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
Friday, January 30, 2009
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.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Three Months Since Jack's Passing
Peoples, It has been 3 months since Jack's passing, but, with the dropping of my last bundle of his remains into Puget Sound on Sept. 13th, I feel like it is truly now only two weeks.
I had not anticipated the return to the original level of pain and lost; I didn't think I could hurt that much again. I did and do. And, although I saw some progress prior to the burial, I see myself almost at the beginning, again. I'm easily in tears and I'm not mentally processing well. I do sleep better, but only with a sleep aid, and appetite is still not back, and thus, weight is about 10 pounds lighter. (What a dilemma: I need one pant size smaller now, but will eventually be back to "me normal," which is baggy now. Baggy-and-not-spend-money-now vs. Pants-that-fit-and-spend-money-now-but -$$-will-be-wasted-later. Going with baggy and safety pins on the waist band.)
Fall and the slow loss of long sunshiny days has always been difficult for me. It feels worst now. The earlier dusk is the time that I am so missing Jack. It seems with daylight I can find much to do. Dusk and darkness are more of a struggle. Winter is coming and I'm trying to remember all the things we/HE did to winterize the cabin. I've got the wood for both places for heating the stoves, and I proudly checked that off the list. But, I start to second-question myself, "Is it enough?" and that load of sole-responsibility takes on more weight. I so need that second opinion, so need it.I talk to him often, asking for guidance. "Is this right, Jack?" "Help me, Bubba, I've never done this before, " and the proverbially, "Oh, sh*t, Jackson, what do I do now?" when presented with something new and probably costing money. Sometimes, I hear an answer, but more often than not, it's more of the feeling, "You can do it" and "Trust yourself." How can someone get to 56 years old and not done so much, know so little, and feel so uncomfortable with being alone? I dunno, but I'm there.
I started to put HIS cabin garage into order and I'm always asking him, "Where do you want this?" or "Should this go here or there?" I almost want to apologize to him for not knowing, for not having that conversation sooner. I so want it to be the way he wanted it. No, that's not quite right: I want it perfectly the way he would have wanted it. And, then, my heart and mind says, "It's yours now. Do it your way." And I cry because they're right. Gads, I miss him.I was gently told that I would save something, change some, and toss others. I have gone through one drawer of his dresser and had to stop, as it was too painful to let go of some clothing just yet. I've sent some of his casual clothes to his father, who has truly enjoyed wearing his son's clothes. Otherwise, everything is still there in the closet and dresser. The few empty hangers are painful reminders that there will be more of them and eventually, it will be empty. I know it can wait; there's no rush, but there's time that I want to move forward, too, and clothing seems like a safe start. And then I learn, nothing is safe from the grief, nothing.
I had "immortalized" his tool belt with suspenders, his framing hammer, and measuring tape into a shadow box with a small metal plague, "Jack R. Reynolds ~The Builder." The frame shop doing the work really got what I wanted, what my intent was, what the meaning of those three things were. I pick it up next weekend, and will put it proudly in his garage, his finished garage. Look for it if you've ever there at the cabin.
So, 8 weeks forward, 6 weeks back, and that's how grief goes. I sometimes ask myself, "WiIl the 28th of any month eventually just be the 28th of the month and not a reminder, an anniversary?" Not for awhile is the answer, not for awhile.
In the here and now,
Tally
I had not anticipated the return to the original level of pain and lost; I didn't think I could hurt that much again. I did and do. And, although I saw some progress prior to the burial, I see myself almost at the beginning, again. I'm easily in tears and I'm not mentally processing well. I do sleep better, but only with a sleep aid, and appetite is still not back, and thus, weight is about 10 pounds lighter. (What a dilemma: I need one pant size smaller now, but will eventually be back to "me normal," which is baggy now. Baggy-and-not-spend-money-now vs. Pants-that-fit-and-spend-money-now-but -$$-will-be-wasted-later. Going with baggy and safety pins on the waist band.)
Fall and the slow loss of long sunshiny days has always been difficult for me. It feels worst now. The earlier dusk is the time that I am so missing Jack. It seems with daylight I can find much to do. Dusk and darkness are more of a struggle. Winter is coming and I'm trying to remember all the things we/HE did to winterize the cabin. I've got the wood for both places for heating the stoves, and I proudly checked that off the list. But, I start to second-question myself, "Is it enough?" and that load of sole-responsibility takes on more weight. I so need that second opinion, so need it.I talk to him often, asking for guidance. "Is this right, Jack?" "Help me, Bubba, I've never done this before, " and the proverbially, "Oh, sh*t, Jackson, what do I do now?" when presented with something new and probably costing money. Sometimes, I hear an answer, but more often than not, it's more of the feeling, "You can do it" and "Trust yourself." How can someone get to 56 years old and not done so much, know so little, and feel so uncomfortable with being alone? I dunno, but I'm there.
