I spent the weekend visiting with my 2 sisters and their families. My sisters are older than me, not much but enough to make a difference. They work together and have both been married for 30 plus years. But I’m not thinking so much about them tonight. I am thinking about their husbands.
My oldest sister married her high school sweetheart. They worked hard to get through college and have in my eyes, done all they could do to allow each other to achieve their dreams. They have 3 sons. It’s important to note that there is a 17 year gap between their first son and their second. I’ve spoken of their oldest son before in my blog. He is a 4th year resident and such an amazing young man. This young man and his fabulous bride have made my sister and her husband new grandparents. They now have a grandson to increase the joy factor in their already joyful lives. I don’t know my brother-in-law well. I don’t know what he is passionate about other than his family. I know what most people do I guess, but I couldn’t really say much more. I love this man first and foremost because he loves my sister completely. He has helped her become the woman she is today. He has fathered three of my favorite boys in the whole world. But this weekend I noticed a subtle change in him. He seemed, different. I will say that many men I know act differently around me lately. They seem to not know just what to say or if they should say anything. But this was not based on me. It was all him. He had calmness about him. Not the calm of someone reaching later years in life, resigned to the fate that lay ahead. No, this was the calm of contentment and pride. I was honored to attend my 10 year old nephew’s football game on Saturday. My brother-in-law stood on the sidelines mesmerized by every play. I watched the movement of his body as he played every play as if he was alongside his son. I so clearly remember admiring this dance of father and son when my late husband watched our son play hockey. I hope it is a dance that plays out for every father and son, but I know in my heart it is not. To watch the boy or boys you help bring in to the world find outlets for their energies and passions that will last a lifetime, is heady stuff. The commonality of sports brings that to fruition for many fathers I suspect. As the game ended and our team was victorious, my brother-in-law walked back to where we were sitting. His face beaming, his chest puffed just a bit and a swagger had taken over his normal stride. He was proud. Not just proud of his youngest boy but proud of his family. I believe most of all, and rightly so, he was proud of himself. Never having been a man, I can’t say firsthand what the thoughts and fears of a family man might be. I can only imagine they are what we all would think. But for this weekend, all was right and good within this man’s family. While I pray it last forever, I pray that if it doesn’t he is able to keep this feeling close to his heart and use it when he has doubts and fears about himself and the world he lives in.
But another man’s pride caught my attention this weekend as well. My other sister, the “Jan” in our “Marcia, Jan and Cindy” alignment, has a husband who I have been friends with for many years. He began his relationship with my family as a friend of my father’s. He only slightly older than my sister and I but always fit wonderfully in to our family. When they began dating, my sister worked 2 jobs and was usually working in the evenings. My brother-in-law and I palled around and became friends. The man is very different. He is very passionate about the things he chooses to be passionate about. He loves my sister and their daughter deeply. I know much about this man but there is still much to learn. I love this man, not only for the way he loves my sister, but for the way he loves his daughter. I especially love him for the way he loves me. He is plan and simply... another big brother to me. I had heard my sister say something about an art show that my brother in law was participating in. I’ll be honest; I didn’t pay too much attention to what she was talking about. On Saturday I was at their home and as I walked in I saw it… one of his photographs. It was of a flower from a garden. It was exquisite. It took my breath away. I continued through the house to see some of the most beautiful pictures I have ever seen. As I tried to find the words to express my delight in these photos, my brother in law began to show me more and more. I was holding the beauty of the spring and summer in by hands. I have to apologize; I began to doubt that this was really the work of this quiet unassuming man. When he began to explain shots and angles, lighting and the intricacies of each photo, I knew they were his, his passion. He so proudly handed me photo after photo and I felt my eyes fill with tears. I was honored that he was sharing his gift with me. My sister was with us and when he handed me an amazing close up of a Hibiscus flower, slightly off center, I think I let out an almost silent gasp. They were so kind and generous in presenting the photo to me as a gift. My brother in law was glowing with pride. Shortly after, their daughter arrived for dinner and a visit. This sister and her husband will be entering the grandparent experience later this year. As father hugged daughter, pride burst through. Although he tried to hide it, he was grinning from ear to ear. He also kept watch as everyone felt the need to pat the baby bump. I know how this man has always worried about his girls, my sister and their daughter. But he is a good man, a great dad and wonderful husband. He will be a fabulous grandfather. I hope he will be proud of all he has accomplished. I know I am proud of him.
