Someone I love had a mastectomy today. We were not to share the news when we were told. We were not to talk to family or friends. It was their private news. Typing these words I think of how hard it was to carry the secret of my husband's illness for too many years. Him and I alone knew. They warn me not to share like I have a secret and I gain power from knowing it. It is not the power it is the load. Can I not share this load? I am sad for you and for me. I am sad and need a hug. But you tell me to carry it alone. I wonder if I was married if I would have the same restrictions?
When his illness was obvious and we shared with family we took the optimistic road. He was going to live. If we remained positive and did all the steps then we could return to our lives. I smiled. And I cried alone in the car. I wanted to be optimistic. I did not want him to know that it had any negative effect on my life. So when I was in pain I carried it alone. When I was scared I pushed it away.
I worry for my friend and their family. Will they stay optimistic and positive even in the privacy of their own bedroom at night when the children are sleeping and the door is closed? Will each one of them be forced to carry their fears alone, too afraid to share, too afraid to break the pack of positiveness to cry with their own mate, to voice out loud they are scared, to voice out loud that they don't want them to die? For one to voice out loud that they don't want to die, that they are scared of dying? I think of times, the looks my husband and I would exchange, the ones that said I am scared as if exchanging glances across a dinner party table. I was envious of my friend who talked to her husband about dying, was it cowardice, pessimism? Oh, to have had him make a video to me, to his children, to have a recording of his voice, his snoring. That would have brought so much comfort in the beginning. We were optimistic. We were positive. He died non-the-less.
We are not to talk of the 'c' work in cases that did not go well and positive. The face slap stings. Again another reason why I am not allowed to talk about a part of my life. I can not mention my husband or I am living in the past. I have to block over ten years of experiences from my life. Now I can not share because my husband was not a survivor. I hate all the talk that surviving is an accomplishment. What does that say about the non-survivors? Was our positive attitude and optimism not quite enough? Did we let a drop of doubt spoil our thoughts? Did we falter in being vigilant of our thoughts and attitude? Did we miss the bar that allows survival because of our optimism? Did the cancer sense my tears in my car down the street? Did it double its attack when the thought of being alone sneaked into my head before I banished it? Did we fail, so he died as a result? Will I kill you if I say it will be scary and I am here if you need a hug?
When he did died I was traumatized. I had convinced myself that he would live. It is all we talked about, the positive outcome and what we would do after it was all over. I had convinced myself. Then when I was standing alone I cried. I wanted to hug him when he was scared. I wanted to tell him what a wonderful life he gave me. I wanted to curl up behind him and wrap my arms around him and cry and for him to cry and to hold each other as our tears fell.
Is it nobler to be optimistic or to be realistic? Is it so wrong to say I am positive and yet I am still frightened? I can not believe that in their hearts they are not scared. Why is it so wrong to hold the one you love above all others and say 'I am scared.'
I am angry that you dismiss my experience because it turned out badly. I am angry that you imply that we were not optimistic and positive enough for him to survive. I am angry that your illness makes me sad and I have to pretend again that everything is fine.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Thursday, May 5, 2011
7 Years, 1 Month - Advice for the Newly Berieved
What do I say to an old friend when she tells me her husband has died? My chest clinches. I still do not know the right words but I feel the pain hit me in the chest. What do I say the first day? It is too early to say most of what I would say. Do I tell her one of the best things that I was told? No, it is too soon to tell her it will get worse, much worse, before it gets better. What do I say when everyone has driven away and she says tonight will be the first night I sleep alone? Do I tell her it will be sleepless? Will she too wake up on his side of the bed, as she moved closer and closer, searching in her sleep for what was no longer there? It is to soon to tell her that she will grieve longer than is comfortable for other people in her life. It is to soon to tell her that her children will grieve too and it will break her heart. He has only been gone a few days. Do I tell her the longing sets in after the usual time you spend apart, say a work day? Do I tell her the longing aches after the time passes that is the longest time they have ever been apart? When do I tell her, that the ache deepens into a need that intensifies without satisfaction as the time becomes double the time you spent apart. How do I explain such a need, such a longing that you carry all day as your hunger turns to starvation? I cry. Not because I knew him so well but because I can envision her suffering and cannot stop it. She will walk through the fire alone.
Friday, April 29, 2011
7 Years and a few days
The 7 year anniversary came and went. I called his sister and his dad. I tried to go visit the neighborhoods where we lived in the beginning. I ended up lost. You can't go home again if you can not find it, even with GPS. I have been thinking and dreaming a lot about all the people I have lost, all my loves and my mom.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
5 Years - 9 months
It is nearing the six-year death anniversary. Recently I started a blog as a means to organize my earlier journal entries. For a period, my only question was how to stop the pain. There were times I thought I was crazy and the only proof I had otherwise was a handful of other young widows that felt the same way. I finally reached a point where I worried how long past the traditional mourning deadline the grief would last.
Blogging my journal reminds me of how much I have healed. My continued friendship with widows refreshes my soul, as they are my true confidantes. Grief has been a non-linear journey that no longer overwhelms me yet has become a part of who I am. I hope others find in my blog the reassurances I received from that diversified group of young widows that met when our grief was visceral.
Blogging my journal reminds me of how much I have healed. My continued friendship with widows refreshes my soul, as they are my true confidantes. Grief has been a non-linear journey that no longer overwhelms me yet has become a part of who I am. I hope others find in my blog the reassurances I received from that diversified group of young widows that met when our grief was visceral.
Monday, January 10, 2011
6 Years, 9 months
There have been so many changes in my life trending negatively. Always in the background is wishing for you. You to hold me, you to tell me it will be alright, you to help me make decisions, you, who would have never let these things happen to me, to us.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
6 Years, 2 Months - Alone
I cried today. The tears started falling and then I let it go and sobbed for a minute. It is times like these that I really miss having a husband, a sounding board, a champion for your side, someone to give advice, someone to hold you when things go bad and when it feels like you are standing alone. My family has more than abandoned me. They have condemned me as inept, lazy, a liar. I miss you honey. I would not be in this mess if you were still here yet, even worse, is struggling through my troubles alone and not knowing if I have made the right decisions. I miss you dearly.
Friday, June 4, 2010
6 Years 2 Months - Loss of Past
It is strange. All my past loves are dead and I am only in my forties. First was the death of my husband of eleven years. Next, the three-year love affair I have always described as obsessive. We had stayed in touch for years afterwards. I was feeling reminiscent during my lonely holidays and the urge to get together had been growing for months. Therefore, I searched on-line. I found a guest book with the right name. Once I opened it, my first thought was it was the wrong person. It was a memorial guest book. Even when I read the condolences, to the mother, the father, the twin, all with the right names, it still did not seem right. At the bottom, there was a link to pictures. Pictures I have copies of in my old photo albums. The entries were six months old.
Then this year I started re-connecting with high school classmates through social networking. That is how I found out my high school sweetheart of four years had died the same summer as my obsession. A quick search found the simple obituary. There was only one great love left. I knew he must be gone as well. It seemed fatalistic thinking. I researched and found nothing. He started appearing in my dreams. I do not know how long it had been since I had dreamed of him, decades perhaps. His sister found me, a week after he died this spring. During the first five years as a young adult on my own, he was my love.
It is unsettling. They are in my past, love long faded, hurts forgotten, only bits of memories remaining, mostly ones reinforced by story telling or photos. Yet, there is still a sense a loss. These were all people I had loved. I have discounted those old loves as less than the love affair with my husband. However, when I pull out the photo albums stored in a trunk and flip through the discolored pages, I am no longer sure. So many years shared. All the lovers, who carried our private memories with them, as I carried our shared memories, are now gone, passed, dead. Only a one sided version remains. It seems a natural occurrence, if I was in my eighties perhaps and not halfway there. Fourteen to eighteen, eighteen to twenty-three, twenty-five to twenty-eight, thirty to forty-one, a large chunk of life is closed. Obviously closed already, yet sealed shut now. The mystery of these unrelated deaths overwhelms me. Then last week, a heart attack. My first tiptoe back into dating, talks of marriage, hours every day on the phone, perhaps my rebound, a part of the past circling around to the present. A year moved too fast and ended as suddenly. I wonder now if I have a strange black widow effect on people who fall in love with me as I can add forty-six to forty-seven in the blank file.
Then this year I started re-connecting with high school classmates through social networking. That is how I found out my high school sweetheart of four years had died the same summer as my obsession. A quick search found the simple obituary. There was only one great love left. I knew he must be gone as well. It seemed fatalistic thinking. I researched and found nothing. He started appearing in my dreams. I do not know how long it had been since I had dreamed of him, decades perhaps. His sister found me, a week after he died this spring. During the first five years as a young adult on my own, he was my love.
It is unsettling. They are in my past, love long faded, hurts forgotten, only bits of memories remaining, mostly ones reinforced by story telling or photos. Yet, there is still a sense a loss. These were all people I had loved. I have discounted those old loves as less than the love affair with my husband. However, when I pull out the photo albums stored in a trunk and flip through the discolored pages, I am no longer sure. So many years shared. All the lovers, who carried our private memories with them, as I carried our shared memories, are now gone, passed, dead. Only a one sided version remains. It seems a natural occurrence, if I was in my eighties perhaps and not halfway there. Fourteen to eighteen, eighteen to twenty-three, twenty-five to twenty-eight, thirty to forty-one, a large chunk of life is closed. Obviously closed already, yet sealed shut now. The mystery of these unrelated deaths overwhelms me. Then last week, a heart attack. My first tiptoe back into dating, talks of marriage, hours every day on the phone, perhaps my rebound, a part of the past circling around to the present. A year moved too fast and ended as suddenly. I wonder now if I have a strange black widow effect on people who fall in love with me as I can add forty-six to forty-seven in the blank file.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Quotes
"Don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened."
— Dr. Seuss
"I'm afraid that sometimes you'll play lonely games too. Games you can't win 'cause you'll play against you."
— Dr. Seuss
In honor of Dr. Seuss' Birthday
— Dr. Seuss
"I'm afraid that sometimes you'll play lonely games too. Games you can't win 'cause you'll play against you."
— Dr. Seuss
In honor of Dr. Seuss' Birthday
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Sister, Mom, Husband - Need
I saw Shutter Island with my friends tonight. Leaving in the car I cried for my sister and what I have lost with her due to her mental illness that did not occur until her late 20s. Then I felt such a longing for my mom. My life is in a lot of turmoil with major decisions required and soon to face substantial personal losses. I have been under extreme stress for six years and the grief for my husband was only the beginning. If I cannot have a husband to comfort me and provide me guidance it would be nice to have a sister which leads me to really needing my mommy.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
6 Years, 10 Months - Widow Friends
I just spent Happy Hour with some of my widow friends. It is hard to believe that we are starting to click-away our 6-year anniversaries. I believe I am the third in line of twelve, one of the early ones. This is mentioned in conversation not as time without our husbands but as time together as friends. I have to do the math in my head to determine how many weeks until my next anniversary. The approaching day is no longer an overwhelming thought. I realize it is not a marker of a forward step in grief. The impeding day has stopped scaring me. It no longer haunts me with slow-motion recreations of the final terrors. Well that is almost true. I am sure a few days before I will re-enact the awful decisions, to tube or not to tube, to feed, to not feed, to restart the heart or not. I will examine again the envisioned mistakes. I will see his suffering. I will feel my suffering. I will contemplate the unbelievable denial. I will visit the ripping of us into me. Not to worry now, I have several more weeks before my mind becomes a traitor and revisits where I no longer want to go. Now I am in that nice window between the holidays and the death and the windows become longer every year.
Some people tell me it is time to move on from my widow friends and about two-thirds of the original group no longer joins us. However, we are not sitting around talking about our dead husbands. That is what others assume we do. Yet even in the beginning, we talked about the grief more than we discussed our husbands. Nonetheless, even those conversations stopped years ago. Now we are a regular group of girlfriends. Today we talked about everyones various trips to Thailand, Machu Pichu, Eastern Europe, and planned trips to Morocco, South Africa, Italy, and Guatemala. We talk about men. Relationships have come and gone since we all lost our soul mates. An eavesdropper may believe us a group of divorcées. Yet, there is that common thread that binds us. Sometimes there is a twist in our perception that is different from our married friends, our divorced friends, our single friends. After remarking that we have been friends for five years, one of the women asked the youngest what her plans were for the next five years. Her response was not typical for a beautiful young woman who is successful in her job. Her response was she has learned not to make plans. When she says this, she seems old. She is not like my nieces her age. When she says this, we all just nod our heads. I think of her wedding only weeks away. Her dress pressed and hanging on the closet door, sending out thank-you cards for the gifts that begin to arrive, helping guests with their travel plans, the bachelorette hangover, shopping for honeymoon clothes, looking into his eyes and knowing he is yours forever. Another revision to the seating chart seems catastrophic. Then her cell phone rings. Plans are not much different from dreams. Before there seemed a difference, one involved taking action towards goals and the other was fantasy. Now plans appear delusional.