I started to put HIS cabin garage into order and I'm always asking him, "Where do you want this?" or "Should this go here or there?" I almost want to apologize to him for not knowing, for not having that conversation sooner. I so want it to be the way he wanted it. No, that's not quite right: I want it perfectly the way he would have wanted it. And, then, my heart and mind says, "It's yours now. Do it your way." And I cry because they're right. Gads, I miss him.I was gently told that I would save something, change some, and toss others. I have gone through one drawer of his dresser and had to stop, as it was too painful to let go of some clothing just yet. I've sent some of his casual clothes to his father, who has truly enjoyed wearing his son's clothes. Otherwise, everything is still there in the closet and dresser. The few empty hangers are painful reminders that there will be more of them and eventually, it will be empty. I know it can wait; there's no rush, but there's time that I want to move forward, too, and clothing seems like a safe start. And then I learn, nothing is safe from the grief, nothing.
I had "immortalized" his tool belt with suspenders, his framing hammer, and measuring tape into a shadow box with a small metal plague, "Jack R. Reynolds ~The Builder." The frame shop doing the work really got what I wanted, what my intent was, what the meaning of those three things were. I pick it up next weekend, and will put it proudly in his garage, his finished garage. Look for it if you've ever there at the cabin.
So, 8 weeks forward, 6 weeks back, and that's how grief goes. I sometimes ask myself, "WiIl the 28th of any month eventually just be the 28th of the month and not a reminder, an anniversary?" Not for awhile is the answer, not for awhile.
In the here and now,
Tally
Friday, August 29, 2008
Month 2 Update
Friends,I have sent Ron this blog entry and have taken his suggestion that I sent it out the "old way," too, to make sure you are updated on me. I am getting those questions from a variety of people, "Are you OK? How are you doing?" I started this entry last night and finished it today.
August 28, 2008
A dear soul gave me the following prose that is so true for me: "You think that their dying is the worst thing that could happen. Then they stay dead." (Donald Hall)
It's been two months without Jack now. Although I am more accustomed to being alone, I am not accustomed to the loneliness. The reality of his passing sinks deeper, and thus, it hurts deeper when it hurts. I still want to converse with him about something I saw or heard, something we would both get a chuckle, a tear, or tinge of outrage. I catch myself several times a day just wanting to see his face and his smile, next to me in the car, sitting at the dining room table, washing dishes. I miss reaching out and touching him, holding hands, being hugged. I miss the "second opinion," the helping hand with everyday tasks and errands, and his presence in the house. I miss him looking at me, being looked at with affection and devotion and commitment. Certain musical lyrics will drain my resolve and strength, seemingly able to gather into one song what I feel and think, and I am weeping. And then I hit "repeat" and listen to it, again and again.
I worded my essence without Jack as "just me" for awhile, and, now, it's evolving to "still me." I've learned that I can do whatever it takes to keep this house as mine. That is comforting. I can manage my time and tasks, although I live by lists to keep me focus. That is comforting. I stumble through those "1st time" moments, being painfully reminded that it's "just me." Simple things like renting a video, watching a favorite TV show, to more emotional like having a birthday or noting the elapsing time has become 2 whole months already. But I get through them as "still me." And that is comforting.
The crazy part of my tasks/errands reminder is I will think of something that needs to be done, but the original list is upstairs or downstairs, and I quickly grab the nearest piece of paper and write the note, knowing I will forget it otherwise. I spend a part of a day gathering these notes onto ONE page. My best "note fiasco" thus far was, while at the cabin recently, writing all that I needed to bring from home back to the cabin. I left it in my shorts' pocket and I thought of this just as the washer went into its wash cycle. I'm frantically pulling out this 100% soaked pair of shorts, praying the note is still somewhat intact. Nope. Got a "clean" slate on that note. Hope nothing was vital, as brain also has a clean slate on that list. :-/
A part of his ashes will be placed behind a retaining wall at the cabin on Tuesday, Sept. 2nd. That "burial" is another nudge to the brain and heart that Jack is gone. I've bought a single brick that is different in color than all the other bricks to be "his brick" in the wall. That will be a good reminder of all that that place meant to him and that he will always be there.
More than anything else, I want people to know I am OK. My dog helps motivate me to get out of bed in the morning, and that is good. I put on my under garments correctly, and clothes are right side out and facing the right way. That is good, too. There's not a day goes by that I don't' cry. It still is sometimes unbelievable that Jack is gone and unbelievably painful at times. But, know that I moving forward into the life I should be living,..in the here and now.