These two men have given me more than they will ever know. They have given me my sisters. What I mean is that from the moment I knew my situation with my husband, these husbands have stepped back. No, actually they have stepped up. They have picked up the slack, changed their schedules and done all they could to give my sisters the freedom to be whatever I have needed them to be. They have stepped aside to let me take precedence in their wives, lives. They have welcomed me into their homes. They have allowed me to interrupt their family time when I needed my sisters. They have been left alone when I could not be alone. I will never know how nor be able to thank them. But this I know to be true, I will be there for their wives should they ever need me as I have needed them.
I love these men. I am proud of these men. They are what men should be. I know their children and grandchildren will be proud as well.
I hope so…
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Thursday - 8/27/2009 Letters
It seems an old customer but to receive a letter, an actual hand written letter is powerful.
While in school a letter sent home can signal a problem. I remember a letter being sent home as early as 3rd grade. I never knew what that letter said and I don’t remember what happened in the aftermath, but I do know it caused conflict. All that aside, it also became part of my “permanent record”. My gosh was that not held over our little heads enough during the golden years of grade and high school? I wonder if our “permanent records are still stored someplace. My 30th high school reunion is this fall. Maybe school districts should present you with your records at this milestone event. Wow, I’d rest so much easier knowing those records were…sealed and with me.
A few yours ago my husband found some old letters in a house owned by his grandmother. I need to set the stage. The first time I met this intriguing lady, she meet us in her drive way with a gun at her hip. She wasn’t sure who was driving up her driveway and brought out the gun for protection. Once she recognized my husband, she was thrilled, but the gun never came off her hip. As she stated, “I don’t know that girl”. Grandma lived in an old farm house in the UP of Michigan. I grew to love this ornery old Finlander and I believe she loved me. It was not in Grandma to verbalize her love for her grandchildren. At least I have no memory of her showing many outward signs of endearment. But my husband found these letters long after Grandma passed someplace in her house. The house had been turned in to the family hunt cabin. The letters were mainly news of church events, crop updates and birth and death details. One set of letters was clearly saved because of its passion. The letters were detailed accounts of a series of rendezvous happening between what we suspect were 2 seventeen year olds. The secret meetings took place in barns, orchards or grain bins. The 2 lovers met late at night…talked about their hopes and dreams and dared to dream of a future, together. The passion rose in their verbal exchanges but never more physically than a kiss on the cheek. My husband and I started using their personas in daily notes. We kept a notebook on our counter and added our feelings at will. At this time we were working opposite shifts and saw each other either sleeping or on the weekends. We agreed that there could be no discussions in theses notes about bills or issues. We could only express our love to each other. We could never make any references to sex. It’s amazing how many ways you can say I love you or I care when your focus on how you will truly make the other feel. We continued this practice for about 3 months and I treasure these notebooks. I loved that we continued to make it a practice to say the things we had been writing in the books, to each other, every day. Aside from these books of notes, my husband sent me an e-mail every work day for the past 4 years. It always began with “Good Morning Sunshine”. The e-mail would contain stuff about work or what his day held. During a portion of this time, my husband and I lived 600 miles apart. The e-mail was then answered when I woke up. We were in different time zones but it made me feel as if we were waking up in the same home.
