Perhaps that’s the rhythm of this journey–as time goes by there are whole weeks and months when life just goes on and we get caught up in the daily ins and outs. Of course it does not mean the loss is less–maybe the grief but never the loss. Today is Valentine’s Day and I am remembering all the years that I awoke on this day to find a piece of yellow paper from a legal pad placed on my nightstand or the kitchen table. Sometimes it had been cut into a crude heart shape but always it carried the handwritten declaration I LOVE YOU BIGGER THAN I CAN REACH AND BEYOND! scrawled in pencil usually but sometimes Magic Marker.
We didn’t do a lot with gifts on this day–our gift was one more day together especially in those last months. In some ways every day became Valentine’s for us.
As I approached this particular February 14th, I became acutely aware of how my life has changed and continues to change–more to the point how I am changing. In my zeal to fill each day and get through each night I have made deliberate efforts to expand my circle of friends and surrogate family–not an easy thing for this introvert, I assure you. But recently I joined a writer’s group–one that was new to me and one where I knew no one. After several weeks, it lifts my spirits to hear these new friends greet me by name and share bits of their lives with me. I also took a six-week workshop on making handmade books where I met four fabulous women and the instructor and we ‘jelled’ in a way that gave me such a lift.
And here’s the exciting and surprising thing–because I have found these new connections, I am more patient with my main support network–if they don’t call or fail to invite me to something, I no longer assume it’s because they don’t like me or that I have somehow offended them. I give them the benefit of a doubt, accepting –and even applauding–the fact that they have their own lives to lead with their own problems and challenges. In short I am becoming not only stronger but a nicer and more generous person than I ever was before. I’m pretty sure L is smiling big-time on this Valentine’s Day–I know I’m finding smiles easier to come by day by day.
December marks the month when four years ago L and I were told, “This is it. Might be months or weeks or days, but not a year.”
As always L accepted this news with his usual calm and set about focusing on what was important for him–friends, family, and me. That Christmas I remember he found ‘elves’ to do the shopping he could not manage. He sent them on shopping missions–his sister to get roses for me specifically NOT red. (Instead they were a unique brilliant orange and they lasted for weeks.) And he added a beautiful Waterford crystal rose–a forever rose.
Another friend was tasked with going to a bath store and finding bath salts and lotions and–a candle. Why was the candle so special? Because he knew how I loved fires in the fireplace and candles throughout the house at this time of year. The problem was they affected his breathing and not in a good way, so for several years I had filled the house with those artificial battery candles.
For the past several years we had been in Florida for the holidays so being back in Wisconsin added to the understanding that this year was different and the realization that this year we would not be going to Florida at all. We attended Christmas Eve services and had our Christmas Eve ‘dinner’ at Cheesecake Factory–the only place we had found open. Afterwards we took the long way home driving through neighborhoods and enjoying the lights. L sang carols… little Jewish boy singing carols and knowing the words.
In the months that followed we settled into a routine–one I never would have thought I would come to savor. Friends came to visit; as he insisted, I spent my days at my studio and brought home the news and funny happenings out in the world; we sat for a long time over dinner just talking; we became avid fans of a number of TV series–L loved The Closer and those early seasons of Downton Abby and The Good Wife. His favorite though was Jon Stewart and The Daily Show and sometimes he even made it through The Colbert Report. Oh, how he would laugh! I have to wonder what he would think of the political situation today!
And so in this season when memories are gifts of their own (or in some cases ‘bags of coal’), these are some of my favorites. We had been told what was coming–but don’t we all know that’s the way our story ends? The message is to be aware of the finiteness of this life and to live it fully with gratitude and gusto. L and I were blessed because we had time for savoring–for saying goodbye. Not everyone is so fortunate, so whatever your celebration, may it be merry and happy and filled with moments that are truly gifts to cherish.
Just returned recently from a group tour to Santa Fe–my first time in New Mexico. Got a long of “flavor” for my western novels and picked up ideas for future stories. Also learned a lot about the diverse and blended cultures that have thrived there for literally hundreds of years–not without turmoil, of course, but then that’s life.