Tally
August 28, 2008
A dear soul gave me the following prose that is so true for me: "You think that their dying is the worst thing that could happen. Then they stay dead." (Donald Hall)
It's been two months without Jack now. Although I am more accustomed to being alone, I am not accustomed to the loneliness. The reality of his passing sinks deeper, and thus, it hurts deeper when it hurts. I still want to converse with him about something I saw or heard, something we would both get a chuckle, a tear, or tinge of outrage. I catch myself several times a day just wanting to see his face and his smile, next to me in the car, sitting at the dining room table, washing dishes. I miss reaching out and touching him, holding hands, being hugged. I miss the "second opinion," the helping hand with everyday tasks and errands, and his presence in the house. I miss him looking at me, being looked at with affection and devotion and commitment. Certain musical lyrics will drain my resolve and strength, seemingly able to gather into one song what I feel and think, and I am weeping. And then I hit "repeat" and listen to it, again and again.
I worded my essence without Jack as "just me" for awhile, and, now, it's evolving to "still me." I've learned that I can do whatever it takes to keep this house as mine. That is comforting. I can manage my time and tasks, although I live by lists to keep me focus. That is comforting. I stumble through those "1st time" moments, being painfully reminded that it's "just me." Simple things like renting a video, watching a favorite TV show, to more emotional like having a birthday or noting the elapsing time has become 2 whole months already. But I get through them as "still me." And that is comforting.
The crazy part of my tasks/errands reminder is I will think of something that needs to be done, but the original list is upstairs or downstairs, and I quickly grab the nearest piece of paper and write the note, knowing I will forget it otherwise. I spend a part of a day gathering these notes onto ONE page. My best "note fiasco" thus far was, while at the cabin recently, writing all that I needed to bring from home back to the cabin. I left it in my shorts' pocket and I thought of this just as the washer went into its wash cycle. I'm frantically pulling out this 100% soaked pair of shorts, praying the note is still somewhat intact. Nope. Got a "clean" slate on that note. Hope nothing was vital, as brain also has a clean slate on that list. :-/
A part of his ashes will be placed behind a retaining wall at the cabin on Tuesday, Sept. 2nd. That "burial" is another nudge to the brain and heart that Jack is gone. I've bought a single brick that is different in color than all the other bricks to be "his brick" in the wall. That will be a good reminder of all that that place meant to him and that he will always be there.
More than anything else, I want people to know I am OK. My dog helps motivate me to get out of bed in the morning, and that is good. I put on my under garments correctly, and clothes are right side out and facing the right way. That is good, too. There's not a day goes by that I don't' cry. It still is sometimes unbelievable that Jack is gone and unbelievably painful at times. But, know that I moving forward into the life I should be living,..in the here and now.
Tally
Monday, August 4, 2008
Some of the "Wallace Words"
Paraphrased somewhat from a poem by Claudia Minden Weisz:
God Said No
I asked God to take away my habit. I imagine Him to say
* NO - It is not for me to take away, but for you to give it up
I asked God to grant me patience. I imagine Him to say
*NO - Patience is a by-product of tribulations - it isn't granted, it is learned
I asked God to give me patience. I imagine Him to say
*NO - I give you blessings - Happiness is up to you.
I asked God to spare me pain. I imagine Him to say
*NO - Suffering draws you apart from worldly cares; and brings you closer to ME.
I asked God to heal my friend. I imagine Him to say
* NO - your friend's spirit is whole and his body is only temporary.
I asked God for all things that I might enjoy life. I imagine Him to say
*NO - How about I give you life that you might have it more abundantly.
I asked God to make my spirit grow. I imagine Him to say
*NO - You must grow on your own, but I will prune you to make you fruitful.
I asked God to help me to love others as much as He loves me. I imagine Him to say
*AHHHH...you finally have the idea...
God Said No
I asked God to take away my habit. I imagine Him to say
* NO - It is not for me to take away, but for you to give it up
I asked God to grant me patience. I imagine Him to say
*NO - Patience is a by-product of tribulations - it isn't granted, it is learned
I asked God to give me patience. I imagine Him to say
*NO - I give you blessings - Happiness is up to you.
I asked God to spare me pain. I imagine Him to say
*NO - Suffering draws you apart from worldly cares; and brings you closer to ME.
I asked God to heal my friend. I imagine Him to say
* NO - your friend's spirit is whole and his body is only temporary.
I asked God for all things that I might enjoy life. I imagine Him to say
*NO - How about I give you life that you might have it more abundantly.
I asked God to make my spirit grow. I imagine Him to say
*NO - You must grow on your own, but I will prune you to make you fruitful.
I asked God to help me to love others as much as He loves me. I imagine Him to say
*AHHHH...you finally have the idea...
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