Some people tell me it is time to move on from my widow friends and about two-thirds of the original group no longer joins us. However, we are not sitting around talking about our dead husbands. That is what others assume we do. Yet even in the beginning, we talked about the grief more than we discussed our husbands. Nonetheless, even those conversations stopped years ago. Now we are a regular group of girlfriends. Today we talked about everyones various trips to Thailand, Machu Pichu, Eastern Europe, and planned trips to Morocco, South Africa, Italy, and Guatemala. We talk about men. Relationships have come and gone since we all lost our soul mates. An eavesdropper may believe us a group of divorcées. Yet, there is that common thread that binds us. Sometimes there is a twist in our perception that is different from our married friends, our divorced friends, our single friends. After remarking that we have been friends for five years, one of the women asked the youngest what her plans were for the next five years. Her response was not typical for a beautiful young woman who is successful in her job. Her response was she has learned not to make plans. When she says this, she seems old. She is not like my nieces her age. When she says this, we all just nod our heads. I think of her wedding only weeks away. Her dress pressed and hanging on the closet door, sending out thank-you cards for the gifts that begin to arrive, helping guests with their travel plans, the bachelorette hangover, shopping for honeymoon clothes, looking into his eyes and knowing he is yours forever. Another revision to the seating chart seems catastrophic. Then her cell phone rings. Plans are not much different from dreams. Before there seemed a difference, one involved taking action towards goals and the other was fantasy. Now plans appear delusional.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Monday, January 25, 2010
6 Years, 9 Months - Stepchildren
I am feeling very lonely tonight. My stepdaughter came to pick up her dad’s yearbooks. Her husband stayed in the car. She moved to this area with her mom so she could be by her dad. Her mom still lives her too. I only see my daughter a few times a year. She comes over, never sits down, and picks up things of her dads and then leaves. I have not seen her sister in years. The last time I saw her was at a family funeral and we never even made eye contact. She stayed in the living room and front yard and I stayed in the kitchen and backyard. It is not that I do not want to see her. She does not want to look at my face. She cancelled going to the family get-together the following day because I would be there. All the losses weigh on me tonight. Losing a spouse enviably means losing most of his family too. You just do not know this at the time. The morning after his service, half of the large tree in our front yard severed and fell and his family drove away.
I think of my mom. She told me when she was dieing that I only saw her a few times a year for an afternoon, a few phone calls a year, and a random holiday. My life mirrors hers now just like my face.
I think of my mom. She told me when she was dieing that I only saw her a few times a year for an afternoon, a few phone calls a year, and a random holiday. My life mirrors hers now just like my face.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
REVERSE METAMORPHISIS
REVERSE METAMORPHISIS
I was a beautiful butterfly.
You found me when I was a flower dancer basking in the sunshine.
We gracefully soared together towards the open blue sky.
Then the world changed color and the leaves began to fall.
We watched each one float away to finally settle dry.
So soon, the storms of winter came to crash their destruction.
I wandered.
Slowly I stilled becoming a chrysalis that could no longer move.
My wings crumbled.
Wrapped in darkness and quiet, I slept, I cried.
I mourned the days when we were butterflies.
A few butterflies flitted among the spring flowers praising the nectar I no longer tasted.
A ray of summer sunshine would flash its ultraviolet light but I never felt its warmth.
The fall winds tossed me cruelly until winter’s silence again filled me.
I slept, I cried, I mourned the days when I was a butterfly.
No longer cocooned I crept alone outside.
New layers forming as I walked away from the shells discarded.
I searched endlessly to fill the hungry void inside.
I closed my eyes and cried.
I remember the days when we were butterflies.
I turn my head to look up at the sky. I yearn to fly.
I remember the bright clouds and the endless sky.
Yet even now when I cry, I know I am no longer a butterfly.
By Me
I was a beautiful butterfly.
You found me when I was a flower dancer basking in the sunshine.
We gracefully soared together towards the open blue sky.
Then the world changed color and the leaves began to fall.
We watched each one float away to finally settle dry.
So soon, the storms of winter came to crash their destruction.
I wandered.
Slowly I stilled becoming a chrysalis that could no longer move.
My wings crumbled.
Wrapped in darkness and quiet, I slept, I cried.
I mourned the days when we were butterflies.
A few butterflies flitted among the spring flowers praising the nectar I no longer tasted.
A ray of summer sunshine would flash its ultraviolet light but I never felt its warmth.
The fall winds tossed me cruelly until winter’s silence again filled me.
I slept, I cried, I mourned the days when I was a butterfly.
No longer cocooned I crept alone outside.
New layers forming as I walked away from the shells discarded.
I searched endlessly to fill the hungry void inside.
I closed my eyes and cried.
I remember the days when we were butterflies.
I turn my head to look up at the sky. I yearn to fly.
I remember the bright clouds and the endless sky.
Yet even now when I cry, I know I am no longer a butterfly.
By Me
Sunday, January 17, 2010
6 Years, 9 Months - Wishing
I hear our wedding song and smile. I wish you were here to dance with me in the living room.
6 Years, 9 Months - Time Passing
His love feels fresh and I think of him everyday.
Yet, there are little reminders of how much time has passed:
The shirt I am discarding that I purchased while driving down the Oregon Coast to my girlfriend's wedding. She decided not to have me in her wedding party because my husband had just died.
Helping plan my niece’s wedding. She moved in with me a few months afterwards and fresh out of high school.
Getting together with the family and the new members that have never met him
The lack of hesitation in checking the ‘single’ box when filling out forms
A brief love affair started and ended
The need to repaint the house again although I was on a home decorating frenzy those first two years
Thoughts of replacing my car that he never drove
Going to restaurants and viewing them as places I frequent with someone else, although it used to be one of our favorites.
Being able to drive within walking distance of where he died without having my throat tighten until I throw up.
Having the ability to sell his book collection and vintage car when I held onto his socks forever
Knowing where everything is located at Home Depot
Going to the movie theatre we used to go to every week and barely thinking of him
Hearing the refrigerator make funny noises and thinking it is old and needs replacement. Then recalling that day we bought it at Sears was only a year or so before he got sick.
Yet, there are little reminders of how much time has passed:
The shirt I am discarding that I purchased while driving down the Oregon Coast to my girlfriend's wedding. She decided not to have me in her wedding party because my husband had just died.
Helping plan my niece’s wedding. She moved in with me a few months afterwards and fresh out of high school.
Getting together with the family and the new members that have never met him
The lack of hesitation in checking the ‘single’ box when filling out forms
A brief love affair started and ended
The need to repaint the house again although I was on a home decorating frenzy those first two years
Thoughts of replacing my car that he never drove
Going to restaurants and viewing them as places I frequent with someone else, although it used to be one of our favorites.
Being able to drive within walking distance of where he died without having my throat tighten until I throw up.
Having the ability to sell his book collection and vintage car when I held onto his socks forever
Knowing where everything is located at Home Depot
Going to the movie theatre we used to go to every week and barely thinking of him
Hearing the refrigerator make funny noises and thinking it is old and needs replacement. Then recalling that day we bought it at Sears was only a year or so before he got sick.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Lao Tzu
Being deeply loved by someone
gives you strength;
while loving someone deeply
give you courage
-Lao Tzu
gives you strength;
while loving someone deeply
give you courage
-Lao Tzu
Monday, January 11, 2010
EMILY DICKINSON
After great pain, a formal feeling comes
The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs
The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore,
And Yesterday, or Centuries before?
The Feet, mechanical, go round
Of Ground, or Air,
or Ought A Wooden way
Regardless grown,
A Quartz contentment, like a stone
This is the Hour of Lead
Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons recollect the Snow
First-Chill-then Stupor-then the letting go
EMILY DICKINSON
The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs
The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore,
And Yesterday, or Centuries before?
The Feet, mechanical, go round
Of Ground, or Air,
or Ought A Wooden way
Regardless grown,
A Quartz contentment, like a stone
This is the Hour of Lead
Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons recollect the Snow
First-Chill-then Stupor-then the letting go
EMILY DICKINSON
Friday, January 8, 2010
5 Years, 9 Months - Other Widows' Blogs
I find myself reading other grief blogs today. I am not sad, more curious on the similarities of our paths. After posting a lengthy comment on one blog, I decided to paraphrase it here.
These are a few questions asked by another widow blogger with my answers. I am not sure if I should cite her blog so I am leaning towards anonymous. I will change this if this is improper etiquette.
1.) When do I take my wedding band off?
When you are ready, repeat this mantra repeatedly for all questions relating to 'how long' and 'grief'. However, I did succumb to peer-pressure, as I was the last of my young widow friends to take my ring off. Although I did not feel ready, I thought it might be a step required to move forward. That was years ago and I think it did mark a step forward. Nevertheless, every few months I find myself absent-mindedly rubbing the underside of my ring finger.
2.) If I am remarried, whom do I get buried next to when I die?
The parallel question, depending on your beliefs, is what happens when the three of you are in heaven.
3.) Are my in-laws still my in-laws?
I found In-Laws becomes an option that can be retained or negated by either party and may include some but not all members.
4.) Everyone says the first year is the toughest. Will something magically happen on ’year one’ to make the second year so much better?
The one-year grieving deadline is an outdated belief that needs to be rectified. What happens at one year is you fall backwards temporarily and then continue on your grief journey.
5.) Why do people commemorate the anniversary of someone's death?
The death anniversary almost forces recognition. Your body marks its approach before you even realize the date is nearing. It is better to have a plan than possibly find yourself alone and spinning backwards. The first year my stepdaughter and I went to Disneyland. That was sensory overload and the day ended in her screaming, ‘Why don’t we talk about dad today? It’s his day.‘ For the next few years, my we went hiking in National Parks. Being in nature together was very peaceful and positive. I believe if we had been alone in those early years, it would have been a day of uncontrollable grief. Now I purposely leave an empty calendar. I go somewhere where my husband and I used to go, maybe a restaurant or a walk on the beach. I may read or see a movie. I spend the day quietly, remembering our love and the memories, with maybe one short cry. The next day I am refreshed and back to my quasi-normal life.
6.) How long will my friends and family put up with me?
My widow friends agree that your friends and family hit the times-up buzzer long before you are ready. It is romantic to think they will always be there but do not count on it. Other than these friends, I have only met one other person who understood. More than a decade had past since she lost her child. She told me in about my third year that it never ends. This was just when I was convincing myself I must be wrapping up my last year before I graduated from grieving and returned to the old me. Now I understand. Grief just calms and tucks itself away in a corner of your heart, becoming a part of the new you.
These are a few questions asked by another widow blogger with my answers. I am not sure if I should cite her blog so I am leaning towards anonymous. I will change this if this is improper etiquette.
1.) When do I take my wedding band off?
When you are ready, repeat this mantra repeatedly for all questions relating to 'how long' and 'grief'. However, I did succumb to peer-pressure, as I was the last of my young widow friends to take my ring off. Although I did not feel ready, I thought it might be a step required to move forward. That was years ago and I think it did mark a step forward. Nevertheless, every few months I find myself absent-mindedly rubbing the underside of my ring finger.
2.) If I am remarried, whom do I get buried next to when I die?
The parallel question, depending on your beliefs, is what happens when the three of you are in heaven.
3.) Are my in-laws still my in-laws?
I found In-Laws becomes an option that can be retained or negated by either party and may include some but not all members.
4.) Everyone says the first year is the toughest. Will something magically happen on ’year one’ to make the second year so much better?
The one-year grieving deadline is an outdated belief that needs to be rectified. What happens at one year is you fall backwards temporarily and then continue on your grief journey.
5.) Why do people commemorate the anniversary of someone's death?
The death anniversary almost forces recognition. Your body marks its approach before you even realize the date is nearing. It is better to have a plan than possibly find yourself alone and spinning backwards. The first year my stepdaughter and I went to Disneyland. That was sensory overload and the day ended in her screaming, ‘Why don’t we talk about dad today? It’s his day.‘ For the next few years, my we went hiking in National Parks. Being in nature together was very peaceful and positive. I believe if we had been alone in those early years, it would have been a day of uncontrollable grief. Now I purposely leave an empty calendar. I go somewhere where my husband and I used to go, maybe a restaurant or a walk on the beach. I may read or see a movie. I spend the day quietly, remembering our love and the memories, with maybe one short cry. The next day I am refreshed and back to my quasi-normal life.
6.) How long will my friends and family put up with me?
My widow friends agree that your friends and family hit the times-up buzzer long before you are ready. It is romantic to think they will always be there but do not count on it. Other than these friends, I have only met one other person who understood. More than a decade had past since she lost her child. She told me in about my third year that it never ends. This was just when I was convincing myself I must be wrapping up my last year before I graduated from grieving and returned to the old me. Now I understand. Grief just calms and tucks itself away in a corner of your heart, becoming a part of the new you.
5 Years, 9 Months - Why I Blog My Grief
It is nearing the six-year death anniversary. Recently I started a blog as a means to organize my earlier journal entries. For a period, my only question was how to stop the pain. There were times I thought I was crazy and the only proof I had otherwise was a handful of other young widows that felt the same way. I finally reached a point where I worried how long past the traditional mourning deadline the grief would last.
Blogging my journal reminds me of how much I have healed. My continued friendship with widows refreshes my soul, as they are my true confidantes. Grief has been a non-linear journey that no longer overwhelms me yet has become a part of who I am. I hope others find in my blog the reassurances I have received from that diversified group of young widows that met when our grief was visceral.