Following the tour I spent four days in the rustic and wonderful apartment offered by the Santa Fe Quaker Meetinghouse. My original intent was to plan for the future of my writing career. What actually happened was an awakening to my life overall.
It began my first night there. The place has no TV (understandable) and I could not for the life of me figure out the radio part of the clock/radio. The street outside my window basically rolled up somewhere around eight and talk about SILENT retreat–I had it in spades. And even though I am a TV/movie/live theater junkie and one who needs activity of some kind, I decided I could do this–at least for one night. (My plan was to go out the following day and buy a small radio at a secondhand shop.) I settled in with a book–lost interest, and replaced that with an exploration of the small kitchen in the place (45 seconds tops), wandered out to the lovely garden behind the meeting house (but it was dark and I was afraid of raising some kind of alarm). By eight-thirty I was in bed where I lay awake thinking about L and whether or not he would like the place and wishing he were there with me and…
I slipped so easily into the mold I had created for myself–the one that says “Nobody cares/understands how lonely this journey is” and “Why didn’t “x” include me when they made plans to see that play?” and “I know my family loves me but would it kill them to pick up the phone now and again instead of me always being the one to reach out?” By that time I had worked myself up to full blown self-pity–tears and all. I wept and sobbed and cried out in the solitude and darkness. “I MISS YOU SO MUCH!”
As calm settled in–one can only rant and wallow for so long–I did what I always do. I asked myself what I planned to do about this misery that promised to keep pulling me under. And I thought of how many times L (not to mention my shrink) had reminded me that the only person whose actions and attitude I can change is ME. Then I found myself thinking about times L and I had traveled and the joy we had shared. And I could practically hear him reminding me that we had decades of a story worthy of putting up on the big screen, while so many others never know even a day of such devotion and laughter and love.
Sometime in there I fell asleep and when I woke the next morning, I felt noticeably different. I felt so blessed to have had the life L and I shared and I felt so blessed to still have the friends we shared all those years. I know they are there for me. I know they care. And so what if they don’t “care” in the exact way I want them to? What if they had all gone away once L died? What right did I–who have had so much–have to want more? Of course, I have no idea how long this epiphany will last. I know there will be rough times ahead, but–as Oprah would say, here’s what I know for sure: I have been blessed with a life filled with adventure and interesting caring people and work that I has given me financial and personal rewards and a love that still sustains me every hour of every day. How hard can it be to reach out to others instead of waiting for them to come to me? And the interesting thing is, once I got home and did make those calls and extend those (sometimes impromptu) invitations, people said “yes”–not only that they seemed genuinely delighted that I had called them.
I will no doubt fall into that old way of thinking more times than I want to imagine, but I know the path out of it now. Oh, and the following morning when I was looking for a piece of notepaper, I found the instructions for operating the radio. Over the remainder of my nights alone in the meeting house apartment, I wrote two short short stories, made sketches of things I had seen in Santa Fe, sang along to the music on the radio and boarded the plane for home refreshed and at peace. I was me again–and I knew L was smiling.
A dear friend, who certainly understood grief and loss, told me shortly after L died that as time went by there would be surprises and disappointments when it came to my interactions with others. And while I recognized the truth of that advice, admittedly I clung to the hope that in time things would change. That those who had ‘disappointed’ me would come to understand my need for their support and draw closer. But as time has passed I have come to understand that in some ways I have been my own worst enemy with regards to this. Others see me as ‘strong’ and even ‘amazing’ in the ways I have chosen to move forward without L in my life. Add to that the fact that even before L’s death, I was one who sometimes openly and certainly subtly pushed people away, and I realize the responsibility for how I am feeling now–three years down the road–is something in large part of my own making.
We cannot go back and so we move forward, and doing so–at least for me–means letting go of that ‘disappointment’ by taking responsibility for my part in creating it. I know these people care deeply for me. I know that should I need them, they will be there without question. My pettiness and pity have in fact held me back from moving forward. The giant steps I took early on–changing my residence, starting to travel, trying new activities, etc.–were great first steps. But I realize that over the last year I have gotten lazy–tired really of making the effort. The result? I am increasingly wallowing in sadness, self-pity, loneliness. It is affecting my health on every level–and it is time to STOP!
