Dear Peoples,
In my dream, I was driving alone to the cabin through Blewett Pass. There's a campground there (really is). I look down and I see Jack. He is wearing sky blue shorts, a madras plaid shirt (he had one when we first dated), and an ivory Carrigan sweater (which he has never owned; I bought him one once, discovered that he didn't like that style of sweater, and off to the Goodwill it went.). He has a small totally black dog on a red leash and the dog is pulling him to go on. He is smiling at me, as I drive by. I begin to frantically wave at him, feeling so excited to see him, and wanting him to wave back with the same enthusiasm. But, his right hand stays on his hip and he just smiles at me. As I continue pass the campground heading towards the cabin, I know that he is continuing in the other direction, but I think, "If he hurries up and gets in the car, he could turn around and catch-up with me."
Then, just last week, I was searching in the basement storage closet for a box to mail something. I find his radio-control car, and my first thought was, "Oh, he forgot to take this with him." I am stunned when I realize this means. There was not an emotional response, not a "Oh, we had so much fun with these cars." I had removed enough of his possessions that finding one sent me down a totally different path.
Those two incidents sums up well the 10th month. I still cling to some snippet of wanting him desperately back with me, desperately wanting what we had together back now. Yet, on some level, I know that we are continuing in different directions and I must go on. If nothing else, I am glad some canine soul found him in the next life and I will treasure this dream, as it is still quite vivid in my head now as when it happened. (Dream insights: I definitely dream in color and Jack is dressing himself in the next life.)
There are still "sacred" corners, shelves, places where I have not moved his possessions. But there are fewer of them now. And even those places are not as "sacred" as they once were. I am entering a new place, a place where I want it to be for me, recognizing it is also without him, as I make changes to the house. I am saddened by these changes, as I know I am removing what was "ours," and that is what is essence of what that "sacredness."
I look around the house and see how much I have changed. The piles and incomplete projects, the start and stops, are numerous. "Ms. File Everything" has what her brother calls, "Horizonal Filing:" a stack of papers on the floor in front of the file cabinets. I am moving my study from upstairs down to what was Jack's. (Oh, Freudian slip there: I had typed, "what is Jack's." Caught it and "ouch" to my heart.) I have decided that when I totally take over his/my work room, I will have to paint it a different color. Again, removing his color is a reminder of removing another of his possession.
I have some carpal tunnel issues, and I think that having to do ALL the gardening and paperwork has aggravated that joint.
I still don't watch much TV and am not comfortable in the family room yet. I so feel his absence in that room. I can easily see his body on the couch, TV on (always too loud for me). It is the one place that I simply EXPECT him to be and am startled each time that he is not there and I am dragged back into the reality that he won't ever be, again and again, when I go downstairs.
Same goes for the sports section of the paper, which he always read first. I am finding that I am reading it more than I ever did before. Sometimes, I see something that he would have read to me. Now, I say to him, "Look at this, Jack, can you believe this?" or "Jack would have loved this team."
Probably the most significant progress at this very moment is the weight the 28th of the month has. That number still causes an ache, but it is more of a number now, and a reminder that I am continuing on. And, conversely, just as I finished putting a period onto that sentence, tears started rolling down my cheeks, and I find that I still miss him deeply. Three steps forward, one back in my new direction. Such is my new normal.
In the hear and now,
Tally
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
Month 9 Update
Dear Peoples,
9th months since our Jack left our physical presence. Can you believe it? We've all moved on, in our jobs, our lives, our day-to-day existence. There are times that his memory floods back to the forefront or his presence and comfort is desperately needed; his absence is keenly felt. A moment, a recollection, a flashback from in-the-now experience. He is far from gone.
For me, I have had the painful awareness of the distance growing between what "we were" and "what I am." I initially grieved his absence, his leaving, the quiet without him. I am now grieving that I am living and managing, even growing without him. It's not that I don't still cry, almost daily, facing situations that bellow "we" and "ours," but, I am building my world around his absence. I am living my life without him, and I almost want to apologize to him for doing it. Then, I hear his voice in my heart that says, "Go on" and I do, often with tears and resistance.
It all started with my buying a new dining room table this month, something that Jack could have liked, but wasn't part of the decision-making process. I acutely was aware of that absence of a "second opinion." I did it without him. Also, I hired a contractor to begin the remodel what we always dreamed of doing together. It is done partly in that memory and for my own comfort, for me, for my house. A friend came over and helped sort one more phrase of his clothes to be donated to two charities. His closets are now 3/4th empty and his dresser drawers are totally. (I still cannot give away his dress clothes and I figured out why: they were worn on such special dates and/or for special occasions. They carry too many tied-on emotional ribbons, of which I am not ready to let go.... yet. I can go in that closet, pull the clothes around my nose and body, and sob at my loss, which signals that I am not ready.) I cleaned off his half of the bathroom sink, donating the items to a charity, keeping only his cologne, so I can smell him and memories at any time. I re-ordered my 5th Avenue Theatre season tickets (yes, I kept the subscription at two) and added another local awesome theatre subscription(for one), inviting others to join me as a part of an "Adventure Club." My life is going on...without him. I leaving the "we" behind in my living moments. It is becoming time to make choices and I find myself saying goodbye to what was, something of his, something of us. He will be forever in my heart. And I cry that I am, that I can.
The theme song from the movie, "The Titanic," which was Celine Dion's ending song to her concert this past December says it all: "My Heart Will Go On." I just have to make it "right" when it feels so "wrong" to be embracing the fun, the joy, the new, the excitement of life without him by my side. I am doing it, still missing his companionship in the moment. My heart AND life are going on. FYI: I cry deeply hearing that song. I know the words speak of my heart and life.
I knew the months between Jack's passing and his first anniversary would be filled with other losses. On March 22nd, my mother passed away, after a long time of deteriorating health. I had said my goodbyes two weeks beforehand and was only waiting for the call. This is news for some of you on this link. What I ask for is not to send cards, but for you to do a random act of kindness to counterbalance. I leave it at that; no explanation as to why of this request. Please just consider it.