Blogging my journal reminds me of how much I have healed. My continued friendship with widows refreshes my soul, as they are my true confidantes. Grief has been a non-linear journey that no longer overwhelms me yet has become a part of who I am. I hope others find in my blog the reassurances I have received from that diversified group of young widows that met when our grief was visceral.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Saturday, January 2, 2010
5 years, 9 Months - Holidays
My mother's birthday, the anniversary of our engagement, Thanksgiving, the anniversary of my mother's death, Christmas, my birthday, New Year's Eve... if only my husband's birthday, the anniversary of his death, our wedding anniversary and Valentine's day could be squeezed into the same two months. Then all the bad days would be done with for the year. There are too many, too close together, as I fall with Autumn to the darkness of winter.
5 years, 9 Months - Holidays
Thankfully the holidays are over. Wherever I go I still feel alone. I do not feel as if I am grieving any longer, just lonely and empty. It is amazing how one person can make you feel. I can spend time with the same people yet feel so alone now.
Monday, December 14, 2009
5 Years, 8 Months - A Glimpse of Grief
I was starting to do okay. The fall was a bit rough. I stopped cleaning my house and gained a lot of weight but I was not too blue. I started feeling rather cheerful this last week. Today, on the way to the post office, I had the radio on in the car. A man jumped from the bridge. Automatically I prayed for his soul, for his family, for the rescue workers as the sisters instilled in me. Then my next automatic thought was, “I understand”. On the way back home a sense of panic started to constrict my throat. I had a flash of my honey sick. I was panicked, saddened, and grieved. My heart was gaining weight and crushing in on my lungs. I had just a glimpse of that old feeling of grief. I experienced ten minutes of the old grief. I tasted the grief that is a full body experience and not just sadness or depression. How did I carry that feeling unending?
I went to a drive-thru for a hot fudge sundae. I did not even think of how he would take me if I had a bad day at work. Nor did I think of how we would go get sundaes on evenings of laughter. I have stopped associating this tradition with him. It is just I, getting a calorie-laden snack to pacify my mood. I think it will help bring me back down. Not up, as in uplifted, but back down from the edge of the precipice. Quickly I walk to the house. If I can write then I can breathe. I will not jump. However, a part of me envies that man today and feels sadness for the people that love him.
I went to a drive-thru for a hot fudge sundae. I did not even think of how he would take me if I had a bad day at work. Nor did I think of how we would go get sundaes on evenings of laughter. I have stopped associating this tradition with him. It is just I, getting a calorie-laden snack to pacify my mood. I think it will help bring me back down. Not up, as in uplifted, but back down from the edge of the precipice. Quickly I walk to the house. If I can write then I can breathe. I will not jump. However, a part of me envies that man today and feels sadness for the people that love him.
Monday, December 7, 2009
2 Years, 1 Month - The Widow's Vacation
I am sitting on Wailaa beach with my old roommate from Maui who has just arrived. One of my oldest friends has been here for a week and is leaving tomorrow. I have been here thirteen days. I have barely been to the beach three times. We hiked the bamboo forest in Hana to two waterfalls with a mutual friend who moved to Maui. We brought one of my husband’s rubber ducks and let it go. Wish I remembered their names. He had three travel ducks, one female and two males, all named. Though they appeared identical at first, they all had a little marking that allowed him to identify them, a color misprint on the bill or a stain from traveling. When we packed for vacation, he would stand in the hallway at his disorganized bathroom shelf, and line up the ducks. He would hold each one and ask himself who would go on the trip. He asked himself aloud and with me nearby. Then he would choose one to pack in his backpack. We were so immature. Nevertheless, those childlike ways made us laugh, and maybe not feel so old among the approaching death, commutes, overtime, mortgage, and ex-wife.
I took one of the ducks and put it in the river by the waterfall. My long time friend took pictures. The duck took off, floating sideways, and we turned to hike back. We passed a break in the bamboo and the friend that lived on Maui said, ‘There he is!” I missed the rubber duck as he floated downstream. We searched for him when we had to cross the river but he was either upstream or had passed us.
I fell into depression for three days after his birthday and the anniversary of his memorial service. My girlfriend headed to the beach alone. I stayed home on the computer. We did go to the beach with our Hawaii friend. She chose some music to play in the car. The one song, one that was on the radio a lot when he died, one about love and loss and wanting to go back. The tears streamed. I was silent. My head turned towards the rolled down window, watching Hawaii roll by. The Hawaii I loved and where I had lived twice. The place we had tickets to go finally with my brother and his family. The tickets we cancelled but did not request a refund in hopes we would go when all the cancer was over, the chemo, the radiation, doctor appointments, the pain, sleeping, the social security forms.
How could I be so foolish? Why was I so hopeful? How could I have been so naïve? In retrospect, I see my husband knew and accepted his death. He protected me by leaving my hope. I thought I was protecting him by not giving up, not losing hope, staying strong, crying alone in the car. All we did is hurt ourselves by grieving and suffering alone. We tried to protect each other and only left each other alone in the worst part of our lives, our marriage.
I am jealous of the widow who cried with her husband, of the ones who could crawl in bed with them and hold them. I am jealous of the wives whose dieing husbands wrote letters to their children or made recordings. Oh, I wish I had his voice, his movements, to view again. I do not even remember his laugh. I know the details of his face will fade from memory as time disintegrates our time together and I slowly replace the framed photos with newer ones. Will I remember his flat jean pockets, his hairless chest, the sight of his bull legs, and the memory of the first time I saw him standing at the foot of the bed? Will I forget his kisses with the mixed smell of Right Guard deodorant, T-gel, sweat, cologne, and Lubriderm?
I know this will happen. I can only remember another love’s face if I think about it and the face shifts and is blurry, finally settling on a face from a photo, a one-dimensional memory.
Why do I have to let him go? Why do I have to move on? Would he have moved forward? I think he would only work and fall asleep in front of the TV. He would work so he was exhausted, could sleep, and had no free time to be alone, time to fill-up with things he would have rather done with his wife. Would he have moved? Would he have dated by now? Would he have purposely died too?
He used to apologize for leaving me, for leaving me alone in grief and not being able to be there when I was old and sick. I told him not to be sorry. He was the one dieing, the one that lost the stick draw. He knew. He knew because he faced the truth I was ignoring.
Couples surround me here in Maui, newlyweds, old couples. All of those happy and in love couples walking by me. The old couples make me the saddest and jealous. Maybe they hate each other back home. Perhaps they cheat, stay late at work to avoid coming home, fight, bicker, sigh of the boredom and routine. The life path that finds them standing in a kitchen, maybe one they can not afford, one that needs remodeling, one in a neighborhood they hate, one that constantly needs cleaning or plumbing repairs. Nevertheless, here for that week or two of their lives they escape, are relatively happy, and have glimpses of the one they used to love. I sit alone with just grief and some old friends.
I took one of the ducks and put it in the river by the waterfall. My long time friend took pictures. The duck took off, floating sideways, and we turned to hike back. We passed a break in the bamboo and the friend that lived on Maui said, ‘There he is!” I missed the rubber duck as he floated downstream. We searched for him when we had to cross the river but he was either upstream or had passed us.
I fell into depression for three days after his birthday and the anniversary of his memorial service. My girlfriend headed to the beach alone. I stayed home on the computer. We did go to the beach with our Hawaii friend. She chose some music to play in the car. The one song, one that was on the radio a lot when he died, one about love and loss and wanting to go back. The tears streamed. I was silent. My head turned towards the rolled down window, watching Hawaii roll by. The Hawaii I loved and where I had lived twice. The place we had tickets to go finally with my brother and his family. The tickets we cancelled but did not request a refund in hopes we would go when all the cancer was over, the chemo, the radiation, doctor appointments, the pain, sleeping, the social security forms.
How could I be so foolish? Why was I so hopeful? How could I have been so naïve? In retrospect, I see my husband knew and accepted his death. He protected me by leaving my hope. I thought I was protecting him by not giving up, not losing hope, staying strong, crying alone in the car. All we did is hurt ourselves by grieving and suffering alone. We tried to protect each other and only left each other alone in the worst part of our lives, our marriage.
I am jealous of the widow who cried with her husband, of the ones who could crawl in bed with them and hold them. I am jealous of the wives whose dieing husbands wrote letters to their children or made recordings. Oh, I wish I had his voice, his movements, to view again. I do not even remember his laugh. I know the details of his face will fade from memory as time disintegrates our time together and I slowly replace the framed photos with newer ones. Will I remember his flat jean pockets, his hairless chest, the sight of his bull legs, and the memory of the first time I saw him standing at the foot of the bed? Will I forget his kisses with the mixed smell of Right Guard deodorant, T-gel, sweat, cologne, and Lubriderm?
I know this will happen. I can only remember another love’s face if I think about it and the face shifts and is blurry, finally settling on a face from a photo, a one-dimensional memory.
Why do I have to let him go? Why do I have to move on? Would he have moved forward? I think he would only work and fall asleep in front of the TV. He would work so he was exhausted, could sleep, and had no free time to be alone, time to fill-up with things he would have rather done with his wife. Would he have moved? Would he have dated by now? Would he have purposely died too?
He used to apologize for leaving me, for leaving me alone in grief and not being able to be there when I was old and sick. I told him not to be sorry. He was the one dieing, the one that lost the stick draw. He knew. He knew because he faced the truth I was ignoring.
Couples surround me here in Maui, newlyweds, old couples. All of those happy and in love couples walking by me. The old couples make me the saddest and jealous. Maybe they hate each other back home. Perhaps they cheat, stay late at work to avoid coming home, fight, bicker, sigh of the boredom and routine. The life path that finds them standing in a kitchen, maybe one they can not afford, one that needs remodeling, one in a neighborhood they hate, one that constantly needs cleaning or plumbing repairs. Nevertheless, here for that week or two of their lives they escape, are relatively happy, and have glimpses of the one they used to love. I sit alone with just grief and some old friends.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
2 Years, 1 Month - Hope
I am deep in depression on days and yet other times I feel on the verge, the brink. I am leaning forward, knees straight, body stiff, leaning and peering over the edge of an abyss and I am a bit excited.
Am I healing? Am I feeling hope? Is this what hope feels like raw? When you have not felt hope in so long, it is new again, unknown. Have I become a virgin to hope too?
Am I healing? Am I feeling hope? Is this what hope feels like raw? When you have not felt hope in so long, it is new again, unknown. Have I become a virgin to hope too?
Friday, December 4, 2009
3 Years, 2 Months - Black Arm Bands, Reclusive
Society should also implement the use of black arm bands again. I stood in the locker room stepping into a Speedo, pulling it over my old body. I looked at the young girls bodies, laughing. I did not look in lust or even admiration of youth and health. I looked in yearning. I wanted to scream. I was screaming inside. Can you not see me? Can you not see how much pain I am suffering? My husband died! My husband died! Can you not hear me screaming? I looked a little to long and had to turn away. They might wonder why I was staring. All the answers in their heads would never be the right one. I was not jealous of their bodies, or their youth, or friendships. It was not bisexuality that I did not recognize. I was not a dirty old lady or even rude. I was staring blankly screaming in my head. If I could only have slide the black arm band on after my swimsuit. Then they would know. They would quietly turn away and possibly stop laughing, leaving me in my grief alone. Nevertheless, they would know. It would not hurt so bad maybe if people knew. If the lady at the cash register gave me just a little extra patience because of the arm band. If people were a little quieter around me, a little more gracious, then it would not be so hard to go outside.
3 Years, 2 Months - Covering Mirrors
I now know why people used to cover the mirrors after someone died. I used to think it was to put aside vanity and focus on mourning. I think that is what the nuns told me when I asked. No, that is not the reason. It is because you cannot look in the mirror. You can lift your head. However, you are unable look forward with your eyes. If you accidentally catch yourself in the mirror the pain is overwhelming. That is you and you quickly look away. It does not trouble you that your roots are grey, your hair disheveled, your face without make-up your clothes slept in. That is not why you turn away from you. It is not the pain or sadness in your eyes. You just can not see yourself. You can not look. It is not that the look of sadness or the tear swollen eyes remind you of the pain. The pain actually bounces off your eyes' reflection and hits with force in the chest. You carry the pain everyday. Yet if you inadvertently see yourself in the mirror, unfortunately see your eyes, the pain not only resides in you but comes from without and rushes from the mirror to physically push you. I do not know how long it lasted. I avoided looking in the mirror for a long time. Then I would look but never at my eyes. I learned to put on make-up with minimal use of a mirror and never looking directly at it. Society should cover mirrors again.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
5 Years, 8 Months - Smiling
It is just the money. I had a great day in sales yesterday and today I am in such a good mood. Even listening to the grief ‘blog’ music makes me want to dance not cry. I can barely stay in my chair and work. I just want to get up and dance. There is a smile on my face.