I received so many cards and notes since he died. I’ve written many thank you notes but I’m ashamed to say, I have not written them all. I find it’s very hard to write a note and it not be to him. I do know that these cards from those who loved us are a tribute and deserve thanks. I’m just not at a place yet that will allow me to complete this task in peace. One letter I received stands out from the rest. It doesn’t out weight the rest nor is it anymore appreciated. It’s just stands out. It was written by a former co-worker of mine and a man I will always call my friend, regardless of the length of time since our last correspondence. The letter, yes a letter, was a three page hand written tribute to love and loss. My friend had met my family and I his. We both have deep passion for our spouses and hold tight to our friendships. When the letter arrived a few weeks after my husband passed, I was so overwhelmed I had to sit down on the floor in my kitchen in order to be able to finish reading it. The letter contains a quote from Rabbi Marc Gellman... “It is deep and raw and shattering to our expectations that we will never be separated from those we love. Give thanks for the pain you feel, because the pain is a measure of your love. Your grief is the way that gift of unconditional love is painfully, but properly repaid”. The letter and well as all the cards and notes mean the world to me, as do those that sent them. I will do all I can to acknowledge them all. I will know when the time is right. I’ll get through them and make the senders understand the power of their cards and loving notes. I will re-read each one. I’m sure there will be new meaning to many of them as well as new tears. I will remember that these cards, notes and letters represent love everlasting.
I hope so.
While in school a letter sent home can signal a problem. I remember a letter being sent home as early as 3rd grade. I never knew what that letter said and I don’t remember what happened in the aftermath, but I do know it caused conflict. All that aside, it also became part of my “permanent record”. My gosh was that not held over our little heads enough during the golden years of grade and high school? I wonder if our “permanent records are still stored someplace. My 30th high school reunion is this fall. Maybe school districts should present you with your records at this milestone event. Wow, I’d rest so much easier knowing those records were…sealed and with me.
A few yours ago my husband found some old letters in a house owned by his grandmother. I need to set the stage. The first time I met this intriguing lady, she meet us in her drive way with a gun at her hip. She wasn’t sure who was driving up her driveway and brought out the gun for protection. Once she recognized my husband, she was thrilled, but the gun never came off her hip. As she stated, “I don’t know that girl”. Grandma lived in an old farm house in the UP of Michigan. I grew to love this ornery old Finlander and I believe she loved me. It was not in Grandma to verbalize her love for her grandchildren. At least I have no memory of her showing many outward signs of endearment. But my husband found these letters long after Grandma passed someplace in her house. The house had been turned in to the family hunt cabin. The letters were mainly news of church events, crop updates and birth and death details. One set of letters was clearly saved because of its passion. The letters were detailed accounts of a series of rendezvous happening between what we suspect were 2 seventeen year olds. The secret meetings took place in barns, orchards or grain bins. The 2 lovers met late at night…talked about their hopes and dreams and dared to dream of a future, together. The passion rose in their verbal exchanges but never more physically than a kiss on the cheek. My husband and I started using their personas in daily notes. We kept a notebook on our counter and added our feelings at will. At this time we were working opposite shifts and saw each other either sleeping or on the weekends. We agreed that there could be no discussions in theses notes about bills or issues. We could only express our love to each other. We could never make any references to sex. It’s amazing how many ways you can say I love you or I care when your focus on how you will truly make the other feel. We continued this practice for about 3 months and I treasure these notebooks. I loved that we continued to make it a practice to say the things we had been writing in the books, to each other, every day. Aside from these books of notes, my husband sent me an e-mail every work day for the past 4 years. It always began with “Good Morning Sunshine”. The e-mail would contain stuff about work or what his day held. During a portion of this time, my husband and I lived 600 miles apart. The e-mail was then answered when I woke up. We were in different time zones but it made me feel as if we were waking up in the same home.
I received so many cards and notes since he died. I’ve written many thank you notes but I’m ashamed to say, I have not written them all. I find it’s very hard to write a note and it not be to him. I do know that these cards from those who loved us are a tribute and deserve thanks. I’m just not at a place yet that will allow me to complete this task in peace. One letter I received stands out from the rest. It doesn’t out weight the rest nor is it anymore appreciated. It’s just stands out. It was written by a former co-worker of mine and a man I will always call my friend, regardless of the length of time since our last correspondence. The letter, yes a letter, was a three page hand written tribute to love and loss. My friend had met my family and I his. We both have deep passion for our spouses and hold tight to our friendships. When the letter arrived a few weeks after my husband passed, I was so overwhelmed I had to sit down on the floor in my kitchen in order to be able to finish reading it. The letter contains a quote from Rabbi Marc Gellman... “It is deep and raw and shattering to our expectations that we will never be separated from those we love. Give thanks for the pain you feel, because the pain is a measure of your love. Your grief is the way that gift of unconditional love is painfully, but properly repaid”. The letter and well as all the cards and notes mean the world to me, as do those that sent them. I will do all I can to acknowledge them all. I will know when the time is right. I’ll get through them and make the senders understand the power of their cards and loving notes. I will re-read each one. I’m sure there will be new meaning to many of them as well as new tears. I will remember that these cards, notes and letters represent love everlasting.