My brother Mark came up from Arizona and was of great comfort. I can't tell you how many times that the conversation was so fluid and comfortable that I called him "Jack." How startled I was that I had said that, and how I was so keenly aware that Jack wasn't here...again, as I corrected myself. And how many times that I desperately needed Jack by my side, his arms around me, his words of comfort, his reality checks. I truly know that I cried for losing him, again, more than my mother now, in the moments of this week. It was all so fresh to feel his loss, again. The house suddenly became quieter and my life lonelier coming home from the rosary on Wednesday, the mass on Thursday, and dropping Mark off at the airport on Friday.
This is a relatively short blog entry. I find myself exhausted and depleted of any further thought to add tonight. I skipped a whole week of journal writing, too, which is unlike my usual routine, but tells me that my heart and body are wanting to take over, demanding rest. So, I shall.
In the here and now,
Tally
P.S. I have decided to close this blog at the one year mark, with June 28th being my final entry. I shall begin to formally put my journal, the blog notes, and miscellaneous notes into my book of this journey. In his death, I have my voice in my words. What a gift he gave! Gads, I miss him.
9th months since our Jack left our physical presence. Can you believe it? We've all moved on, in our jobs, our lives, our day-to-day existence. There are times that his memory floods back to the forefront or his presence and comfort is desperately needed; his absence is keenly felt. A moment, a recollection, a flashback from in-the-now experience. He is far from gone.
For me, I have had the painful awareness of the distance growing between what "we were" and "what I am." I initially grieved his absence, his leaving, the quiet without him. I am now grieving that I am living and managing, even growing without him. It's not that I don't still cry, almost daily, facing situations that bellow "we" and "ours," but, I am building my world around his absence. I am living my life without him, and I almost want to apologize to him for doing it. Then, I hear his voice in my heart that says, "Go on" and I do, often with tears and resistance.
It all started with my buying a new dining room table this month, something that Jack could have liked, but wasn't part of the decision-making process. I acutely was aware of that absence of a "second opinion." I did it without him. Also, I hired a contractor to begin the remodel what we always dreamed of doing together. It is done partly in that memory and for my own comfort, for me, for my house. A friend came over and helped sort one more phrase of his clothes to be donated to two charities. His closets are now 3/4th empty and his dresser drawers are totally. (I still cannot give away his dress clothes and I figured out why: they were worn on such special dates and/or for special occasions. They carry too many tied-on emotional ribbons, of which I am not ready to let go.... yet. I can go in that closet, pull the clothes around my nose and body, and sob at my loss, which signals that I am not ready.) I cleaned off his half of the bathroom sink, donating the items to a charity, keeping only his cologne, so I can smell him and memories at any time. I re-ordered my 5th Avenue Theatre season tickets (yes, I kept the subscription at two) and added another local awesome theatre subscription(for one), inviting others to join me as a part of an "Adventure Club." My life is going on...without him. I leaving the "we" behind in my living moments. It is becoming time to make choices and I find myself saying goodbye to what was, something of his, something of us. He will be forever in my heart. And I cry that I am, that I can.
The theme song from the movie, "The Titanic," which was Celine Dion's ending song to her concert this past December says it all: "My Heart Will Go On." I just have to make it "right" when it feels so "wrong" to be embracing the fun, the joy, the new, the excitement of life without him by my side. I am doing it, still missing his companionship in the moment. My heart AND life are going on. FYI: I cry deeply hearing that song. I know the words speak of my heart and life.
I knew the months between Jack's passing and his first anniversary would be filled with other losses. On March 22nd, my mother passed away, after a long time of deteriorating health. I had said my goodbyes two weeks beforehand and was only waiting for the call. This is news for some of you on this link. What I ask for is not to send cards, but for you to do a random act of kindness to counterbalance. I leave it at that; no explanation as to why of this request. Please just consider it.
My brother Mark came up from Arizona and was of great comfort. I can't tell you how many times that the conversation was so fluid and comfortable that I called him "Jack." How startled I was that I had said that, and how I was so keenly aware that Jack wasn't here...again, as I corrected myself. And how many times that I desperately needed Jack by my side, his arms around me, his words of comfort, his reality checks. I truly know that I cried for losing him, again, more than my mother now, in the moments of this week. It was all so fresh to feel his loss, again. The house suddenly became quieter and my life lonelier coming home from the rosary on Wednesday, the mass on Thursday, and dropping Mark off at the airport on Friday.
This is a relatively short blog entry. I find myself exhausted and depleted of any further thought to add tonight. I skipped a whole week of journal writing, too, which is unlike my usual routine, but tells me that my heart and body are wanting to take over, demanding rest. So, I shall.
In the here and now,
Tally
P.S. I have decided to close this blog at the one year mark, with June 28th being my final entry. I shall begin to formally put my journal, the blog notes, and miscellaneous notes into my book of this journey. In his death, I have my voice in my words. What a gift he gave! Gads, I miss him.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
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
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
Friday, January 30, 2009
Month 7 Update
Dear Peoples,
I have discovered that there's truly not much difference between Month #6 and Month #7, only in what "first's" were experienced. I suspect that #8 through 11 months will be similar, too. Nevertheless, I'm at #7, on the other side of the "first year hill." As a wise friend said, the first year is full of "firsts." Sorta obvious when I step back and think about it, but emotionally consoling when I am in the midst of one. There should be firsts going on. Right? It's the first year. Right? So, this is all my "new normal." Right?
I went on my first trip out of state this month, visiting a dear "Snowbird" friend in Arizona, having another retired counselor-friend as companion. (Blessing to have a neighborhood of friends who quickly and willingly took on dog care. Makes traveling easier.) Upon my return, I was back in the "deep end of the grief pool"when all the quick firsts hit: Jack's not driving me to the airport; Jack's not hiding our little "travel bear" in my luggage (a stuffed animal that always showed up somewhere in the traveler's luggage unexpectedly. I did it for myself this time. A first.); I didn't call home when I arrived to let him know I had arrived safely; we didn't exchange phone calls during the week; Jack wasn't there to pick me up at the airport and all the emotions around being back together, again; and he wasn't at the house as I unlocked the door and entered. Oh, Annie B was most happy to see me, but I so missed the "reunion dance" couples do when re-united.