I listen to our wedding song. He was such a better dancer than me and I am the one that used to make a living dancing. Nevertheless, he was a graceful ballroom dancer. When we took lessons for our wedding the instructor suggested he take the intermediate course. He pointed at me. I was dancing with another partner at the time. He said, 'that is my fiance'. An ‘oh’ was the only response. I can see us dancing the Waltz on our wedding day. He tried to make wider, faster circles and I had to ask him to keep it simple. Otherwise I had to focus on the steps too much. We would dance at random times. Once we started waltzing in a McDonalds, much to his daughters’ horror. Of course we danced in the kitchen, just a few steps, and a few moments of bliss, in an ordinary day together. Hearing other songs reminds me of driving in the black Camaro with the t-tops off, the stereo loud, you driving fast.
Today I am smiling.
I listen to our wedding song. He was such a better dancer than me and I am the one that used to make a living dancing. Nevertheless, he was a graceful ballroom dancer. When we took lessons for our wedding the instructor suggested he take the intermediate course. He pointed at me. I was dancing with another partner at the time. He said, 'that is my fiance'. An ‘oh’ was the only response. I can see us dancing the Waltz on our wedding day. He tried to make wider, faster circles and I had to ask him to keep it simple. Otherwise I had to focus on the steps too much. We would dance at random times. Once we started waltzing in a McDonalds, much to his daughters’ horror. Of course we danced in the kitchen, just a few steps, and a few moments of bliss, in an ordinary day together. Hearing other songs reminds me of driving in the black Camaro with the t-tops off, the stereo loud, you driving fast.
Today I am smiling.
2 Years, 2 Weeks - Conditioned Responses
I was watching a movie and I heard the keys jingling together. The force of hitting the key in the lock, turning it to open the door without pause, without slowing down from work, and I thought ‘He's home’. Inside I was happy, hopeful, and ready to stand up and go hug him. Years of training, knowing right when to stand, turn, and walk to the door to meet him. Just as he pulled the key from the lock and stepped inside and before he closed the door. To hug him, kiss him lightly, but not carelessly, or fleetingly, or abruptly, as he reached behind him with his right hand and swung the door closed. I was conditioned. My mind forgot the movie, the day, the year and turned to the ‘greet him home from work status‘. Just as my body set in motion, a slight turn to the right, the momentum to lift and stand, then my mind broke in. It shut down the Pavlov response and shouted, washing through every cell. My mind replaced the weight, the suit of grieving I wore invisibly like a tight wetsuit over my clothes day and night. I remembered.
Then my niece walked in the door.
I could not reply to her hello. I could not even look. The tears just fell in a stream from the outer corners of my eyes. I finally lifted myself, pushing as if a leg press was blocking me, and headed to my room. I needed to run, to hide. I wanted to scream, yet to curl up tightly holding myself hidden in a dark corner. I quickened my step. I reached behind me and closed the bedroom door. I skipped the last two steps and flew forward onto the bed, curling up arms full of pillows, putting my face deep within them. I let myself cry. Yet, it was only for about a minute because I have already grieved losing him. It was just the shock. It has been so long since I expected him to come home, since I have expected him at all. So long, since he snuck up and surprised me in the laundry room. So long, since he was there to tell me it is time to go to bed, to hold me before I go to sleep, to kiss me on the forehead as I sleep and he leaves for work. So long, since I expected him to cook me dinner, drive me, to provide the mortgage, or to comfort me when my family hurts me or saddens me. It has been so long since I expected that rush of hope to be satisfied.
2 years, 16 days, 12 hours
Then my niece walked in the door.
I could not reply to her hello. I could not even look. The tears just fell in a stream from the outer corners of my eyes. I finally lifted myself, pushing as if a leg press was blocking me, and headed to my room. I needed to run, to hide. I wanted to scream, yet to curl up tightly holding myself hidden in a dark corner. I quickened my step. I reached behind me and closed the bedroom door. I skipped the last two steps and flew forward onto the bed, curling up arms full of pillows, putting my face deep within them. I let myself cry. Yet, it was only for about a minute because I have already grieved losing him. It was just the shock. It has been so long since I expected him to come home, since I have expected him at all. So long, since he snuck up and surprised me in the laundry room. So long, since he was there to tell me it is time to go to bed, to hold me before I go to sleep, to kiss me on the forehead as I sleep and he leaves for work. So long, since I expected him to cook me dinner, drive me, to provide the mortgage, or to comfort me when my family hurts me or saddens me. It has been so long since I expected that rush of hope to be satisfied.
2 years, 16 days, 12 hours
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
2 Years, 1 Month - Wishing You Were Here
Summer is coming. I am still on the beach in Maui. You would love to snorkel here. I dream of you and me riding your bee yellow motorcycle to the beach. Holding my arms around your belly, smiling.
Monday, November 30, 2009
6 Years, 8 Months - Holiday Planning
I think the best advice I received was from Hospice Counseling. Their holiday recommendation was to have a plan. This might not sound as appealing as staying home in your slippers. However, the one advantage a widow does have is the right to cancel plans at the last minute. So have a plan and tell yourself you have the right to not go if you are not up to it when the time arrives. What you want to avoid is deciding to spend the holidays by yourself and then the holiday arrives and you are feeling alone. If the usual family gathering or traditions sound overwhelming then make an alternative plan. Do not feel obligated to continue all your traditions. Maybe you skip a year or two of sending out holiday cards, deocorating the house and yard, or getting the perfect gift for everyone. Maybe you start a new tradition and maybe you blend the comfort of some of your old traditions with some new ones. Of course, if you have young children at home then this may not be the best advice.
The first Thanksgiving I went to Mexico with two young widows and we ate lobster. It was nice not to be alone when everyone was gathering with friends and family for a big feast. It was also nice not to be eating turkey and stuffing and thinking how I wanted to be sharing the meal with my husband. One year I hosted the largest celebration I ever organized. The preparations kept me busy and the grief manageable. At least once or twice I have had an invite to a friend's house close by. I called that day and said I would rather spend some time alone. This was completely acceptable. They dropped off a plate and I was happy with a little turkey and some movies. One year I went to my niece's home and had delicious food without the stress that can come from the family that I normally spend time with at the holidays. This year I did not have a plan and I ate fast food. I ended up feeling sorry for myself. So make a holiday plan, seriously consider a different one than your normal tradition and do not feel pressured to attend if you are having a bad day. This advice has also worked well for me on the other holidays - Christmas, Valentine's Day, the Death Anniversary, the deceased's birthday, and personal anniversaries.
The first Thanksgiving I went to Mexico with two young widows and we ate lobster. It was nice not to be alone when everyone was gathering with friends and family for a big feast. It was also nice not to be eating turkey and stuffing and thinking how I wanted to be sharing the meal with my husband. One year I hosted the largest celebration I ever organized. The preparations kept me busy and the grief manageable. At least once or twice I have had an invite to a friend's house close by. I called that day and said I would rather spend some time alone. This was completely acceptable. They dropped off a plate and I was happy with a little turkey and some movies. One year I went to my niece's home and had delicious food without the stress that can come from the family that I normally spend time with at the holidays. This year I did not have a plan and I ate fast food. I ended up feeling sorry for myself. So make a holiday plan, seriously consider a different one than your normal tradition and do not feel pressured to attend if you are having a bad day. This advice has also worked well for me on the other holidays - Christmas, Valentine's Day, the Death Anniversary, the deceased's birthday, and personal anniversaries.
5 Years, 8 Months - How Long Do You Grieve A Spouse?
Grandma has come out of bedroom to sit in the living room. Mom said she likes to hear our voices. We talk about playing a game, one that will be easy for mom to play too because she forgets things now. Mom is so excited. For her it could be Christmas morning when she was six years old, old enough to anticipate and still young enough believe. She does not care what game we play. She just likes to see us interact to hear us laugh. All she ever wanted was for us, her children, to all be friends. To have three of four of us together in her house is just an unspoken bonus. My oldest brother suggests we look at old pictures. Mom has not seen them since she moved to Seattle and thinks they are lost. She has searched everywhere. I give up and try to get a game of Clue started. My sister-in-law will play Clue because she considers it a noncompetitive board game. I am not sure how her definition works. Some games are approved others are not when I cannot delineate. To me they all have elements of luck and won mostly by knowing the required strategy. I know the strategies for Monopoly. My brother-in-law excels at Risk. My sister-in-law is good at word games like Probe and Scrabble. My dad’s wife conquers games with pegs and dice that knock out opponents. My sister’s imagination and quick thinking wins her Scattegories. Nevertheless, my brother ignores me and wins the herd as usual.
We all begin the search. Most rooms are obvious and quickly dismissed. Mom’s closet seems promising and we unload boxes with anticipation. However, tax records are not as fun for reminiscing. There is only grandma’s room remaining. Mom says grandma has gone back to bed and is asleep. My brother says perfect. Mom is almost in tears and then her words reflect a touch of anger, a hint of resentment. Grandma does not let her in her things. She is private with secrets. She tells us the secret trips, the safety deposit boxes possibly holding the hidden treasure mom needs to save her retirement. We start quietly but grandma’s sleep is undisturbed by our betrayal so we pull more boxes out of the closet and become louder. It is a small room with a hospital bed, a dresser holding the always-on TV, a small nightstand, and some photos on the windowsill. Mom’s chair, end table, and lamp are there too so she can share the company of her mother’s confined life. At the foot of the bed is the closet. We are in an assembly line of deceit. I am on the floor of the closet. My oldest brother stands above me and provides the orders. Several paces back my younger brother stands near grandma’s nightstand and watches her. Mom is a few steps back in the doorway wringing her hands in a cliché manner. Next is my sister-in-law, barely visible behind her husband and just outside the doorway. My other sister-in-law, the newest wife, is behind her in the hallway. My nephew, the innocent, is in the living room.
I triumphantly announce the discovery of a large box of photos. I struggle to pull them out and hand them to my older brother. I turn to mom. She is crying, ‘I thought they were lost forever’. My brother responds they have been here in the closet. She continues to cry. We pass the box down the assembly line and out of the lair. I find one more and we decide that is enough. We will all leave. One of the wives quietly closes the door after we have all exited toward the living room. Now we surround the treasure chest placed on the oak table that was our game table as children. My mom cannot stop crying at the revelation of each treasure. We pass them around and soon everyone is exploring the chest.
Mom goes back to wake up grandma. We tell her not to, let her sleep. Mom replies she will not want to miss us being there. Mom soon brings grandma out. She is smiling as she takes small steps down the hallway and mom settles her in the blue velvet recliner. Grandma tries to smooth her hair. We continue our exploration. My oldest brother tells us,’I know this will be the last time I see my grandma.’ I deny this claim. Great-grandma lived to her 90s. Grandma does not have any illnesses. She has been old a long time and will just continue on being old. This I believe even though my husband would already be buried if he were not in a box in my bedroom. He walks to the hutch that used to be in the formal dining room and held my mom’s wedding china and porcelain wedding doves. Now behind the glass doors are picture frames, mom’s dad, her last dog Fritzi, and the photo we took in our early twenties. All of us resisted getting together for a professional photo. We were busy, busy with our young lives. My brother was right when, a few years ago, he said that mom knew. She knew it was the last time we would all be together, the four of us, her children. My sister’s two oldest daughters and my brother’s first two children were already in the photo. Of course, mom was right. How long before I moved to Hawaii and sold my brothers on following? We never went back to our hometown and even weddings and then funerals did not always bring all of us together.
He removed the 8x10 and closed the glass door. He went to my grandma’s side. He pointed at his likeness captured over 20 years ago and then pointed at his chest. Grandma mimicked him. Yes, he said, that is me. Then he pointed to me at maybe 23 and me today standing in her living room and then the same for my little brother. She was so excited. I was shocked. Was she just being pleasant to a room full of strangers who came to visit? They lived in Seattle for five years. When my brother and his family visited, did she think they were new friends? New every time they came over? When my brothers and husband did a remodel at the house did she believe they were just handymen? Was I the handyman’s wife, perhaps bringing him lunch or waiting for the end of the workday?
How can I continue to be so naive? I knew she did not comprehend they lived in Seattle. I know she would ask me where I live. When I would tell her I lived in San Diego and have to fly there, she would be perplexed. She must think I fly from San Diego to Los Angeles. In her life, flying was an extravagance. What did she make of someone who flew for a 150-mile trip?
Then my brother handed her a picture of grandpa. She ran her left finger down the image of his body as I have done to photos of my lost husband. However, I have found it better not to touch the photo for it breaks the illusion that is so hard to steady in your mind in the first place. From across the room I saw the look of excitement disappear, not even wash away but vanish. Was her expression sadness, grief, memories, the struggle to capture memories or remember feelings? It is hard to say without putting my first year of loss, and now the recollection of that moment so farther along in my journey, onto the interpretation of her expression. At this point, I would read it as acknowledgement and maybe just loss. So now, the winter before spring marks year five, I would say that is the epilogue of how long grief lasts. She was 87. Grandpa had been part of her for close to fifty years. She walked alone another 20. It was part of her.
