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.
Monday, December 14, 2009
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.
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