I hope so.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Wednesday 8/26/2009 Community
The world has changed so much since the days when I was small. As a little girl I lived in a great town. We knew so many people. We had such great schools, parks and activities. When I attempt to impress people, and we are discussing the advantages of our educations, I always throw in the fact that SCUBA was an elective PE class at my high school. How cool is that. My father was a fire fighter, we called them firemen back then. We lived on a street where we all watched out for each other. No one kenneled their dog when they went on vacation, There was a neighbor ready and willing to either bring the dog to their home or come over several times a day for feeding and walking. There were no drive by shootings or break ins. Ok, there was the occasional stolen bike. The bike in question was probably left out overnight, usually against the family’s house rules. Because my parents grew up in this same town, we has people looking out for us at all times, whether we liked it or not. We had a network of support and a web of safety, My parent’s friends were policemen, firemen, doctors, lawyers, artists and amazingly wonderful people. I can’t think of a single one I wouldn’t turn to for help if my parents were unavailable.
When I was about 17, my parent went out of town unexpectedly one night. If memory serves they went to take delivery on a new fire engine. Think about, it’s not like you stop by the local dealer and pick a fire engine off the lot. I had a date so when I arrived home, yes before curfew…that’s all I’m saying, I let our dog out, washed up and went to bed. As I was drifting off to sleep, there was a huge crash in the garage... My first thought was… we don’t lock our doors… never needed to, I started for the kitchen remembering that supposedly you have the advantage in your own home so you shouldn’t turn on the lights. I seriously question that brilliant logic as I tripped over the dog. Another crash. Now the dog’s attention was piqued. Another crash… I’m going to die… right here in the kitchen with just an old tee shirt and sweat pants (way before that was a fashion statement) on. I picked up the phone and dialed the non-emergency number at the firehouse. There is an unspoken rule that emergency personal’s kids… should never, ever call the emergency numbers. The dispatcher was someone I knew well… I whispered that someone was in the garage. The dispatcher asked where the dog was…by this time she was moaning at the door leading to the garage… all hair standing on end. Freaked me out. JS, the dispatcher told me he was sending the cops. I was to stay on the line. I heard the cops roll up, one car in the driveway, one on the lawn, 2 on the street. I saw a cop pass by the kitchen window, coming from the street behind our house. Another crash and guns were drawn…JS was telling me it would be ok and to just stay where I was until the cops came to get me. I heard the cop yell in to the garage. He told the intruder to come out or they were coming in. No response. There were now 5 or 6 cops, guns drawn.. The garage door flung open… I braced myself for shots to be fired, sounds of agony… what? What was I hearing? Laughter? A cop rang the bell and asked me to come outside…. Shaking and afraid of what I might see… I joined the police in my front yard. The intruders were still in the garage… The mother raccoon and her 4 babies had ripped in to a huge bag of dog food and were having a grand time. I on the other hand was mortified. I pleaded with the cops to not say anything about this to anyone… they were non-committal in between their bouts of hysteria. The next night at dinner, my dad made no mention of the incident. I certainly has not mentioned it. I thought those wonderful policemen had understood my plight and decided not to make my public humiliation, even more public. About a month later, as I was reading an article in the local paper and admonishing some mother in the neighborhood for not controlling her child’s unrelenting desire to continuously dial the fire department emergency number… my dad causally said… “well at least he didn’t call about any killer raccoons…“. Life would never be the same again.