We all begin the search. Most rooms are obvious and quickly dismissed. Mom’s closet seems promising and we unload boxes with anticipation. However, tax records are not as fun for reminiscing. There is only grandma’s room remaining. Mom says grandma has gone back to bed and is asleep. My brother says perfect. Mom is almost in tears and then her words reflect a touch of anger, a hint of resentment. Grandma does not let her in her things. She is private with secrets. She tells us the secret trips, the safety deposit boxes possibly holding the hidden treasure mom needs to save her retirement. We start quietly but grandma’s sleep is undisturbed by our betrayal so we pull more boxes out of the closet and become louder. It is a small room with a hospital bed, a dresser holding the always-on TV, a small nightstand, and some photos on the windowsill. Mom’s chair, end table, and lamp are there too so she can share the company of her mother’s confined life. At the foot of the bed is the closet. We are in an assembly line of deceit. I am on the floor of the closet. My oldest brother stands above me and provides the orders. Several paces back my younger brother stands near grandma’s nightstand and watches her. Mom is a few steps back in the doorway wringing her hands in a cliché manner. Next is my sister-in-law, barely visible behind her husband and just outside the doorway. My other sister-in-law, the newest wife, is behind her in the hallway. My nephew, the innocent, is in the living room.
I triumphantly announce the discovery of a large box of photos. I struggle to pull them out and hand them to my older brother. I turn to mom. She is crying, ‘I thought they were lost forever’. My brother responds they have been here in the closet. She continues to cry. We pass the box down the assembly line and out of the lair. I find one more and we decide that is enough. We will all leave. One of the wives quietly closes the door after we have all exited toward the living room. Now we surround the treasure chest placed on the oak table that was our game table as children. My mom cannot stop crying at the revelation of each treasure. We pass them around and soon everyone is exploring the chest.
Mom goes back to wake up grandma. We tell her not to, let her sleep. Mom replies she will not want to miss us being there. Mom soon brings grandma out. She is smiling as she takes small steps down the hallway and mom settles her in the blue velvet recliner. Grandma tries to smooth her hair. We continue our exploration. My oldest brother tells us,’I know this will be the last time I see my grandma.’ I deny this claim. Great-grandma lived to her 90s. Grandma does not have any illnesses. She has been old a long time and will just continue on being old. This I believe even though my husband would already be buried if he were not in a box in my bedroom. He walks to the hutch that used to be in the formal dining room and held my mom’s wedding china and porcelain wedding doves. Now behind the glass doors are picture frames, mom’s dad, her last dog Fritzi, and the photo we took in our early twenties. All of us resisted getting together for a professional photo. We were busy, busy with our young lives. My brother was right when, a few years ago, he said that mom knew. She knew it was the last time we would all be together, the four of us, her children. My sister’s two oldest daughters and my brother’s first two children were already in the photo. Of course, mom was right. How long before I moved to Hawaii and sold my brothers on following? We never went back to our hometown and even weddings and then funerals did not always bring all of us together.
He removed the 8x10 and closed the glass door. He went to my grandma’s side. He pointed at his likeness captured over 20 years ago and then pointed at his chest. Grandma mimicked him. Yes, he said, that is me. Then he pointed to me at maybe 23 and me today standing in her living room and then the same for my little brother. She was so excited. I was shocked. Was she just being pleasant to a room full of strangers who came to visit? They lived in Seattle for five years. When my brother and his family visited, did she think they were new friends? New every time they came over? When my brothers and husband did a remodel at the house did she believe they were just handymen? Was I the handyman’s wife, perhaps bringing him lunch or waiting for the end of the workday?
How can I continue to be so naive? I knew she did not comprehend they lived in Seattle. I know she would ask me where I live. When I would tell her I lived in San Diego and have to fly there, she would be perplexed. She must think I fly from San Diego to Los Angeles. In her life, flying was an extravagance. What did she make of someone who flew for a 150-mile trip?
Then my brother handed her a picture of grandpa. She ran her left finger down the image of his body as I have done to photos of my lost husband. However, I have found it better not to touch the photo for it breaks the illusion that is so hard to steady in your mind in the first place. From across the room I saw the look of excitement disappear, not even wash away but vanish. Was her expression sadness, grief, memories, the struggle to capture memories or remember feelings? It is hard to say without putting my first year of loss, and now the recollection of that moment so farther along in my journey, onto the interpretation of her expression. At this point, I would read it as acknowledgement and maybe just loss. So now, the winter before spring marks year five, I would say that is the epilogue of how long grief lasts. She was 87. Grandpa had been part of her for close to fifty years. She walked alone another 20. It was part of her.
4 years, 9 Months - Comforting the Newly Bereaved, Losing the Second Greatest Love of My Life
I need to call my friend’s partner and worry about the questions she will ask. First, I revisited our relationship starting from the end and then remembering the beginning. Luckily I did not call on these days for I remembered she would need to talk and I told myself, warned myself, to shut up and just listen because it was her time, her need. My grief has already passed. She is now just a feeling. When I thought she was just memories I tried to recall the time with her in detail. Yet I was limited to the memories reinforced by photos, the times of tears, and the moments of deepest suffering. To go beyond these memories was difficult and I could only bring forth a few more snippets of time. No, the memories too are gone. Just a feeling, a faint after glow and the knowledge that I loved her deeply is all that remains, that obsession had always been the best verb. She was the second greatest love of my life and before I met my husband, she was the love of my life.
I wish I had called on that day because now the sadness has invited its companion depression and I can feel its presence walking up the path. Soon it will be here for a visit and it is hard to put on a hostess smile when I see it has packed luggage for a long stay and is not just coming to visit for the evening or a rainy weekend. As my niece and her fiancé lock up the house, give me briefer hugs and goodbyes than I anticipated and drive away in the moving truck I close the door. It is just the cats, the blind bird, and my lover sadness and her unwelcome houseguest depression.
I think of only you when I wonder about the conversation with her partner. Is she already past shock? Has she entered grief? If so, she will want to know how to cure it and when it will be over.
I think of my brother‘s friend that we used to have family ski days with when we lived in Whistler. I never knew she had lost a little girl. We were standing in the snow in Whistler square. ‘The grief becomes a part of you’ she told me when after three winters I still believed it was something that would pass. If not the oft-quoted one year, and not then at three years, then five years must be how long it lasts. However, I see now that it is part of me like my gray hair and aging skin and the time before is no more attainable than the beauty of youth faded.
Do I tell her six months like the nephew of one of my widow friends told her? He had several losses close together. When my friend saw him a year later she told him he had lied. He said he knows that but it was what she needed to hear at the time. I can tell her it will last six months. Therefore, in time she will know me as a liar but be comforted now counting the days until the suffering ends.
Of course, it is not as bad. You must resign the loss as when you finally conclude that a treasured item is lost for good. The continued searching in the same places, the new places, and your mind, is futile.
It is lost: your soundboard, the smile that accepts your dreams, the ear that patiently waits for the hesitant confession of your fantasies, the arms that comfort, the thumb that smears the tear from your cheek, the warmth in your bed at night that absorbs all your fears and instinctively unites the tighter you wrap your body around it, the other that brings you all the happiness you need at the end of the day, the eyes that answer your unspoken thoughts, the hand that rests on your thigh at a family dinner and takes away the anger and hurt of decades, the lips that brush your forehead as the sun first softness the darkness and kisses away the nightmares to remind you that this is your life and you are loved.
How do I explain the journey of the last five years? When did I put down the backpack of rocks? When were the crushing bodice strings loosened so I could breathe again? When did I walk out of the deep water and each step become easier? How long was the walk through fire? How many times did I make the noise of a dying animal? When did I stop the moaning? How long after before I stopped sobbing, and as the waves became gentler, when did it become only crying, a more familiar response to sadness?
I should call tomorrow. I do not have an answer. I should just call to listen, maybe lie, and maybe give a response that is only an outline because she is just searching for the pill, the magic words, or the directions to end the pain that is only awakening.
I wish I had called on that day because now the sadness has invited its companion depression and I can feel its presence walking up the path. Soon it will be here for a visit and it is hard to put on a hostess smile when I see it has packed luggage for a long stay and is not just coming to visit for the evening or a rainy weekend. As my niece and her fiancé lock up the house, give me briefer hugs and goodbyes than I anticipated and drive away in the moving truck I close the door. It is just the cats, the blind bird, and my lover sadness and her unwelcome houseguest depression.
I think of only you when I wonder about the conversation with her partner. Is she already past shock? Has she entered grief? If so, she will want to know how to cure it and when it will be over.
I think of my brother‘s friend that we used to have family ski days with when we lived in Whistler. I never knew she had lost a little girl. We were standing in the snow in Whistler square. ‘The grief becomes a part of you’ she told me when after three winters I still believed it was something that would pass. If not the oft-quoted one year, and not then at three years, then five years must be how long it lasts. However, I see now that it is part of me like my gray hair and aging skin and the time before is no more attainable than the beauty of youth faded.
Do I tell her six months like the nephew of one of my widow friends told her? He had several losses close together. When my friend saw him a year later she told him he had lied. He said he knows that but it was what she needed to hear at the time. I can tell her it will last six months. Therefore, in time she will know me as a liar but be comforted now counting the days until the suffering ends.
Of course, it is not as bad. You must resign the loss as when you finally conclude that a treasured item is lost for good. The continued searching in the same places, the new places, and your mind, is futile.
It is lost: your soundboard, the smile that accepts your dreams, the ear that patiently waits for the hesitant confession of your fantasies, the arms that comfort, the thumb that smears the tear from your cheek, the warmth in your bed at night that absorbs all your fears and instinctively unites the tighter you wrap your body around it, the other that brings you all the happiness you need at the end of the day, the eyes that answer your unspoken thoughts, the hand that rests on your thigh at a family dinner and takes away the anger and hurt of decades, the lips that brush your forehead as the sun first softness the darkness and kisses away the nightmares to remind you that this is your life and you are loved.
How do I explain the journey of the last five years? When did I put down the backpack of rocks? When were the crushing bodice strings loosened so I could breathe again? When did I walk out of the deep water and each step become easier? How long was the walk through fire? How many times did I make the noise of a dying animal? When did I stop the moaning? How long after before I stopped sobbing, and as the waves became gentler, when did it become only crying, a more familiar response to sadness?
I should call tomorrow. I do not have an answer. I should just call to listen, maybe lie, and maybe give a response that is only an outline because she is just searching for the pill, the magic words, or the directions to end the pain that is only awakening.
5 Years, 8 Months - Feeling Your Soul Enter Me As You Died
When I felt my husband’s energy pass through me I knew it was his soul departing and it left through my body.
When I told my religious uncle this story, he said it was because when we marry our souls join. When my husband died the part of his soul that was in me left too. I entertained this idea. However, I have to go with my initial feeling because I felt the energy enter through the center of my chest where his head was resting. I think his soul left through the top of his head, entered me through my heart, it filled my entire chest cavity and then the energy centered itself in my spinal cord behind my heart, and after a brief pause, shot up with intense speed. I felt what I could only explain as energy go up my spinal cord from that center point to my head and then from the center of my brain it shot out of the top of my head. I do not know how else to explain it. It was such an amazing phenomenon that part of the reason I wanted to care for my mom while she was dieing was in selfish hopes of experiencing this feeling again.
When I told my religious uncle this story, he said it was because when we marry our souls join. When my husband died the part of his soul that was in me left too. I entertained this idea. However, I have to go with my initial feeling because I felt the energy enter through the center of my chest where his head was resting. I think his soul left through the top of his head, entered me through my heart, it filled my entire chest cavity and then the energy centered itself in my spinal cord behind my heart, and after a brief pause, shot up with intense speed. I felt what I could only explain as energy go up my spinal cord from that center point to my head and then from the center of my brain it shot out of the top of my head. I do not know how else to explain it. It was such an amazing phenomenon that part of the reason I wanted to care for my mom while she was dieing was in selfish hopes of experiencing this feeling again.
4 Years, 9 Months - Your Death
It is the fourth season of Christmas since the last time I watched his chest lower, heard the last beep of the heart monitor, felt his energy crash into my chest, filing the space between my back and front ribs and once fully contained rushing with force up my spinal cord and shooting out the top of my head.
I knew without looking at the monitor, I had kept reminding myself not to watch just be with him, that the line was flat. He was gone now. I knew with finality. Then I looked and watched the flat line move across the black screen eating the mountains. The line moved fast erasing all that was left of his life. When the line devoured the hills and the mountains and conquered the screen, I looked away. I saw his older brother holding his left hand. The world was still. I heard his mother say we should get him ready. I replaced the head that had been my husbands away from my bosom back onto the hospital pillow and turned to look at his mother who held his right hand in both of hers. She told me to close his eyes. I knew how to do it from training by books and movies. I ran my fingers over his eyes bringing the eyelids to rest before brushing my palm against his cheek stubble. Why had I not shaved him when he asked? He never let me shave him even when I had asked in the shower. Because after that moment was gone, he no longer wanted to be groomed. I took the wet towels away. We had used towels to prop his head straight on the pillow when he no longer had the strength to keep it from falling forward. He would make the sign for rain to tell me to pour a pitcher of ice water on his head. We had not been able to replace the towels after the last rain. I tried to close his mouth but it would not close. It was set open in a gruesome tilted manner. I was sorry that his daughters would have to see it this way.