[I can practically hear L saying, “About time!”]
My apparently not-so- smart TV died over the weekend–or more precisely refused to die as when plugged in it just keeps turning itself on and off, on and off, etc. My first call was to the cable provider–always the villain that comes to mind. But after two half hour conversations with two different techies, I had to admit that perhaps my television–barely a year old–had gone haywire. Next step was to try and locate the manual for the beast–failed. L was so great at keeping such things organized so they would be at hand when needed. During the mostly sleepless night it came to me that I might have actually purchased the Geek plan for this TV. L and I never did that sort of thing but I remembered thinking maybe I should. Sure enough when I logged in to the site, there was the plan. Again L would have known this right away, pulled out the paperwork and info I needed to schedule and appointment and slept soundly through the night.
My point is not about my disorganization or L’s gift for building systems that allowed nothing to slip through the cracks. My point is that I miss having that partnership–that side-by-side where the things that needed attention were divided; where I was great at some things and he was the master of others; that person sharing the frustration of the experience as I ranted and raved and went through TV withdrawal.
My point is that it’s the small stuff that highlights the enormity of the loss.
Doing my yearly weekend in Madison WI–today tramped through the sales of Maxwell Street Days on State Street between the campus and the Capitol; made a stop at the State Historical library to do some research; walked the lake path to the place where I set up a little memorial to L three years ago–it is overgrown now and I was unable to get down to it so I found a perfect flat stone, wrote his name on it and tossed it into the lake. Next year I think I will bring some special stone or perhaps a shell from Florida and make this the new tradition. Stopped at the Union and got a scoop of chocolate peanut butter ice cream (made on campus and L’s favorite) and enjoyed it as I walked the path. Now I am back in my room–a room similar to those L and I shared all the years we came here–where I will rest up for tomorrow’s early morning visit to the incredible farmer’s market that runs the entire block around the capitol building.
Normally I would have lunch at the Memorial Union overlooking the lake (and I may do that tomorrow) and then head back to Milwaukee. But this year out of the blue an old friend from my college days who lives in California called to say she and her husband are in the area so I am going to stay over and meet them for dinner tomorrow evening in the small town of Spring Green (where Frank Lloyd Wright established his summer home and school for architects). It’s probably been at least 25 years since I saw this friend and we have stayed in touch only with the annual holiday letter to catch up. And yet she is one of those special friends I hope you are lucky enough to have where time and distance have no effect. I know when we see each other tomorrow it will be as if we are simply continuing a conversation.
The truth is that lately I have been struck by the fact that the loneliness of widowhood does not ease with time–in fact it seems to worsen. But then something like this comes along and I weather yet one more storm of loneliness and depression. I hope those of you who struggle with similar pain can find these momentary reprieve in your life as well. Take care! Anna
It’s been nearly two months since my last post–a good deal has happened in that time including the coming and going of the third anniversary of L’s death. I spent that day here in Wisconsin doing much of what I have done on the other anniversaries–driving around and past all the places we lived, taking a long walk along the lakefront, looking through pictures and most of all playing back the awesome audio tapes he left for me so that once again his voice filled my world.
Once again I have turned my living situation on its ear–in Florida I found that I was unsettled and restless. The place I bought two years ago has never felt like ‘home’ for me even after I surrounded myself with items from the life we shared. One night I decided to make a change and so I went looking for another place to call home down there–found it–bought it–moved in and put the old place on the market. Now I wait for that to sell. L never would have done things in that order and I can only imagine that he is up there shaking his head and trying to figure out how to help me get back on a solid trail. And yet I can feel his approval–feel him saying, “Yes. This is good. This is what you need to keep moving forward.”
For that was his hope for me–that I would step by step find my way to a life I could enjoy and find peace in. He understood there would be stumbles along the way–although he clearly thought there would be bigger stumbles than there have been. This new place feels as right as my apartment in Wisconsin–it feels like me–like us–like ‘home.’
But a dwelling does not make an entire life–for that we need family and friends and human connections. I continue to work on that as well–a harder task for this introverted loner, but one that has been successful enough that I see the power of having those connections. And there is activity or work–meaningful, fulfilling. For me that is, of course, my writing. It gets me through many a tough time. Sometimes I am able to escape into the stories I am writing, but sometimes–like now–just writing down my feelings about what’s been going on in my life is therapeutic in its own way.
