Month 8 Update

Dear Peoples,

If every month was a short as February, we would be already In the spring, or so it feels. It seems like just last week I wrote my last update, yet another month has elapsed by. I'm often asked how I spend my days, what do I do, and, with a short month like February, it's even harder to give an answer that seems to have worth. In my own personal judgmental ways, I, too, ask myself what have I done with my life in the last 28 days: have I made a difference in my community, my world, myself? Have I pursued anything new, explored, expanded my own horizons? Alas, the answer is not simple when facing each day, doing small things, continuing to grieve, maintaining a routine. I see the sad contrast of pushing myself for 31 years in a career that demanded much time and energy, helping children, staff, and families, out of which I felt a sense of accomplishment, of making a difference, and yes, having personal worth. Now, I have the slow pace of healing and what feels like insignificant tasks to check-off, e.g. laundry is done, folded, and put-away; food is in the refrig; dog gets her daily walk. I truly am retired now, out of the caregiving role, too. Truly a new territory, one that I am wandering in rather aimlessly.

When Annie was a pup, I kept a list of everything she ate/chewed/destroyed, knowing it would be a humorous story one day, "Well, if you think your pup is bad, can you top this list?" In that light, I started to keep track of everything I've busted, dropped, or bungled in some way, hoping some day it would be funny or, at the least, a mark that I am "less" of whatever I was back then when I did those things. Now, my list contains my favorite glass tea cup that Jack bought me years ago, one of a pair of wine glasses that he bought on his last wine trip in Yakima, one of a pair of our Sunday morning mocha mugs (Yes, I see the symbolism to go from from a pair to one), a glass vase from flowers he gave me months ago, three letters sent either without stamps and/or complete addresses, one pair of readers out there in the world somewhere, misplaced car keys (had friends move table and bench when I thought my car keys fell out of my pocket at an eatery, as they weren't in the pocket of my bag...only to find that I put the keys in the wrong pocket. I started to keep the second set with me and made it a rule to always lock the car from the outside with the key),and dozen of shopping or/ to do lists left somewhere unnoticed until I am at the store. I know that the clumsiness is part of the grieving process, but it's painful when something of a sentimental value is destroyed. I thought of using paper plates and styrofoam cups, and, if nothing else, I can find humor in that I am beginning to bypass the dog's list.

I looked in the mirror one morning this month and saw that same tired face looking at me, for the umpteenth time, and heard the body yell, "Enough, already! Do something!" I've placed ego and pride on the shelf and requested a sleeping aid from my doctor, to get a couple of nights a week of solid sleep, like anything over 7 hours. The trick now is to coordinate Annie B's once or twice a week 12:30-4 am bathroom breaks with the nights I don't take a pill. So, if it isn't grief or menopause interrupting my sleep, it's the dog. When I hear her jump off the bed, I know it will be a few seconds until she whines to be let out. At that moment, I am desperately missing Jack, again, as he would always take "duty." ( I took over duty when he got sicker.) Simple moments like that are the times that I miss the team, the partnership that we were. It's all on my shoulders now. So, I'm putting on my shoes at 2:30 am, thinking, "Gads, I miss you Jack."

There are still tears every day. Songs, moments in movies, stories still can bring tears, but fewer now than months ago. I can shower now without crying, and I think that goes for the entire month. I know the spot in my heart that is accumulating the deep tears, that reservoir of pain that hurts so bad, so unbelievably intense, that I am knocked to my knees, curled up, sobbing when it erupts. That happens less frequently now. Then I'm back to "sad tears" for days and days. I know the valleys, mountains, glens, hills, and the abyss cycle of grieving for me.

The difference from month to month is how long I stay at each spot, with the "upside" becoming longer, and, strangely, becoming my new normal, a recognition that I am maintaining my house and life in some sort of order. I can do it. With that "new normal" comes the sadness that I am living, I am existing without Jack, and I have to separate that that has nothing to do with my love for him. Simply, it's easy to think that, if I really loved him, I should be wrapped in black, cloistered in the house, fasting, etc for the rest of my life. Instead. I am now thinking about "adventures" that we didn't do, but I will, making new friends, trying/doing/tasting something new once a week...all without him. It would be what he would want of me, as I would for him, if places reversed. Easier said than accepted by the heart, and a work in progress. I know it ALL would all be more fun with him by my side, all of it. So, each "adventure" is tainted by the recognition that I am alone and this is my normal. Oh, he is so with me, though, wherever I go, whatever I do, as we did so much in our short 27 years. I mean, I can't go by a Red Robin without thinking of our first date and numerous "anniversaries." I think of him hundreds times a day and memories are forever floating back. That is, too, a part of my "normal," flipping from the reality before me into the memories in my head/heart and back, again, to the here and now.
Denial is one tough wall to climb, to get through.

I went to the state wrestling finals at the Tacoma Dome last weekend to hear Jack's name announced. (They announced any officials and/or coaches who have died during the year before the final matches on Saturday.) (Oh, how he loved being there in that venue!) I drove 45 minutes to hear his name, to, once again, tell my heart that he is gone, and then turned around and drove 45 minutes home. Well, actually, I made it to my car, sobbed, and waited until I was under control, and then drove home....to an empty house....again. And after soccer games and errands with Annie B, I come home to an empty house....again and again. More often than not, now, I know he is not there, but wishing he was, and it is hurts. My "normal" is the empty house. I am now responsible for filling it. I think that has worth.

To the here and now,

Tally