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.
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