I know there are many of you who follow this blog who may be struggling with loneliness and the sheer agony of having to make the effort to find your way. I believe that making that effort–excruciating as it sometimes may be–is worth it. I hope you will open your hearts and minds to the possibilities around you–the hidden messages your loved one is sending your way to say, “I am here. I know it is hard, but know that I am walking with you as you make this journey.”
Over the last couple of weeks I’ve had a string of things happen that reminded me that it’s not one big thing I miss about L not being here–it’s the day-to-day little stuff.
I’ve been sick with a bad cold/cough for over a week now and while friends have been wonderful–calling, e-mailing, bringing me chicken soup–the bottom line still is that he’s not here. Before L died I had never darkened the door of a walk-in clinic. Somehow I figured as long as he was there, we would get through it together. But not a month after he died, I actually feared I was having a heart attack one morning and I vividly remember standing in the middle of the living room wondering, “Now what?” I didn’t make the best choices that day (even though it turned out not to be a heart attack but rather the onset of shingles–and yes, I had the shot). But it was the realization that if/when something happened that I needed medical attention, I was pretty much on my own in terms of deciding who to call and such. So I miss the security of him being there–of being able to turn to him and say, “Now what?”
A couple of weeks ago, I had to replace the heat/AC unit in my condo–a huge purchase decision. Following the process I knew he would have taken I found the right deal, got the thing installed, etc. But afterward I kept thinking, “This is new. This is something he managed and now it’s up to me.”
Today I was driving home from a class and one of those ‘check-something’ lights came on in my car. The little icon made no sense so I dug out the owner’s manual and looked it up. It was the icon for the signal indicator. So I checked the signals–all working fine–and the warning light is still on. Again this is not huge, but something he would have taken care of.
And most of all I miss sharing my day, venting about frustrations, laughing together about silliness that happened. I miss watching TV with him–he would have LOVED the Super Bowl game–not because of either team, but because it was a good game. I miss all the times we took long walks and planned out the next part of our life. I miss picking out a card for Valentine’s (or waking up on Feb. 14 to find one he had made for me–sometimes just a handwritten note on a sheet of yellow legal pad paper). I miss trying to come up with something for the man who wanted nothing to give him for his birthday. I miss…
Like I said: it’s the little things.
Okay, stay with me here while I explain that title…
The other night I attended a lecture by the author of THE ORPHAN TRAIN at the Sarasota Public Library. The lecture was held in the building’s atrium and off to one side of that space is the entrance to the children’s library. That entrance is framed by a fabulous arched aquarium filled with several species of fish who can swim back and forth from the bottom of one side of the entrance, across the arched doorway to the other. As I waited for our speaker–the wonderful Christina Baker Kline–to be introduced one large fish in particular caught my attention.
This fish would swim top to bottom on one side of the arched aquarium again and again but never even seem to consider crossing over to see what it might be like on the other side. From time to time through the program I found my attention drawn back to that fish–evident by its size and color–but it never did more than swim to the top of the side and then right back down again.
On the drive home I found myself thinking about how we sometimes get stuck on a path like that–never wavering from the familiar to dare and explore the ‘other side.’ Doing so may feel safer or easier, but what I have learned as I have walked this path through grief is that daring to step off the path, to be open to taking a side trail can be both rewarding and comforting. L was always so afraid that after he died I would withdraw into my shell and keep people and opportunities at arm’s length. In my effort to honor his memory and to set aside those fears he held (should he be out there watching me) I have forced myself time and again to “take the road less traveled.” My interpretation of that quote is that it is not about a road less traveled by the masses but rather the road that WE have not dared try before, the road that is unfamiliar and perhaps a little scary.
It has been two and a half years since L died and over that time I realized that unlike that fish I have time and again forced myself to cross that arch and swim for awhile in unfamiliar waters. And as I think about all those times I realize that the journey has gotten easier and the rewards have far outweighed the fear I might have carried with me. If we keep swimming the same channel we will certainly be safe and secure but oh, what we may miss!!