I knew without looking at the monitor, I had kept reminding myself not to watch just be with him, that the line was flat. He was gone now. I knew with finality. Then I looked and watched the flat line move across the black screen eating the mountains. The line moved fast erasing all that was left of his life. When the line devoured the hills and the mountains and conquered the screen, I looked away. I saw his older brother holding his left hand. The world was still. I heard his mother say we should get him ready. I replaced the head that had been my husbands away from my bosom back onto the hospital pillow and turned to look at his mother who held his right hand in both of hers. She told me to close his eyes. I knew how to do it from training by books and movies. I ran my fingers over his eyes bringing the eyelids to rest before brushing my palm against his cheek stubble. Why had I not shaved him when he asked? He never let me shave him even when I had asked in the shower. Because after that moment was gone, he no longer wanted to be groomed. I took the wet towels away. We had used towels to prop his head straight on the pillow when he no longer had the strength to keep it from falling forward. He would make the sign for rain to tell me to pour a pitcher of ice water on his head. We had not been able to replace the towels after the last rain. I tried to close his mouth but it would not close. It was set open in a gruesome tilted manner. I was sorry that his daughters would have to see it this way.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
2 Years, 2 Days - Regrets of a Daughter
I cried for mom today.
I cried for all the missed opportunities. She took care of grandma for so long. Then grandma was gone and we were both widows. I thought we would go to North Carolina. Perhaps the first of many trips together.
She had such a kind heart and I waited until she was dieing to realize it. She said since I was 18 it was a few phone calls a year, a visit for half a day every few years, an odd holiday. How sad. How selfish. I just thought she would always be there. Of course that is what I thought. I was so busy in my life. She was a picture in my head, mom at home. I did not think I needed her. I did not even think I liked her. Yet, in those few days before the pain medication took over her thinking, I really loved her. I wanted so much for her. I could have done so many easy, little things to make her life better. I was her oldest daughter, her baby girl, and I shunned her. I talked bad about her. I avoided her.
I moved in with her when she was dieing out of love and caring for her, not out of any sense of duty. I knew first hand, or rather second hand, how scary it was to die. How she could not possibly live alone with cancer. It was then I saw what a truly beautiful women she was and I realized she had always done for others. She was such a loving soul. I truly miss her. I sadly miss the relationship that could have been if I took the time for her, or judged her as an adult, if I did not listen to anyone else but saw for myself if I enjoyed her friendship. I have lost again. I have lost my husband. I have lost my mother. I realize I have also lost the chance of having a close, loving relationship with my mother.
I am adrift, alone, and the tears drip from my cheeks and run off the edges of my nose onto my husband’s sweater.
I cried for all the missed opportunities. She took care of grandma for so long. Then grandma was gone and we were both widows. I thought we would go to North Carolina. Perhaps the first of many trips together.
She had such a kind heart and I waited until she was dieing to realize it. She said since I was 18 it was a few phone calls a year, a visit for half a day every few years, an odd holiday. How sad. How selfish. I just thought she would always be there. Of course that is what I thought. I was so busy in my life. She was a picture in my head, mom at home. I did not think I needed her. I did not even think I liked her. Yet, in those few days before the pain medication took over her thinking, I really loved her. I wanted so much for her. I could have done so many easy, little things to make her life better. I was her oldest daughter, her baby girl, and I shunned her. I talked bad about her. I avoided her.
I moved in with her when she was dieing out of love and caring for her, not out of any sense of duty. I knew first hand, or rather second hand, how scary it was to die. How she could not possibly live alone with cancer. It was then I saw what a truly beautiful women she was and I realized she had always done for others. She was such a loving soul. I truly miss her. I sadly miss the relationship that could have been if I took the time for her, or judged her as an adult, if I did not listen to anyone else but saw for myself if I enjoyed her friendship. I have lost again. I have lost my husband. I have lost my mother. I realize I have also lost the chance of having a close, loving relationship with my mother.
I am adrift, alone, and the tears drip from my cheeks and run off the edges of my nose onto my husband’s sweater.
1 Year, 9 Months - Suicide
I try to think of reasons not to kill myself again.
I picture curling up in child’s pose and slicing my wrist, pealing my rib cage open or taking a gun and shooting my chest.
I try to convince myself it is just the financial worries and I have been worse off financially. That it is not the ache I still have for my husband, the constant unsatisfied yearning for him to hold me, to let me feel loved, to know that I will be all right. That it is not my mom dieing. Memories of her naked in pain, saying she was a good person, why was her life so hard. Why is my life so hard? I am good. I try to convince myself it is only money. Just wait. Don’t kill yourself today.
I picture curling up in child’s pose and slicing my wrist, pealing my rib cage open or taking a gun and shooting my chest.
I try to convince myself it is just the financial worries and I have been worse off financially. That it is not the ache I still have for my husband, the constant unsatisfied yearning for him to hold me, to let me feel loved, to know that I will be all right. That it is not my mom dieing. Memories of her naked in pain, saying she was a good person, why was her life so hard. Why is my life so hard? I am good. I try to convince myself it is only money. Just wait. Don’t kill yourself today.
1 Year, 8 Months - Fading Memories
I curl up. I lay in yoga position of sleeping child. I try to remember you.
Remember more than your name, the thought of you, or visiting how I loved you, visiting my ache of missing you. I see only photographs or scenes from the day of those pictures in my mind. I want new memories. I do not want to be limited in my memory of you. I want to see a vision of you including your head, which seems to be fading. I want to remember your smell, your voice, your smile, your eyes, your body, the way you moved, where we were, all at once, without the need to focus and recall. I want memories of the everyday, driving, waking, watching TV, and eating. Oh, and to hear your treacherous snore!
And in the other bed my mom is dieing.
Remember more than your name, the thought of you, or visiting how I loved you, visiting my ache of missing you. I see only photographs or scenes from the day of those pictures in my mind. I want new memories. I do not want to be limited in my memory of you. I want to see a vision of you including your head, which seems to be fading. I want to remember your smell, your voice, your smile, your eyes, your body, the way you moved, where we were, all at once, without the need to focus and recall. I want memories of the everyday, driving, waking, watching TV, and eating. Oh, and to hear your treacherous snore!
And in the other bed my mom is dieing.
1 Years, 7 Months - Reminders, Memories
I am stripping the bed to wash the mattress cover. I lean over and look between the bed and the wall. Seeing all those mismatched socks brings tears to my eyes and such longing.
Every morning your alarm would go off before the sun rose. Sometimes it was dark and other times of the year the sun would be rising, with the color changing on the horizon, the lighter colors advancing across the deep blue sky. You would turn off the alarm and quietly sneak out of the bed. I would be awake, but not quite, with my eyes closed. I would listen to the familiar sounds, the creak of the bedroom door then the creak of the bathroom door. Silence for a few minutes, sometimes longer, then the shower turning on. I could tell it was the hot water and then a pause, the sound of the water increasing, as he turned on the cold faucet. Hearing the rings, as the shower curtain moved open and closed, I would drift to sleep.
I would awake again as the bedroom door opened. Rob dressed in jeans and a t-shirt for work. If it was cold his uniform would include a button-up cotton shirt over the t-shirt, blue or green, opened and un-tucked, cardigan style. The air would be damp from the steam escaping the bathroom. He would lean over me. I could smell his Contradiction for Men cologne, his Neutrogena T-gel shampoo, the Right Guard Active deodorant, and Orange Listerine. He would smile. His hair a bit damp but always surprisingly dry since it seemed I just closed my eyes and he was in the shower.
He would shake the covers and straighten them, standing at the foot of the bed, flinging the comforters in the air momentarily losing sight of each other. I would complain of the cold, to leave the blankets alone. He would complain I pulled all the covers up around my head and left my legs bare, that is why I was cold. The last comforter would drift down, floating unevenly between us, wafting his fresh shower scents through the air. He would come to the head of the bed and kiss my forehead, one arm extended next to my ear, the fresh Right Guard winning the aroma contest.
He would smile and say ‘I love you‘. I would smile and say, ‘Be Careful’. I used to worry. He was always so tired from working long hours in the heat with the long commutes. I worried because he tended to fall asleep anywhere, even when driving. I would say ‘Rob’ and he would snap awake. ‘I was blinking’. And I would respond, ‘That was a long blink. Let me drive’ and he would. I worried he would fall asleep driving or be electrocuted at work. Men were always getting hurt, going to the hospital, some died. Rob was always going to the emergency room for himself or taking other construction workers. I would say, ‘I love you, be careful.’ As I drifted back to sleep I would be comforted by the sound of the key in the door lock.
I often still wake at 4:30 or 5:00. The time of the alarm and then the good-bye kiss. I still find comfort in the sound of the key turning the front door lock of our house when I am in bed.
Oh yah, why the sadness tonight? When the covers floated above our heads Rob would playfully scorn me. My socks were always under the covers. Cold toes as I went to bed became hot. He always fished the socks out of the tangled covers and put them in the hamper. To find a collection by the side of the bed, well it just emphasized that Rob was not collecting them anymore. They just gathered dust until I collected them while changing the sheets or dusting under the bed. Rob was no longer here.
Every morning your alarm would go off before the sun rose. Sometimes it was dark and other times of the year the sun would be rising, with the color changing on the horizon, the lighter colors advancing across the deep blue sky. You would turn off the alarm and quietly sneak out of the bed. I would be awake, but not quite, with my eyes closed. I would listen to the familiar sounds, the creak of the bedroom door then the creak of the bathroom door. Silence for a few minutes, sometimes longer, then the shower turning on. I could tell it was the hot water and then a pause, the sound of the water increasing, as he turned on the cold faucet. Hearing the rings, as the shower curtain moved open and closed, I would drift to sleep.
I would awake again as the bedroom door opened. Rob dressed in jeans and a t-shirt for work. If it was cold his uniform would include a button-up cotton shirt over the t-shirt, blue or green, opened and un-tucked, cardigan style. The air would be damp from the steam escaping the bathroom. He would lean over me. I could smell his Contradiction for Men cologne, his Neutrogena T-gel shampoo, the Right Guard Active deodorant, and Orange Listerine. He would smile. His hair a bit damp but always surprisingly dry since it seemed I just closed my eyes and he was in the shower.
He would shake the covers and straighten them, standing at the foot of the bed, flinging the comforters in the air momentarily losing sight of each other. I would complain of the cold, to leave the blankets alone. He would complain I pulled all the covers up around my head and left my legs bare, that is why I was cold. The last comforter would drift down, floating unevenly between us, wafting his fresh shower scents through the air. He would come to the head of the bed and kiss my forehead, one arm extended next to my ear, the fresh Right Guard winning the aroma contest.
He would smile and say ‘I love you‘. I would smile and say, ‘Be Careful’. I used to worry. He was always so tired from working long hours in the heat with the long commutes. I worried because he tended to fall asleep anywhere, even when driving. I would say ‘Rob’ and he would snap awake. ‘I was blinking’. And I would respond, ‘That was a long blink. Let me drive’ and he would. I worried he would fall asleep driving or be electrocuted at work. Men were always getting hurt, going to the hospital, some died. Rob was always going to the emergency room for himself or taking other construction workers. I would say, ‘I love you, be careful.’ As I drifted back to sleep I would be comforted by the sound of the key in the door lock.
I often still wake at 4:30 or 5:00. The time of the alarm and then the good-bye kiss. I still find comfort in the sound of the key turning the front door lock of our house when I am in bed.
Oh yah, why the sadness tonight? When the covers floated above our heads Rob would playfully scorn me. My socks were always under the covers. Cold toes as I went to bed became hot. He always fished the socks out of the tangled covers and put them in the hamper. To find a collection by the side of the bed, well it just emphasized that Rob was not collecting them anymore. They just gathered dust until I collected them while changing the sheets or dusting under the bed. Rob was no longer here.
2 Years, 3 Months - Dove
A dove flew inside my car today. Its wings above, its body forward, hovering for a brief moment like a hummingbird, faced towards me, belly side up. I was startled, then amazed, and unsure of the significance.
2 Years, 2 weeks - Sibling Wars
I am back in Seattle. My brothers are so mean to each other. My older brother is mean to me. Mom would cry. Dieing is such sad business.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
5 Years, 7 Months - Holidays
The family has gathered for Thanksgiving. We are all playing on the beach. Then my niece tells me there is a bee flying by me. She believes he comes to visit me.
She told me the first year that she kept seeing 444 all around her. She kept looking at the clock right at 4:44. I told her that was the day he died, 04/04/04. She did not realize the date was the same. She just could not figure out why this number kept showing up. Now she believes it is her uncle letting her know he is with her.
She told me the first year that she kept seeing 444 all around her. She kept looking at the clock right at 4:44. I told her that was the day he died, 04/04/04. She did not realize the date was the same. She just could not figure out why this number kept showing up. Now she believes it is her uncle letting her know he is with her.
2 Years, 11 months, 27 days - Signs
Signs - Beehive signs for freeway symbols, a stack of stuffed bees, Mexican restaurant sign on the curb featuring shrimp Diablo.
You were my worker bee. I was your queen bee. In Zihuatanjeo you only ate shrimp Diablo.
You were my worker bee. I was your queen bee. In Zihuatanjeo you only ate shrimp Diablo.
2 Years, 11 Months - Entitlement
I feel the materialistic desires are owed me. I wait, feeling entitled to wealth. After all, have I not lost all the important things in life?