I can only describe my physical response from being overwhelmed with so many firsts, especially in a relatively small amount of time, as having a migraine. For me, like others who suffer those debilitating, painful headache, I go to bed , seek absolute quiet, darkness, and stillness until it "breaks." Then, afterwards, I am left with a drain of energy, a dullness, a "cotton-filled brain" for a good day or so. I function, but I know I am not whole yet. WIth grief, I don't need the bed rest, but I am deeply emotionally, tearful most of the day, and then over two days, that dull headed/body-ness ebbs, and I feel myself come back with some sort of footing in the pool.
The next trip will be easier, I hope, as this first is under the belt.
Seven months has brought more energy to face tasks that have piled up or simply been avoided. I actually found the floor in Jack's study-it's not done, but it's a heck of a lot better. I have begun work on taxes, but, honestly, avoid it as much, too. I've started to figure out what will go when I am ready and what will replace what to fill the house with "my taste" vs. "our tastes." New bedroom furniture, new plateware, new glassware. Gotta get rid of the old stuff before buying new, but I am proud of myself for even moving into "new," and not still desperately grasping to whatever was ours. (A friend bought me the first 4 dinner plates of the Fiestaware line, to be my start, my impetus to get more . I love the bright colors compared to what I have/we had. I want "happy plates" to greet me when I open the cabinet. Isn't that step, alone, sound like movement through the grief and into living what comes next? It does to me.
Counselors call it "reframing": to look at something in a different way. I've felt stuck with cleaning out his t-shirts and polos, because there was an emotional value to them, AND, at the same time, I'm ready to move them.(Note: just the t's and polos. Not the dress clothes.) A friend suggested making a quilt of them. Instantly, my heart went from the anguish of letting go of the shirts with memories to choosing which shirts would be donated and which go into the quilt. This project totally changed the emotional energy from "loss" to "creativity"and transition. And everyone knows of Jack's and my investments and energy into remodeling. So, you all can easily understand that that drawer of shirts was "remodeled" into something I can handle.
A couple of weeks ago, I passed a store that had a heart flag out front. It felt like it was waving Valentine's Day in my face, more than just an advertisement, as it was intended to be. What an ouch! I'll be in a bereavement workshop for those of us who have lost a partner/spouse and are facing Valentine's Day on the Day. Plus, I am thinking of doing something that will symbolically pass on our love. I don't have a definitive plan of action at this time, but I know the opportunity is waiting for me out there. I live by the mantra, "Whether I believe it or not , the world is unfolding exactly as it should." The world will drop something in my lap in the next few weeks, unfolding an opportunity to share love, our love, my love of living. All I need to do is figure if I want to listen and act....or not. So I will face this "first" with support and a plan to do something healing.
In this month, I've heard my laugh several times come out fully, not with a restrained or a forced feeling. It was just a good laugh. I think it was even more remarkable that I noticed. I so feel the difference. And, oh, it felt good. Months ago, it felt like I would never come back with it. Aside, someone noted that perhaps I misspelled the "wit" of my last month's comment dealing with my "Irish wit." (Clue: a 4-letter word that rhythms with "wit.") Oh, that's coming back, too. And, oh that playful side of dishing it out feels good, too. Jack is laughing with me, egging me on. You just know it, I just know it.
To the here and now,
Tally
I have discovered that there's truly not much difference between Month #6 and Month #7, only in what "first's" were experienced. I suspect that #8 through 11 months will be similar, too. Nevertheless, I'm at #7, on the other side of the "first year hill." As a wise friend said, the first year is full of "firsts." Sorta obvious when I step back and think about it, but emotionally consoling when I am in the midst of one. There should be firsts going on. Right? It's the first year. Right? So, this is all my "new normal." Right?
I went on my first trip out of state this month, visiting a dear "Snowbird" friend in Arizona, having another retired counselor-friend as companion. (Blessing to have a neighborhood of friends who quickly and willingly took on dog care. Makes traveling easier.) Upon my return, I was back in the "deep end of the grief pool"when all the quick firsts hit: Jack's not driving me to the airport; Jack's not hiding our little "travel bear" in my luggage (a stuffed animal that always showed up somewhere in the traveler's luggage unexpectedly. I did it for myself this time. A first.); I didn't call home when I arrived to let him know I had arrived safely; we didn't exchange phone calls during the week; Jack wasn't there to pick me up at the airport and all the emotions around being back together, again; and he wasn't at the house as I unlocked the door and entered. Oh, Annie B was most happy to see me, but I so missed the "reunion dance" couples do when re-united.
I can only describe my physical response from being overwhelmed with so many firsts, especially in a relatively small amount of time, as having a migraine. For me, like others who suffer those debilitating, painful headache, I go to bed , seek absolute quiet, darkness, and stillness until it "breaks." Then, afterwards, I am left with a drain of energy, a dullness, a "cotton-filled brain" for a good day or so. I function, but I know I am not whole yet. WIth grief, I don't need the bed rest, but I am deeply emotionally, tearful most of the day, and then over two days, that dull headed/body-ness ebbs, and I feel myself come back with some sort of footing in the pool.
The next trip will be easier, I hope, as this first is under the belt.
Seven months has brought more energy to face tasks that have piled up or simply been avoided. I actually found the floor in Jack's study-it's not done, but it's a heck of a lot better. I have begun work on taxes, but, honestly, avoid it as much, too. I've started to figure out what will go when I am ready and what will replace what to fill the house with "my taste" vs. "our tastes." New bedroom furniture, new plateware, new glassware. Gotta get rid of the old stuff before buying new, but I am proud of myself for even moving into "new," and not still desperately grasping to whatever was ours. (A friend bought me the first 4 dinner plates of the Fiestaware line, to be my start, my impetus to get more . I love the bright colors compared to what I have/we had. I want "happy plates" to greet me when I open the cabinet. Isn't that step, alone, sound like movement through the grief and into living what comes next? It does to me.