My current neighborhood was chosen for among many reasons, it’s ability to mimic my childhood surroundings. Neighbors on my street actually care about each other. Kids play together. We have Friday night fires complete with s’mores and adult beverages. We do block parties and baby showers. We are all outside for Trick or Treat and snow blowing is usually done as early as possible in order to sneak and do another neighbor’s driveway as an unexpected favor. My late husband and I changed the demographic of our street. We were not young or newly married. We don’t have small children nor the potential of having additional children. We represent to the families on the block… the finish line. To them we have spiked the ball, run through the tape, jumped on home plate and raised our fists in celebration and come out victorious. We were at the place they hoped to be in 10-15 years. We had disposable income. The guys looked to my husband as thought he had the wisdom of Zeus. One women once said that we were encouraging to her and her husband, because it was great to know that after the kids were raised, love for each other could be rediscovered. I firmly believe the kids on the street loved us because we were suckers for fundraisers. Bad school fundraiser almond bark anyone? I think there are 7-8 bars in the freezer.
Then I had to what I was trained never to do… but when I dialed 911 at 3:30am on that fateful day, I also set in motion a chain of neighborhood events. With multiple emergency vehicles in front of our home, I know we woke up the entire block. The gentleman and I mean gentle man, who lives across the street has the same name as my husband. After they took my husband to the ambulance, I was trying to grab medications and get myself to the hospital when I heard the front door open and a voice yelled to me “Hey XXXX, It’s (same name as my husband’s)”. For a split second, I was relieved.. The past hour of hearing the deliberator the paramedics were using call out “no activity detected, restart failed” was a bad dream… he was fine and coming in the house to tell me it was going to be alright. But it was my neighbor, coming to see what he could do… almost immediately calls were made from neighbor to neighbor, food was being cooked in case it was needed. Later that evening I came home and returned a few voicemails. My husband was still alive at that point, but I knew it was a matter of hours at most. How do you say that to these young vibrant couples who loved him? I remember calling our next door neighbors. We had grown very close. A wonderful young couple, he’s a cop she’s an at home mom. They have 4 good, kind and beautiful children. I told her he was alive but it was bad. I heard hear sniffle and knew I needed to end the conversation. She asked that I keep in touch and said she would pray. My husband passed within 2 hours of that conversation. The next morning in a blur of phone calls, planning, cleaning and tears, the door bell rang. She was standing there with food. Cakes, chicken, fruit and much more than I remember. She asked how he was doing. All I could get out was that I was so sorry to tell her. She broke down. Honestly at first I was angry that she was crying. And then it hit me. This sadness wasn’t and shouldn’t be about me. She was grieving for the loss of a friend and of someone who made an impact in her life. That was the first of many moments over the course of the past months that I truly understood what my husband added to the lives of those around him. How many make that kind of impact everyday. I’ll share more about the amazing things I’ve learned about the man I knew so well in later blogs. I pray that going forward, I look to everyone I meet as part of my community. I will do my best to make every person’s life just a bit better for the experience. Can I really do it?
I hope so…
chapter2sl@gmail.com
When I was about 17, my parent went out of town unexpectedly one night. If memory serves they went to take delivery on a new fire engine. Think about, it’s not like you stop by the local dealer and pick a fire engine off the lot. I had a date so when I arrived home, yes before curfew…that’s all I’m saying, I let our dog out, washed up and went to bed. As I was drifting off to sleep, there was a huge crash in the garage... My first thought was… we don’t lock our doors… never needed to, I started for the kitchen remembering that supposedly you have the advantage in your own home so you shouldn’t turn on the lights. I seriously question that brilliant logic as I tripped over the dog. Another crash. Now the dog’s attention was piqued. Another crash… I’m going to die… right here in the kitchen with just an old tee shirt and sweat pants (way before that was a fashion statement) on. I picked up the phone and dialed the non-emergency number at the firehouse. There is an unspoken rule that emergency personal’s kids… should never, ever call the emergency numbers. The dispatcher was someone I knew well… I whispered that someone was in the garage. The dispatcher asked where the dog was…by this time she was moaning at the door leading to the garage… all hair standing on end. Freaked me out. JS, the dispatcher told me he was sending the cops. I was to stay on the line. I heard the cops roll up, one car in the driveway, one on the lawn, 2 on the street. I saw a cop pass by the kitchen window, coming from the street behind our house. Another crash and guns were drawn…JS was telling me it would be ok and to just stay where I was until the cops came to get me. I heard the cop yell in to the garage. He told the intruder to come out or they were coming in. No response. There were now 5 or 6 cops, guns drawn.. The garage door flung open… I braced myself for shots to be fired, sounds of agony… what? What was I hearing? Laughter? A cop rang the bell and asked me to come outside…. Shaking and afraid of what I might see… I joined the police in my front yard. The intruders were still in the garage… The mother raccoon and her 4 babies had ripped in to a huge bag of dog food and were having a grand time. I on the other hand was mortified. I pleaded with the cops to not say anything about this to anyone… they were non-committal in between their bouts of hysteria. The next night at dinner, my dad made no mention of the incident. I certainly has not mentioned it. I thought those wonderful policemen had understood my plight and decided not to make my public humiliation, even more public. About a month later, as I was reading an article in the local paper and admonishing some mother in the neighborhood for not controlling her child’s unrelenting desire to continuously dial the fire department emergency number… my dad causally said… “well at least he didn’t call about any killer raccoons…“. Life would never be the same again.