Removed from my life entirely are the simplest things - love, happiness, a future, dreams, and hope. I have lost passion, desire, lust, ecstasy. Days drift by without joy. Even pain is trivial.
Why should I not then have luxury? Without love, with happiness taken away for half my life, with no hope of joy or visions of a future, should I not have wealth? Do I not deserve rich chocolate, down bedding, a daily massage? With the days dripping by can I not be sidetracked with endless money to gamble or shop? Am I not owed room service, luxury hotels, a personal assistant, a daily house cleaner, and a chef? With each step so difficult, could others do the daily chores of my life so I could have fewer troubles? Can you give me this my husband? Can you give me this God?
Could I win the lottery so I could worry less about mortgages, laundry, eating, and trivial responsibilities? With all that is pure gone, comfort, security, peacefulness, a warm body at night, someone to hold me, to smooth my hair when I cry, to call me several times a day, without any of this, can I at least have money to pass the days?
Removed from my life entirely are the simplest things - love, happiness, a future, dreams, and hope. I have lost passion, desire, lust, ecstasy. Days drift by without joy. Even pain is trivial.
Why should I not then have luxury? Without love, with happiness taken away for half my life, with no hope of joy or visions of a future, should I not have wealth? Do I not deserve rich chocolate, down bedding, a daily massage? With the days dripping by can I not be sidetracked with endless money to gamble or shop? Am I not owed room service, luxury hotels, a personal assistant, a daily house cleaner, and a chef? With each step so difficult, could others do the daily chores of my life so I could have fewer troubles? Can you give me this my husband? Can you give me this God?
Could I win the lottery so I could worry less about mortgages, laundry, eating, and trivial responsibilities? With all that is pure gone, comfort, security, peacefulness, a warm body at night, someone to hold me, to smooth my hair when I cry, to call me several times a day, without any of this, can I at least have money to pass the days?
2 Years - Second Anniversary of Death
Today is two years and the rain is pouring all our tears. The white lilies, death flowers, are blooming.
When I got in the car, Elton John was playing for me ‘Someone save my life tonight.’ Elton John was special because only you knew I liked him. If you were channel surfing you always stopped for Elton John, turned to me and smiled. Then I would sing for you. Only for you, otherwise I only sang alone in my car.
When your daughter and I checked into the hotel, she found a watch on top of the folded towels. I said we should turn it in to Lost and Found. She said it was a gift from you. Who else would leave something in our room on this day? A watch with white, your favorite color on me, and an orange stripe, my favorite color, that matched the shoes I was wearing, with a silver tone square face, because I only wear silver or platinum and I like squares, and four rhinestones. Four, 04-04-04, the day you died.
I got in my car. The tears fell in a solid stream on the outside corners of my eyes. I held my head in my hands. I rested my elbows on the steering wheel and I wailed. Slowly, then deeper, the wailing mounted, injured, hurt, sadness from deep inside.
Only one of my oldest friends called today. Your daughter and I mourned. We left a rubber duck under a small tree overlooking the end of the Grand Canyon, on top of the highest rock on the ledge, off trail at Canyonlands National Park. We left it at the Grand Canyon because the first time both of us saw it was with you. We left it at the end of the deep canyon because what was deepest in us had ended. We left one of your rubber ducks because we wanted to be there with you. Because it still hurts.
When I got in the car, Elton John was playing for me ‘Someone save my life tonight.’ Elton John was special because only you knew I liked him. If you were channel surfing you always stopped for Elton John, turned to me and smiled. Then I would sing for you. Only for you, otherwise I only sang alone in my car.
When your daughter and I checked into the hotel, she found a watch on top of the folded towels. I said we should turn it in to Lost and Found. She said it was a gift from you. Who else would leave something in our room on this day? A watch with white, your favorite color on me, and an orange stripe, my favorite color, that matched the shoes I was wearing, with a silver tone square face, because I only wear silver or platinum and I like squares, and four rhinestones. Four, 04-04-04, the day you died.
I got in my car. The tears fell in a solid stream on the outside corners of my eyes. I held my head in my hands. I rested my elbows on the steering wheel and I wailed. Slowly, then deeper, the wailing mounted, injured, hurt, sadness from deep inside.
Only one of my oldest friends called today. Your daughter and I mourned. We left a rubber duck under a small tree overlooking the end of the Grand Canyon, on top of the highest rock on the ledge, off trail at Canyonlands National Park. We left it at the Grand Canyon because the first time both of us saw it was with you. We left it at the end of the deep canyon because what was deepest in us had ended. We left one of your rubber ducks because we wanted to be there with you. Because it still hurts.
Friday, November 27, 2009
1 Year, 6 Months - Other Widows
Last night I went to a friend’s house for dinner. There were four of the women from the Hospice Grief Counseling for Young Widows and a new widow, a religious widow.
The baby of the widows still thinks he may come back. Perhaps it is a conspiracy. She is contemplating anti-depressants. Our host went to a singles group at church. Se opened the door and then turn and ran.
You have been sending me messages in songs. When I doubt it is you sending me songs the next song is by Elton John. I have never heard so much Elton John in my life. I sang the song for you, loud, with a smile knowing you are there and tears because you are gone.
One of the women says I am a riot. I was hyperactive and interrupted and talked too much, talked too much about me. You were always there to help moderate me. I was a better person with you.
The baby of the widows still thinks he may come back. Perhaps it is a conspiracy. She is contemplating anti-depressants. Our host went to a singles group at church. Se opened the door and then turn and ran.
You have been sending me messages in songs. When I doubt it is you sending me songs the next song is by Elton John. I have never heard so much Elton John in my life. I sang the song for you, loud, with a smile knowing you are there and tears because you are gone.
One of the women says I am a riot. I was hyperactive and interrupted and talked too much, talked too much about me. You were always there to help moderate me. I was a better person with you.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
5 years, 7 Months: Holidays Alone
It is 5:40pm and I have not eaten all day. This is normal on Thanksgiving because I want a large appetite for the pies. This Thanksgiving I go to the Jack-in-the-Box drive-thru. As I am waiting for my cheeseburger, I can feel the tears threatening to expose my loneliness. Then the unfortunate guy who is working on Thanksgiving will know my life is more pathetic. For now, I want to keep that a secret. When I turn the corner, I see the homeless woman and her dog. Shopping Cart Syndrome is not just a syndrome. I give her all my money, fifty cents. On the trip back home, I push my tongue against the roof of my mouth just behind my front teeth. I look up with my eyes only. These two techniques will usually stop the tears. Finally, the eyestrain becomes annoying and it is hard to see the road looking at my car's headliner. The tears flow and they do not stop. A slight sting in the eye corners, a bit of tightening in the cheeks, some warmth, and my vision clouds over and then clears and I can feel the wet enemies march downwards for another soundless cry
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
1 Year, 6 Months - Inertia
I cried today
Sadness has weighed me down
I don’t want to move
I was up Friday and Saturday with no sleep
I feel nauseous
I don’t care about working
Moving takes so much effort and I don’t even care if I do move
Sadness has weighed me down
I don’t want to move
I was up Friday and Saturday with no sleep
I feel nauseous
I don’t care about working
Moving takes so much effort and I don’t even care if I do move
1 Year, 5 months - Signs
I just miss you honey. I feel your hug in the wind and it comforts me. I think of you and see a large daisy sign. I wish you were by my side and I see a bus with a bee.
1 Year, 4 Months - Praying to the dead
Honey, can’t you help? Why isn’t it working? I promise I’ll lead a fulfilling life and not just stay inside, predominately in bed. Help me honey.
5 Years, 7 Months - The Holidays
The holidays suck. I just talked to a friend that is a young widow without kids. She was expecting dinner at the in-laws as usual. However, her phone calls were ignored and then she finally got a cold reception when the sister answered. She now realizes she is spending Thanksgiving alone.
Losing a spouse usually means losing more people as well. Who are the in-laws and the stepchildren after death? Legally they are not related to you any longer. Not only have you lost the person that touches every aspect of your life but an entire branch of your family tree is severed. My brother-in-law called yesterday. I was expecting an invite as well but it was just a message to say 'Have a nice Thanksgiving'.
Sure, I have made plans for the past holidays. I don't just wait to be invited. I went to Mexico and ate lobster with two widows in their 20s the first year. I have hosted several holiday dinners and went to a friend's house one year. Nevertheless, there remains the void. You are now family-less. You are no longer married. Basically you are single. Your in-laws remain family at will. Your extended family spends the time with their immediate family - children, in-laws, and spouse. Another holiday season and I will be alone. This year will be Thanksgiving dinner take-out again. I do eat in restaurants alone all the time now. Yet to go out to dinner alone on Thanksgiving or even cook for one is too pathetic. Better yet to pretend it is just another day. Some years are better than others. It is not a straight line forward.
Tomorrow is the anniversary of the day he proposed.
Losing a spouse usually means losing more people as well. Who are the in-laws and the stepchildren after death? Legally they are not related to you any longer. Not only have you lost the person that touches every aspect of your life but an entire branch of your family tree is severed. My brother-in-law called yesterday. I was expecting an invite as well but it was just a message to say 'Have a nice Thanksgiving'.
Sure, I have made plans for the past holidays. I don't just wait to be invited. I went to Mexico and ate lobster with two widows in their 20s the first year. I have hosted several holiday dinners and went to a friend's house one year. Nevertheless, there remains the void. You are now family-less. You are no longer married. Basically you are single. Your in-laws remain family at will. Your extended family spends the time with their immediate family - children, in-laws, and spouse. Another holiday season and I will be alone. This year will be Thanksgiving dinner take-out again. I do eat in restaurants alone all the time now. Yet to go out to dinner alone on Thanksgiving or even cook for one is too pathetic. Better yet to pretend it is just another day. Some years are better than others. It is not a straight line forward.
Tomorrow is the anniversary of the day he proposed.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
1 Year, 3 Months - Getting through the days, emptiness
Another day …
I take off my pants and drop them in the hamper. I pull the t-shirt over my head and let it fall on top of the pants. When I am sitting peeing I see the antenna of a small roach. It is time for me to buy more roach hotels.
I crawl in bed in old panties with a maxi overnight pad and a tank top. I lay on top of the Pemberton wool blanket. I believe the clean sheets are wedged between the headboard and mattress. The other side of the bed is tangled with clean laundry. I have not made my bed in months. I arrange the pile of pillows and lay my feet near the window. For unknown reasons, I sleep with my head at the footboard now.
I hear the crickets and think of you sweating in the sun. You uncovered a large cricket mound digging a ditch by the driveway. I never knew they nested underground like ants. A swarm of crickets flew and swirled around us. I did not hear them in the garage afterwards. However, they crickets are back now. I hear them in the patio.
We wanted a driveway that would park two cars. You wanted to cement the strip of flower beds that separated our driveway from the neighbors grass. I wanted the flower bed as an area to plant tall bushes that would block the view of the neighbors and close off our home. I wanted to cement over the grass. However, the grass was the only part of the yard you liked. We compromised half the flower bed strip and half the grass for the driveway extension. You dug down three feet to get rid of the weeds and poor dirt so I could plant the bushes. We purchased the plants in Cambria on our anniversary get-away and carried them home in the backseat. The trunk was filled with cases of wine you bought while wine tasting. The smell of dirt and Mexican sage enveloped us on our drive home. Two plants died after awhile. The other three grow and spread. The sound of crickets reminds me of you.
My life is led by others now. I don’t do what I want. The phone pages me all day. I work for others. My weekends are planned for me. I have no joy. I must hide to be left alone. I wake when others tell me, I follow their dictates by day, and I eat a little when I remember. I mostly smoke and drink Diet Cokes. I resign to sleep some nights. I protest other nights and stay up so I am free to do what I want, free from phone calls, rebelling against the drudgery of my afternoons. I think of you. Did you send me those birds, those signs? Is the song on the radio your words to me?
I am not as sad anymore. I never cry. I only wail occasionally. The pain is buried too deep for tears and requires an emptying, releasing, a minimum of wailing and moaning. I do not cry. I do not care.
Slowly I resign myself to the drudgery, the emptiness, the loneliness. I accustom myself to daily dreariness and to walking with a hollow feeling. The hollowness is like hunger without satisfaction. It is more of a mild hunger, rather than starvation, as in waiting a long time for dinner after forgetting to eat breakfast and lunch. Maybe this is why I eat less. Why I forget to eat. I am getting used to the emptiness and forget sometimes it is only a hunger for food, which I can meet. I am so used to a longing, the forsaking, the loss of love returned, of love satisfied, of love seen and felt. I must forget that some of the ache is merely hunger for food.
I take off my pants and drop them in the hamper. I pull the t-shirt over my head and let it fall on top of the pants. When I am sitting peeing I see the antenna of a small roach. It is time for me to buy more roach hotels.
I crawl in bed in old panties with a maxi overnight pad and a tank top. I lay on top of the Pemberton wool blanket. I believe the clean sheets are wedged between the headboard and mattress. The other side of the bed is tangled with clean laundry. I have not made my bed in months. I arrange the pile of pillows and lay my feet near the window. For unknown reasons, I sleep with my head at the footboard now.