Counselors call it "reframing": to look at something in a different way. I've felt stuck with cleaning out his t-shirts and polos, because there was an emotional value to them, AND, at the same time, I'm ready to move them.(Note: just the t's and polos. Not the dress clothes.) A friend suggested making a quilt of them. Instantly, my heart went from the anguish of letting go of the shirts with memories to choosing which shirts would be donated and which go into the quilt. This project totally changed the emotional energy from "loss" to "creativity"and transition. And everyone knows of Jack's and my investments and energy into remodeling. So, you all can easily understand that that drawer of shirts was "remodeled" into something I can handle.
A couple of weeks ago, I passed a store that had a heart flag out front. It felt like it was waving Valentine's Day in my face, more than just an advertisement, as it was intended to be. What an ouch! I'll be in a bereavement workshop for those of us who have lost a partner/spouse and are facing Valentine's Day on the Day. Plus, I am thinking of doing something that will symbolically pass on our love. I don't have a definitive plan of action at this time, but I know the opportunity is waiting for me out there. I live by the mantra, "Whether I believe it or not , the world is unfolding exactly as it should." The world will drop something in my lap in the next few weeks, unfolding an opportunity to share love, our love, my love of living. All I need to do is figure if I want to listen and act....or not. So I will face this "first" with support and a plan to do something healing.
In this month, I've heard my laugh several times come out fully, not with a restrained or a forced feeling. It was just a good laugh. I think it was even more remarkable that I noticed. I so feel the difference. And, oh, it felt good. Months ago, it felt like I would never come back with it. Aside, someone noted that perhaps I misspelled the "wit" of my last month's comment dealing with my "Irish wit." (Clue: a 4-letter word that rhythms with "wit.") Oh, that's coming back, too. And, oh that playful side of dishing it out feels good, too. Jack is laughing with me, egging me on. You just know it, I just know it.
To the here and now,
Tally
Monday, December 29, 2008
Month 6 Update
Dear Peoples,
A simple summary: in 6 months, I have endured without Jack my birthday(August), our anniversary(October), a Thanksgiving(November), and now Christmas (December.) I have completed a 6-week bereavement group through Evergreen Hospice (early December), connecting with 6 other grieving souls, and we will continue to meet, supporting each other. And I have cried and cried and I am still here with hope that things will some day, way down some road, will get better.
After 26+ years together, there are simply too many stories, memories, moments, and now triggers. Just too many. As if going anywhere, doing anything isn't enough to bring about an "I remember when we did that or went there," it is also my subconscious flipping through a rollex of pictures, sounds, places, moments together, pulling out one, and flinging it to the forefront of whatever I'm doing, and I find myself being whisked completely away into a moment and into tears. I don't see these "Flash from Past" coming, but know I will be crying deeply when they land. And I will never be able to convey to you all the intensity or depth of the phrase, "I miss you so much, Jack," but it is my daily greeting to him, morning, noon, and night.
Now, I've seen some progress in my adjustment to his passing. Jack's warm jackets have been passed on before the snow hit and old worn-out running shoes have been recycled this week. I must have looked a tad bit odd in the shoe store that takes the shoes for recycling as I kissed the last one goodbye before dropping it in the bin. Probably no crazier than holding onto one of his favorite warm jackets, kissing it, hugging it goodbye, as if he was still in it, before letting go.(Glad it was one of his waterproof ones, as to not worry about leaving tear stains.) I've actually looked at his razor, shaving cream, dental floss, and toothpaste and am nearly ready to clean that off his side of the bathroom countertop. Nearly. I've learned to slow way down, listening to my heart before letting go of anything: "Are you really ready to let go of this? Really?" Any hesitation signals that I am not. But I see the baby steps of even thinking it, much less actually doing it, as progress, when, before, it was too vital, almost sacred, to hold onto everything of his, every single item. I am healing.
One of the bereavement classes I attended was on coping with the holidays. There were 40 of us packed in room for a two+ hour Saturday morning presentation on how to get through this season. Two key learnings from that workshop carried me through the Christmas season. One: it will never, ever be the same, again, no matter what I do or how much I want it to be so. Two: the goal is to continue grieving AND find the joy of the season. I faced those two lessons numerous times, often crying that, sure enough, the holidays were changing, morphing into something new and I couldn't bring him or his spirit back into it no matter what I did or tried. I had a dear neighbor take care of decorating the tree, which was always Jack's job, one that just gave him so much joy to do. If she hadn't done it, the tree, which I did buy and was proud of myself for finding that much "joy," would have had maybe one ornament on it: the new one I bought, "joyfully" continuing the tradition of buying a new one every year. It was an angel with the word "Hope." I thought appropriate, considering the circumstances. Other dear friends made sure there were gifts that I didn't buy for myself under the tree, so I had surprises to unwrap. I had Christmas Eve breakfast and gift opening with Jack's son, Steve and his family at their house (snow made travel to the cabin too difficult), and that will be a new tradition. I had Christmas morning breakfast with a dear friend, and that was heart-warming to be a part of her family's traditions. Returning home around noon, I made it my tradition that I opened one gift per hour, to drag that "joy" out longer into the day. I got up the day after Christmas with this one thought: I did it, I did it.
On a personal level, I learned that if I ask for it, it will happen, like the tree decorating, the wrapped gifts, or a friend helping me shop for myself when I was suffering huge brain "freezes" when it came to decision making. Ah, those "brain freezes." Several times, while shopping, I would hit an absolutely wall in thinking. Nothing was functioning and the only option seemed to be was to just walk away, to try again later. ("So, I drove all this way," I would talk to myself, "and now I'm driving all the way home with nothing?" Yep, you are. Deal with it. Go call a friend for help.) I know that I am so surrounded with caring and anxious souls, wanting to help me gimp through this difficult time. If I ask, I know help is there. Truly, that was a gift that can't be wrapped anywhere but around the heart and in the mind, and it was truly given to me this season. I needn't any further proof than my experience with people in the last two weeks.
I was Bellevue-bound before the holidays because there was a memorial wrestling tournament in Jack's honor, to help both promote the sport of wrestling and to raise money for the scholarship in his name. Because of weather, it was cancelled, which was awful in light of the hours and hours and hours and hours of work behind the scene to create such an event. Hope is that it will be either January 3rd or 17th. That will also keep me "west side" bound. If you haven't seen the fabulous web site for this scholarship and the fundraising, please check it out: www.JackReynoldsScholarshipFund.com All the energy and work around this scholarship brings me to tears, as it so honors Jack's love of students and the sport of wrestling. Some wonderful men working hard to honor our Jack.
