts will adequately reflect his life and will honor his passing. The earth and the future will be better because he lived. To each of you, if you must do something, do an intentional act of kindness, an intentional act of beauty, regardless of how small, so that the world will be gifted by your act in his memory. Hold the energy within the gift.
My spirit is waiting my next path with great anticipation; I can feel that I have been getting prepared for it. My favorite word for new experiences has always been “adventures.” I know that I will have adventures in Greece, planning on being there on our wedding anniversary in October, toasting him on one of islands. I see more travel after that. I see my wedding ring being moved to make way for new relationships. I feel new paths will be walked, jogged, hiked, biked in many new places. I will both walk my family history and learn how small and rich this world is. I’ll either hang-glide or parachute for my birthday adventure this year, doing the other one next year. I’ve bought a water color set, have a dremel that I have not touched upon its potential, want to learn Spanish, expand my garden at the Birdhouse, putting in an extensive bird bathing pool there, learn to scuba, there are many books to read, and one to write. There is so little I can’t do if I put my mind and energy to it. There are so many inviting adventures waiting for me to RSVP.
I am sadden to close this blog down. I feel like I am saying goodbye to an old friend, to many dear friends. On the other hand, I know it is time. I think I’ll keep it for another year until the book is done, so my book readers may come to the beginning of it all.
My education friends: I know you’re on break now. I’ve used last year’s “summer” addresses, along with school ones. Thus, some will get this message twice.
I believe I have said all that my heart needs to say. It is time to take flight.
To the adventures in here and now,
Tally
Enlisting Help for Work Parties
If you can help in any way in the next 4 weeks, being it 15 minutes to 1-2 hours, would you please let me know. (Yes, 15 minutes will help!) I’m putting together an email group of helpers in the area to expedite asking for help. If you cannot, I both understand and would prefer you did not reply that you cannot. (Saves jamming up the inbox.) Time is limited. You understand, I know you all do. I will put out to the responders the dates of work parties.
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