I hear the crickets and think of you sweating in the sun. You uncovered a large cricket mound digging a ditch by the driveway. I never knew they nested underground like ants. A swarm of crickets flew and swirled around us. I did not hear them in the garage afterwards. However, they crickets are back now. I hear them in the patio.
We wanted a driveway that would park two cars. You wanted to cement the strip of flower beds that separated our driveway from the neighbors grass. I wanted the flower bed as an area to plant tall bushes that would block the view of the neighbors and close off our home. I wanted to cement over the grass. However, the grass was the only part of the yard you liked. We compromised half the flower bed strip and half the grass for the driveway extension. You dug down three feet to get rid of the weeds and poor dirt so I could plant the bushes. We purchased the plants in Cambria on our anniversary get-away and carried them home in the backseat. The trunk was filled with cases of wine you bought while wine tasting. The smell of dirt and Mexican sage enveloped us on our drive home. Two plants died after awhile. The other three grow and spread. The sound of crickets reminds me of you.
My life is led by others now. I don’t do what I want. The phone pages me all day. I work for others. My weekends are planned for me. I have no joy. I must hide to be left alone. I wake when others tell me, I follow their dictates by day, and I eat a little when I remember. I mostly smoke and drink Diet Cokes. I resign to sleep some nights. I protest other nights and stay up so I am free to do what I want, free from phone calls, rebelling against the drudgery of my afternoons. I think of you. Did you send me those birds, those signs? Is the song on the radio your words to me?
I am not as sad anymore. I never cry. I only wail occasionally. The pain is buried too deep for tears and requires an emptying, releasing, a minimum of wailing and moaning. I do not cry. I do not care.
Slowly I resign myself to the drudgery, the emptiness, the loneliness. I accustom myself to daily dreariness and to walking with a hollow feeling. The hollowness is like hunger without satisfaction. It is more of a mild hunger, rather than starvation, as in waiting a long time for dinner after forgetting to eat breakfast and lunch. Maybe this is why I eat less. Why I forget to eat. I am getting used to the emptiness and forget sometimes it is only a hunger for food, which I can meet. I am so used to a longing, the forsaking, the loss of love returned, of love satisfied, of love seen and felt. I must forget that some of the ache is merely hunger for food.
Monday, November 9, 2009
2 Years, Twenty Days - Songs, Alone
One verse keeps running through my head, "I don't know what to do, cause you know I still love you". I sing it over and over to myself like a jewelry box opening and closing its lid with the lonely dancer spinning in circles. I have done three rewinds before I realize it.
The toilet keeps running. I know it is the flap. Isn't anyone going to fix it? Do I call a plumber? Do I go to Home Depot? Do I tinker with it? When did I become so inept?
The toilet keeps running. I know it is the flap. Isn't anyone going to fix it? Do I call a plumber? Do I go to Home Depot? Do I tinker with it? When did I become so inept?
1 Year, 6 Months - Do Not Recognize Self
When I see the old lady in the mirror I know it is not definitive. I can see, just under the surface, where I am hiding. Just under the surface but I can not quite reach her. Nevertheless, I tell the eyes that look back at me not to worry, not to give up hope. I am still there. It is not over.
Friday, November 6, 2009
5 years, 7 months, 1 day - Bittersweet Memories
I listen to music that reminds me of you. There is a smile on my face. There are tears crossing my eyelashes in multiple rivulets across the width and length of my cheeks. I sing. I want to dance. Wanting to dance puts a vision of you in my mind. I would be walking out of the kitchen. You would be on the sofa. A song would start my body swaying. You would tell me to ‘do it’. The recollection brings back that same full stretch smile. Slowly I would twist with my arms in front of me, elbows tucked against my sides, my hands curled in balls, a slow dip of the alternating knee as my arms chugged to the left and then slowly to the right. Excitedly you would say again to do it. However, it was a slow dance. Each dip to the side was a little lower and then my heel opposite would rise and lift my foot up on my toes. There were a few more twists to go. You anticipated the dip that finally lifted my foot a few inches off the floor. Caddyshack was nearly a religion. Boys and men would quote the movie in impersonated voices. I did the dance, the gopher dance. He loved my gopher dance.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
1 year, 8 months - Do the dead grieve?
For the first time I wondered if you were mourning too? Do you miss me as much as I miss you? Do you miss everyone? Can you see us but miss touching us, holding us, laughing with us, talking to us? Are you grieving too? I was struck by my selfishness. To think you were fine alone.
1 Year, 3 Months: Need, Living is a Chore
I curled in a ball and wailed. I was by myself and I wailed. I can not sleep. It is too late to take sleeping pills.
I can not give you up.
I need you.
I need you to hold me.
I need you to support me.
I need you to be the same.
I need your comfort now.
I can not wait anymore.
I want you so bad.
I cry and it comes from so deep inside. I need you. I need you. I am not O.K. You were my life. I hate this life. It is pointless. It is a job. Something I have to do. Eventually I have to get out of bed. I have to work and do errands. I have to feed myself everyday when nothing satisfies, nothing is appealing. My ribs shutter up and down as I sob. My nose runs on the pillow. There is no relief from the pain. I do not want to go on. I just go through the day as if it is a chore I must accomplish. I procrastinate and try to avoid the chore. I sleep in, I go without eating, and I drift. Yet there is no choice eventually. My brother and his wife will find me. My niece will expect me to get up eventually. She will want to eat so I will eat.
The drugs store the pain away a bit but it is still there. It is a huge, raw, empty hole with sorrow floating in its darkness. I think of you, so far away now. My love for you so unfulfilled. I am craving to be held, touched. I would love just an hour, just an hour to kiss you, to kiss your closed eyelids, to run my palm down between the muscles of your chest, to run my fingers through your soft hair, to smell you. The smell of you, cologne, sweat, Neutrogena T-Gel shampoo, your deodorant, your smell. I only need an hour to feel your weight on top of me.
I can not accept the fact that I can only be with someone else, a stranger to me today. I want to be faithful. Not out of respect, not out of obligation. I want to be faithful because my soul loves you. You are my soul mate. I can not understand why you had to die. I can not understand how people survive this? How do they handle the pain?
Come home to me or take me to you.
I can not give you up.
I need you.
I need you to hold me.
I need you to support me.
I need you to be the same.
I need your comfort now.
I can not wait anymore.
I want you so bad.
I cry and it comes from so deep inside. I need you. I need you. I am not O.K. You were my life. I hate this life. It is pointless. It is a job. Something I have to do. Eventually I have to get out of bed. I have to work and do errands. I have to feed myself everyday when nothing satisfies, nothing is appealing. My ribs shutter up and down as I sob. My nose runs on the pillow. There is no relief from the pain. I do not want to go on. I just go through the day as if it is a chore I must accomplish. I procrastinate and try to avoid the chore. I sleep in, I go without eating, and I drift. Yet there is no choice eventually. My brother and his wife will find me. My niece will expect me to get up eventually. She will want to eat so I will eat.
The drugs store the pain away a bit but it is still there. It is a huge, raw, empty hole with sorrow floating in its darkness. I think of you, so far away now. My love for you so unfulfilled. I am craving to be held, touched. I would love just an hour, just an hour to kiss you, to kiss your closed eyelids, to run my palm down between the muscles of your chest, to run my fingers through your soft hair, to smell you. The smell of you, cologne, sweat, Neutrogena T-Gel shampoo, your deodorant, your smell. I only need an hour to feel your weight on top of me.
I can not accept the fact that I can only be with someone else, a stranger to me today. I want to be faithful. Not out of respect, not out of obligation. I want to be faithful because my soul loves you. You are my soul mate. I can not understand why you had to die. I can not understand how people survive this? How do they handle the pain?
Come home to me or take me to you.
5 weeks - Scared, Panic
I have bad feelings when I go to do some laundry. It is such a normal routine that I did hundreds of times in this house, with this machine, with you in the living room. Now it is just I. I am terrified when I think of you those last days in the hospital. I am scared that you are gone. Can it be forever? I have been planning a trip with your daughter using your ticket to see your niece graduate. I wish it were you and me or the two of us and the girls. I don’t feel like you are gone and when I try to think of it I feel panic rising up inside me that I have to stop before it reaches my throat. Where are you baby?
5 weeks - Regret
I read your autopsy report today and wailed. I thought of your shoulder injury and could picture the thin line running vertically when they described it. I could see your healed midsection scar from a childhood appendectomy like me. I was at peace to know there was so much cancer everywhere. I felt less regret for saying yes to stop the care aimed at curing you. Still, I wonder if we stopped chemo too soon. Was there any hope? Could we have at least gotten you to the ocean? I think now how you kept asking me to go to the water - the ocean, a pool, a hydrotherapy bath. How I could not help you. How I kept promising you ‘maybe tomorrow’. You were unable to speak. You had not spoken in maybe a week. When your family asked me how long it had been since you could talk I could not answer them. I did not notice that much because we could still talk without words. I know you. You know me. I know your looks and what they mean. Plus you had incorporated basic sign language symbols we had learned from our one-year-old nephew visiting you. We also used scuba diving signals. The sign to surface became the sign to raise the bed. To dive together side-by-side meant for me to come closer to the bed. Sign language for milk was a request for Ensure. The sign for rain meant to pour ice water on your head. I knew you wanted to get in the water when you made the sign language for fish on your last day. When I said maybe tomorrow, you said ‘oh well’. As if you knew there were no more tomorrows. Did you say this with your eyes, a shrug, a tilt of the head? I don’t recall because to me it was the same as if you spoke the words. I think of holding your head to my chest as you left, of telling you I would look after your girls, and I loved you. I said ‘I love you’ with such deep sadness as your heart rate continued to drop and you stopped breathing. I felt you go. When I looked a the heart monitor the flat line was eating the mountains like a Pac Man. I am lonely. Yet, not as lonely as before I met you. I am more at peace now. Now, that someone has loved me unconditionally, without fear, without jealousy, without their selves first. You loved me first and then your self and I am at peace. I am sure my loneliness will grow without you ever coming back home. I will be so lonely to go places without you especially the places we already had tickets for, the places we had planned, that we had scheduled to take off work, all the places we had on our list. How I miss you pumpkin. How I wish we had years and years. I fear I am sick too. I wonder what I will do. I am scared. How scared you must have been.
5 weeks - I thought of you today. I cried.
I thought of you today when I saw the bird on the picket fence. I thought of you today and cried in the bathtub remembering our third date. I cried because I miss you. I cried for the regrets. I cried because I want to travel with you and have you hold me. I wear your wedding ring on my finger. I made a list of things to do and they include showering and crying. I feel you with me all the time. I feel you catch a peek at me through the eye of a bird and hug me with the wind.
3 Years - Expectations
I just need to tell someone. Maybe no one will hear. Maybe no one will read. Maybe I am naive. But someone hear me. No one hears me.
They applaud the steps they see as forward and ignore with mild contempt and frustration the stagnation. I don’t only move forward. I am in a rip tide with my mouth barely breathing, pulling out and under to the sea. You only see when I make a movement towards shore. I know to swim parallel to shore. I know it is what I need. But, the water is cool and warm and wraps me. I can go with the tide without so much strain. I am tired from fighting it. The constant fight and I am no closer to shore. Swim parallel? Swim and swim and pull, arm over arm, turning my head for breaths, keep going. But I’ll only be the same distance I am now from shore just a bit upstream, perhaps downstream. Can’t I just let the tide take me, take it’s time? It will calm in time. The tide will lose its power. It will wane and I will just be floating in the sea. It will be harder for you to see me from shore. But, I will be there, safe in time. Then I can swim without so much effort. It will be refreshing, invigorating. Why is it necessary to struggle so much now? I will be strong enough when the rip tide losses its power and then I can move towards shore.
They applaud the steps they see as forward and ignore with mild contempt and frustration the stagnation. I don’t only move forward. I am in a rip tide with my mouth barely breathing, pulling out and under to the sea. You only see when I make a movement towards shore. I know to swim parallel to shore. I know it is what I need. But, the water is cool and warm and wraps me. I can go with the tide without so much strain. I am tired from fighting it. The constant fight and I am no closer to shore. Swim parallel? Swim and swim and pull, arm over arm, turning my head for breaths, keep going. But I’ll only be the same distance I am now from shore just a bit upstream, perhaps downstream. Can’t I just let the tide take me, take it’s time? It will calm in time. The tide will lose its power. It will wane and I will just be floating in the sea. It will be harder for you to see me from shore. But, I will be there, safe in time. Then I can swim without so much effort. It will be refreshing, invigorating. Why is it necessary to struggle so much now? I will be strong enough when the rip tide losses its power and then I can move towards shore.
3 Years - Reminders Everywhere
They all have each other.
I see him everywhere
I think of him all day
Everything is him or us
Just to hear, ‘I am on my way home'
I see him everywhere
I think of him all day
Everything is him or us
Just to hear, ‘I am on my way home'
Grief Walking - A Coming of Middle Age Story
The music was immobilizing me. Song after song of love and loss and moving on. Some of the worst ones from the early years.
I guess that’s what I’ll call it now, the early years, the start of the grief, the start of the end of my life.
I guess that’s what I’ll call it now, the early years, the start of the grief, the start of the end of my life.
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