I think about a new year starting in a few days. Such a mixed bag to be away from dying and death that 2008 will always carry with it, and, at the same time, looking forward at what I may find new in 2009, both within myself and in my world. I pray that sounds hopeful to you, as that is how it feels inside, which I know that it is also a part of the healing. I knew that "hope" angel ornament was more than a Christmas decoration: it was a seed planted within, watered with tears, supported by friends and family, and fertilized with good ol' Irish wit. It will grow, no doubt.
Joyful holidays to you and yours.
In the here and now,
Tally
P.S. Several people have asked discreetly about my financial status. So, I'm putting it out there for everyone to know. Wisely, when we retired, we both chose the option of "survivor" on our pensions, less monthly money, but a guarantee for the survivor. Simply, I am getting Jack's pension on top of my own for the rest of my life. I have to budget, ain't buying new cars, boats or a new wardrobe, but I am comfortable, maintaining both the Bellevue house and Cashmere cabin, and having enough to provide "fun stuff" to do, too, like attending concerts, playing soccer, buying an impulse item here and there. I'm OK, I really am.
A simple summary: in 6 months, I have endured without Jack my birthday(August), our anniversary(October), a Thanksgiving(November), and now Christmas (December.) I have completed a 6-week bereavement group through Evergreen Hospice (early December), connecting with 6 other grieving souls, and we will continue to meet, supporting each other. And I have cried and cried and I am still here with hope that things will some day, way down some road, will get better.
After 26+ years together, there are simply too many stories, memories, moments, and now triggers. Just too many. As if going anywhere, doing anything isn't enough to bring about an "I remember when we did that or went there," it is also my subconscious flipping through a rollex of pictures, sounds, places, moments together, pulling out one, and flinging it to the forefront of whatever I'm doing, and I find myself being whisked completely away into a moment and into tears. I don't see these "Flash from Past" coming, but know I will be crying deeply when they land. And I will never be able to convey to you all the intensity or depth of the phrase, "I miss you so much, Jack," but it is my daily greeting to him, morning, noon, and night.
Now, I've seen some progress in my adjustment to his passing. Jack's warm jackets have been passed on before the snow hit and old worn-out running shoes have been recycled this week. I must have looked a tad bit odd in the shoe store that takes the shoes for recycling as I kissed the last one goodbye before dropping it in the bin. Probably no crazier than holding onto one of his favorite warm jackets, kissing it, hugging it goodbye, as if he was still in it, before letting go.(Glad it was one of his waterproof ones, as to not worry about leaving tear stains.) I've actually looked at his razor, shaving cream, dental floss, and toothpaste and am nearly ready to clean that off his side of the bathroom countertop. Nearly. I've learned to slow way down, listening to my heart before letting go of anything: "Are you really ready to let go of this? Really?" Any hesitation signals that I am not. But I see the baby steps of even thinking it, much less actually doing it, as progress, when, before, it was too vital, almost sacred, to hold onto everything of his, every single item. I am healing.
One of the bereavement classes I attended was on coping with the holidays. There were 40 of us packed in room for a two+ hour Saturday morning presentation on how to get through this season. Two key learnings from that workshop carried me through the Christmas season. One: it will never, ever be the same, again, no matter what I do or how much I want it to be so. Two: the goal is to continue grieving AND find the joy of the season. I faced those two lessons numerous times, often crying that, sure enough, the holidays were changing, morphing into something new and I couldn't bring him or his spirit back into it no matter what I did or tried. I had a dear neighbor take care of decorating the tree, which was always Jack's job, one that just gave him so much joy to do. If she hadn't done it, the tree, which I did buy and was proud of myself for finding that much "joy," would have had maybe one ornament on it: the new one I bought, "joyfully" continuing the tradition of buying a new one every year. It was an angel with the word "Hope." I thought appropriate, considering the circumstances. Other dear friends made sure there were gifts that I didn't buy for myself under the tree, so I had surprises to unwrap. I had Christmas Eve breakfast and gift opening with Jack's son, Steve and his family at their house (snow made travel to the cabin too difficult), and that will be a new tradition. I had Christmas morning breakfast with a dear friend, and that was heart-warming to be a part of her family's traditions. Returning home around noon, I made it my tradition that I opened one gift per hour, to drag that "joy" out longer into the day. I got up the day after Christmas with this one thought: I did it, I did it.
On a personal level, I learned that if I ask for it, it will happen, like the tree decorating, the wrapped gifts, or a friend helping me shop for myself when I was suffering huge brain "freezes" when it came to decision making. Ah, those "brain freezes." Several times, while shopping, I would hit an absolutely wall in thinking. Nothing was functioning and the only option seemed to be was to just walk away, to try again later. ("So, I drove all this way," I would talk to myself, "and now I'm driving all the way home with nothing?" Yep, you are. Deal with it. Go call a friend for help.) I know that I am so surrounded with caring and anxious souls, wanting to help me gimp through this difficult time. If I ask, I know help is there. Truly, that was a gift that can't be wrapped anywhere but around the heart and in the mind, and it was truly given to me this season. I needn't any further proof than my experience with people in the last two weeks.
I was Bellevue-bound before the holidays because there was a memorial wrestling tournament in Jack's honor, to help both promote the sport of wrestling and to raise money for the scholarship in his name. Because of weather, it was cancelled, which was awful in light of the hours and hours and hours and hours of work behind the scene to create such an event. Hope is that it will be either January 3rd or 17th. That will also keep me "west side" bound. If you haven't seen the fabulous web site for this scholarship and the fundraising, please check it out: www.JackReynoldsScholarshipFund.com All the energy and work around this scholarship brings me to tears, as it so honors Jack's love of students and the sport of wrestling. Some wonderful men working hard to honor our Jack.
