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.
Monday, November 30, 2009
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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