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