I think about a new year starting in a few days. Such a mixed bag to be away from dying and death that 2008 will always carry with it, and, at the same time, looking forward at what I may find new in 2009, both within myself and in my world. I pray that sounds hopeful to you, as that is how it feels inside, which I know that it is also a part of the healing. I knew that "hope" angel ornament was more than a Christmas decoration: it was a seed planted within, watered with tears, supported by friends and family, and fertilized with good ol' Irish wit. It will grow, no doubt.
Joyful holidays to you and yours.
In the here and now,
Tally
P.S. Several people have asked discreetly about my financial status. So, I'm putting it out there for everyone to know. Wisely, when we retired, we both chose the option of "survivor" on our pensions, less monthly money, but a guarantee for the survivor. Simply, I am getting Jack's pension on top of my own for the rest of my life. I have to budget, ain't buying new cars, boats or a new wardrobe, but I am comfortable, maintaining both the Bellevue house and Cashmere cabin, and having enough to provide "fun stuff" to do, too, like attending concerts, playing soccer, buying an impulse item here and there. I'm OK, I really am.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Month 5 Update
The "Jack's Care Team" group of my email address book, which I used last month, is 100% empty when I went to address this email. I'm using the "Summer" addresses and am adding ones that I now are missing. Please pass on. [Aggravation!]
Dear People,
As I reread my November journal entries, trying to find pieces of thought for this email, I see the scattered emotional, physical, and mental states of my being. And it's so many little things, so little, yet so significant, that often overwhelm me. Like looking up from my monitor just now, searching for the words, and seeing two pictures of him on my desk and immediately being in tears at how much I miss him.
Or, earlier in the month, I was buying veggies in a local grocery store and froze, flooded with a memory with each item. Jack would intentionally mispronounce asparagus : "Ass-per-gus." When I finally gave in and started to use his way, he would get this silly grin and tell me, "See, I was right." Or how I would buy brussels sprouts (not his favorite) and wait until he wasn't home for dinner to put them up for myself...and now, I don't have to "hide" them anymore, and how odd that feels to be so overt and brazen about it. And not buying a bag of potatoes, because how many do I really need for just me?
Or coming back from the cabin, driving his truck, and crying as I adjust the outside mirrors to fit for me, something I would never do while he was alive, or if I did, I would re-adjust them back for him. And now, I leave be.
Or discovering that I can DO many things, but how much easier it would be with him. Like the clothes washer kaputzed on me. I got it removed, replaced, and disposed of (with much help), but I did it without him. And how easier it would have been with him, fewer phone calls, less arranging of assistance and time.
Or going to our Washington beach spot for Thanksgiving and ALL the trips to pack car and then unpack up one flight of stairs, with dog in tow. How easier it was doing it together.
Or coming home from a soccer game with my gear and having his face at the door to help carry things in. Now, there's no one at the door and it takes two trips.
Or having the utility bill come, showing the year usage, and seeing water, electric, and gas amount cut in half from November '07 to November '08. And thinking what we were doing last November: the last chance treatment study and all was going so well. Even the damn bills show he's gone.
Or finishing a book for the first time since May '08, because reading was something we did together. Now, it is something that takes more focus than I have. And I smiled that I accomplished what I see as a step in healing and I cried because I read a book without him around.
Or while heading to the beach on Wednesday for Thanksgiving, being joined by a friend and her daughters for Thursday and Friday, I realize I hadn't brought anything for Wednesday night dinner. I had only turkey meals planned, which wasn't being put up until Thursday. I stop in a grocery store to get some clam chowder, which is something we always have this week, as a break from turkey. As I stand in the soup aisle, comparing salt and fat content of soups, I feel transported in time and space, and I see Jack comparing soup cans, as I taught him. "This is the best one," he would figure out, and it got to the point that I believed him. (A long slow process.;->) And I start to cry. In the soup aisle. A can of clam chowder. Who would have guessed?
I struggle with being gentle with my forgetfulness, lack of focus, scattered processing. I'm not sure who I am when, sometimes. I am so quick to anger or impatience over trivial matters. And I don't have the answer to the endearing question, "What do you need" or "What can I do for you?" I don't know, and even if I did, the answer could change mid-sentence. And that is frustrating for me, to say nothing of you, my friends, standing off stage, waiting a cue from me. The washer was easy, black and white problem. My healing is not. I noted in my journal on November 11th, that "Grief is not something you can figure-out. It's something you must endure." My intellectual brain wants to find the black and white tasks to complete, check-off the list, and move to whatever needs to be done next. "Let's get this show on the road" type of thinking. And grief doesn't work that way and God knows I keep on trying to do otherwise at times.
I know why the tears are deeper than before: the denial stage is wearing thin and reality isn't. Jack is not coming back, and even that choice of words feels like it has a smattering of denial in it, as if he is gone on a trip, "....not coming back". Let me reword that, as a step into what is real: Jack is dead. I am without him and this is my life now. And if a can of soup or the veggies can be so powerful, imagine going into his study and finding a romantic card he saved...or a picture of us in Hawaii August 5 years before we knew he had melanoma. Ah, what we didn't know then. I don't deny it, how much I wish I could have back that carefree unencumbered time with a healthy and loving Jack. (He was diagnosed Dec. 5, 2003. What a ride into hell it was from there.)
So, I made it through the first of the winter holidays. One down, one to go. Yes, my brain has checked off this accomplishment; I did it; I endured. Jack's son, Steve, and his family, will join me at the cabin for Christmas, weather and jobs permitting for them. If not there, then at their home. Weather permitting, I will be at the cabin for post-Christmas week, to avoid the New Year's fireworks and the hurtful impact on the dog. I've picked out a gift for myself, maybe two or three, but, like Thanksgiving, it will never be the same, and that is reality. There is a hole, a missing person, that, no matter what I do or try, will still be missing and I will still notice. Nothing will fill that spot this year or ever. Sigh. Darn. Can't check that off any ol' list.
To the here and now,
Tally
P.S. Got back from the beach this afternoon, Saturday. That's why I'm not on time with the "28th" entry. Kinda a good thing, in a way.
Dear People,
As I reread my November journal entries, trying to find pieces of thought for this email, I see the scattered emotional, physical, and mental states of my being. And it's so many little things, so little, yet so significant, that often overwhelm me. Like looking up from my monitor just now, searching for the words, and seeing two pictures of him on my desk and immediately being in tears at how much I miss him.
Or, earlier in the month, I was buying veggies in a local grocery store and froze, flooded with a memory with each item. Jack would intentionally mispronounce asparagus : "Ass-per-gus." When I finally gave in and started to use his way, he would get this silly grin and tell me, "See, I was right." Or how I would buy brussels sprouts (not his favorite) and wait until he wasn't home for dinner to put them up for myself...and now, I don't have to "hide" them anymore, and how odd that feels to be so overt and brazen about it. And not buying a bag of potatoes, because how many do I really need for just me?
Or coming back from the cabin, driving his truck, and crying as I adjust the outside mirrors to fit for me, something I would never do while he was alive, or if I did, I would re-adjust them back for him. And now, I leave be.
Or discovering that I can DO many things, but how much easier it would be with him. Like the clothes washer kaputzed on me. I got it removed, replaced, and disposed of (with much help), but I did it without him. And how easier it would have been with him, fewer phone calls, less arranging of assistance and time.
Or going to our Washington beach spot for Thanksgiving and ALL the trips to pack car and then unpack up one flight of stairs, with dog in tow. How easier it was doing it together.
Or coming home from a soccer game with my gear and having his face at the door to help carry things in. Now, there's no one at the door and it takes two trips.
Or having the utility bill come, showing the year usage, and seeing water, electric, and gas amount cut in half from November '07 to November '08. And thinking what we were doing last November: the last chance treatment study and all was going so well. Even the damn bills show he's gone.
Or finishing a book for the first time since May '08, because reading was something we did together. Now, it is something that takes more focus than I have. And I smiled that I accomplished what I see as a step in healing and I cried because I read a book without him around.
Or while heading to the beach on Wednesday for Thanksgiving, being joined by a friend and her daughters for Thursday and Friday, I realize I hadn't brought anything for Wednesday night dinner. I had only turkey meals planned, which wasn't being put up until Thursday. I stop in a grocery store to get some clam chowder, which is something we always have this week, as a break from turkey. As I stand in the soup aisle, comparing salt and fat content of soups, I feel transported in time and space, and I see Jack comparing soup cans, as I taught him. "This is the best one," he would figure out, and it got to the point that I believed him. (A long slow process.;->) And I start to cry. In the soup aisle. A can of clam chowder. Who would have guessed?
I struggle with being gentle with my forgetfulness, lack of focus, scattered processing. I'm not sure who I am when, sometimes. I am so quick to anger or impatience over trivial matters. And I don't have the answer to the endearing question, "What do you need" or "What can I do for you?" I don't know, and even if I did, the answer could change mid-sentence. And that is frustrating for me, to say nothing of you, my friends, standing off stage, waiting a cue from me. The washer was easy, black and white problem. My healing is not. I noted in my journal on November 11th, that "Grief is not something you can figure-out. It's something you must endure." My intellectual brain wants to find the black and white tasks to complete, check-off the list, and move to whatever needs to be done next. "Let's get this show on the road" type of thinking. And grief doesn't work that way and God knows I keep on trying to do otherwise at times.
I know why the tears are deeper than before: the denial stage is wearing thin and reality isn't. Jack is not coming back, and even that choice of words feels like it has a smattering of denial in it, as if he is gone on a trip, "....not coming back". Let me reword that, as a step into what is real: Jack is dead. I am without him and this is my life now. And if a can of soup or the veggies can be so powerful, imagine going into his study and finding a romantic card he saved...or a picture of us in Hawaii August 5 years before we knew he had melanoma. Ah, what we didn't know then. I don't deny it, how much I wish I could have back that carefree unencumbered time with a healthy and loving Jack. (He was diagnosed Dec. 5, 2003. What a ride into hell it was from there.)
So, I made it through the first of the winter holidays. One down, one to go. Yes, my brain has checked off this accomplishment; I did it; I endured. Jack's son, Steve, and his family, will join me at the cabin for Christmas, weather and jobs permitting for them. If not there, then at their home. Weather permitting, I will be at the cabin for post-Christmas week, to avoid the New Year's fireworks and the hurtful impact on the dog. I've picked out a gift for myself, maybe two or three, but, like Thanksgiving, it will never be the same, and that is reality. There is a hole, a missing person, that, no matter what I do or try, will still be missing and I will still notice. Nothing will fill that spot this year or ever. Sigh. Darn. Can't check that off any ol' list.
To the here and now,
Tally
P.S. Got back from the beach this afternoon, Saturday. That's why I'm not on time with the "28th" entry. Kinda a good thing, in a way.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Month 4 Update
Dear People,
I have to remind myself often that it's only 4 months now, 4 months to face the fact that Jack isn't coming back. And it doesn't adhere to my mental or emotional reality 100% yet. I've gotten to the point that I know it is no longer a long visit with his Dad or an out-of-town tournament. But sometimes, I miss him so badly, so enormously, that I slip back into that hope that he's coming back soon. An eery yet fascinating observation I am witnessing within myself of that strong defense called "denial." I have to remind myself of being at Jack's death. I even-morbidly as this may sound-took a picture of him in bed after his death, just to help me know later it was real; it really did happen, I'm not imagining. I bump into the picture several times now, and it's such a stark dose of reality at a painful level. BUT it does it job of cutting through the denial, painfully so.
I spent 2 hours driving to the cabin a couple of weeks ago thinking of all the things I miss and I filled the 2-hours easily and several pages of my journal writing them all down. I must say, "I miss you, Jack" a dozen times a time.
Now, it's the "triggers" that punches me in my gut, drops me to my knees, and I am sometimes awashed with tears so quickly so that I do not even have time to wipe them before they are dropping from my face. A song, a food, a mutually shared activity/act. I was out on an errand in town and saw a teen with her last name printed on the back of her sweatshirt, and I was both smiling and tearful as the name was simply, "Jack." What are the chances of seeing that in the middle of the day?!?! (OK, after seeing the name, I thought, "What isn't she in school?" The educator lives on.) Someone said that he will send messages to me. He did and does.
I've started to clean out the Bellevue house's garage and basement. Tossed dozens of VCR tapes, knowing I will never look at them alone. I sorted hundreds of nails into bins, going through the duplication of tools. BUT, I can endure doing that for about an hour or two, and I'm suddenly looking at what feels like a hundred of decisions and tasks, and I freeze. I can't figure out what comes next and I do nothing but quit for another day. The "freezes" frustrate me, yet, I know I cannot force the mind to go where and when the heart is not ready. Such a dance, such a dance.
Months ago, Jack asked if he was "melting" and, now, I am feeling that I'm "fading." I get his "melting" in my living. I don't feel my energy, my focus, just anything to do with who I was 4 months ago. I lack focus, concentration, enthusiasm, drive. I set a goal of accomplishing three things a day, Three. Jack's and my studies are a mess, dining room table has piles of paper-type tasks, and the breakfast bar in the kitchen has just enough room for my breakfast plate. It both drives me nuts and simultaneously, I don't care. Some moments, I hurt so bad that I feel incapable of movement. Yet, I get out of bed because a "4-pedder" (Annie B) needs her care. I do the "three goals/tasks a day" because I feel better after doing something, anything, and I know it, so that's why I do that goal. I exercise and eat well because I both know my body needs it and that this body will be what will carry this heart and soul down this healing path.
The counselor in me knows this path. I have walked along many a kid down it in my work. So, you all know that I am not walking the path alone. I know better. I have many "guides", many "pit stops", many companions, who, although have not lost their partner, know what lost is and are present with their hearts with mine. It's just a long f*cking path, if you excuse the language. It's long and I must walk it. There's no sprint, no avoiding the inevitable. And I both shake my fists at the heavens for taking him so soon and drop to my knees in thanksgiving we had what we had.
For you caregivers out there, know that I'm set for both Thanksgiving and Christmas. Thanks for the thoughts and invites so soon. You're all jewels in the crown of my life.
In the here and now,
Tally
P.S. Attached is the picture of his tool belt in a framed shadow box. I picked it up yesterday.(Great timing, uh?) The framer did a great job. I was crying as the young man at the shop unwrapped it to show me. I knew I could never tossed or give that belt and hammer away. I'm heading over to the cabin before Thanksgiving to hang it in the garage. Meanwhile, it's in the back of my car to show and carry something of his with me.
I have to remind myself often that it's only 4 months now, 4 months to face the fact that Jack isn't coming back. And it doesn't adhere to my mental or emotional reality 100% yet. I've gotten to the point that I know it is no longer a long visit with his Dad or an out-of-town tournament. But sometimes, I miss him so badly, so enormously, that I slip back into that hope that he's coming back soon. An eery yet fascinating observation I am witnessing within myself of that strong defense called "denial." I have to remind myself of being at Jack's death. I even-morbidly as this may sound-took a picture of him in bed after his death, just to help me know later it was real; it really did happen, I'm not imagining. I bump into the picture several times now, and it's such a stark dose of reality at a painful level. BUT it does it job of cutting through the denial, painfully so.
I spent 2 hours driving to the cabin a couple of weeks ago thinking of all the things I miss and I filled the 2-hours easily and several pages of my journal writing them all down. I must say, "I miss you, Jack" a dozen times a time.
Now, it's the "triggers" that punches me in my gut, drops me to my knees, and I am sometimes awashed with tears so quickly so that I do not even have time to wipe them before they are dropping from my face. A song, a food, a mutually shared activity/act. I was out on an errand in town and saw a teen with her last name printed on the back of her sweatshirt, and I was both smiling and tearful as the name was simply, "Jack." What are the chances of seeing that in the middle of the day?!?! (OK, after seeing the name, I thought, "What isn't she in school?" The educator lives on.) Someone said that he will send messages to me. He did and does.
I've started to clean out the Bellevue house's garage and basement. Tossed dozens of VCR tapes, knowing I will never look at them alone. I sorted hundreds of nails into bins, going through the duplication of tools. BUT, I can endure doing that for about an hour or two, and I'm suddenly looking at what feels like a hundred of decisions and tasks, and I freeze. I can't figure out what comes next and I do nothing but quit for another day. The "freezes" frustrate me, yet, I know I cannot force the mind to go where and when the heart is not ready. Such a dance, such a dance.
Months ago, Jack asked if he was "melting" and, now, I am feeling that I'm "fading." I get his "melting" in my living. I don't feel my energy, my focus, just anything to do with who I was 4 months ago. I lack focus, concentration, enthusiasm, drive. I set a goal of accomplishing three things a day, Three. Jack's and my studies are a mess, dining room table has piles of paper-type tasks, and the breakfast bar in the kitchen has just enough room for my breakfast plate. It both drives me nuts and simultaneously, I don't care. Some moments, I hurt so bad that I feel incapable of movement. Yet, I get out of bed because a "4-pedder" (Annie B) needs her care. I do the "three goals/tasks a day" because I feel better after doing something, anything, and I know it, so that's why I do that goal. I exercise and eat well because I both know my body needs it and that this body will be what will carry this heart and soul down this healing path.
The counselor in me knows this path. I have walked along many a kid down it in my work. So, you all know that I am not walking the path alone. I know better. I have many "guides", many "pit stops", many companions, who, although have not lost their partner, know what lost is and are present with their hearts with mine. It's just a long f*cking path, if you excuse the language. It's long and I must walk it. There's no sprint, no avoiding the inevitable. And I both shake my fists at the heavens for taking him so soon and drop to my knees in thanksgiving we had what we had.
For you caregivers out there, know that I'm set for both Thanksgiving and Christmas. Thanks for the thoughts and invites so soon. You're all jewels in the crown of my life.
In the here and now,
Tally
P.S. Attached is the picture of his tool belt in a framed shadow box. I picked it up yesterday.(Great timing, uh?) The framer did a great job. I was crying as the young man at the shop unwrapped it to show me. I knew I could never tossed or give that belt and hammer away. I'm heading over to the cabin before Thanksgiving to hang it in the garage. Meanwhile, it's in the back of my car to show and carry something of his with me.
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