My current neighborhood was chosen for among many reasons, it’s ability to mimic my childhood surroundings. Neighbors on my street actually care about each other. Kids play together. We have Friday night fires complete with s’mores and adult beverages. We do block parties and baby showers. We are all outside for Trick or Treat and snow blowing is usually done as early as possible in order to sneak and do another neighbor’s driveway as an unexpected favor. My late husband and I changed the demographic of our street. We were not young or newly married. We don’t have small children nor the potential of having additional children. We represent to the families on the block… the finish line. To them we have spiked the ball, run through the tape, jumped on home plate and raised our fists in celebration and come out victorious. We were at the place they hoped to be in 10-15 years. We had disposable income. The guys looked to my husband as thought he had the wisdom of Zeus. One women once said that we were encouraging to her and her husband, because it was great to know that after the kids were raised, love for each other could be rediscovered. I firmly believe the kids on the street loved us because we were suckers for fundraisers. Bad school fundraiser almond bark anyone? I think there are 7-8 bars in the freezer.
Then I had to what I was trained never to do… but when I dialed 911 at 3:30am on that fateful day, I also set in motion a chain of neighborhood events. With multiple emergency vehicles in front of our home, I know we woke up the entire block. The gentleman and I mean gentle man, who lives across the street has the same name as my husband. After they took my husband to the ambulance, I was trying to grab medications and get myself to the hospital when I heard the front door open and a voice yelled to me “Hey XXXX, It’s (same name as my husband’s)”. For a split second, I was relieved.. The past hour of hearing the deliberator the paramedics were using call out “no activity detected, restart failed” was a bad dream… he was fine and coming in the house to tell me it was going to be alright. But it was my neighbor, coming to see what he could do… almost immediately calls were made from neighbor to neighbor, food was being cooked in case it was needed. Later that evening I came home and returned a few voicemails. My husband was still alive at that point, but I knew it was a matter of hours at most. How do you say that to these young vibrant couples who loved him? I remember calling our next door neighbors. We had grown very close. A wonderful young couple, he’s a cop she’s an at home mom. They have 4 good, kind and beautiful children. I told her he was alive but it was bad. I heard hear sniffle and knew I needed to end the conversation. She asked that I keep in touch and said she would pray. My husband passed within 2 hours of that conversation. The next morning in a blur of phone calls, planning, cleaning and tears, the door bell rang. She was standing there with food. Cakes, chicken, fruit and much more than I remember. She asked how he was doing. All I could get out was that I was so sorry to tell her. She broke down. Honestly at first I was angry that she was crying. And then it hit me. This sadness wasn’t and shouldn’t be about me. She was grieving for the loss of a friend and of someone who made an impact in her life. That was the first of many moments over the course of the past months that I truly understood what my husband added to the lives of those around him. How many make that kind of impact everyday. I’ll share more about the amazing things I’ve learned about the man I knew so well in later blogs. I pray that going forward, I look to everyone I meet as part of my community. I will do my best to make every person’s life just a bit better for the experience. Can I really do it?
I hope so…
chapter2sl@gmail.com
Monday, August 24, 2009
Monday 8/24/2009 Manhood
I am the amazingly proud mother of two ridiculously wonderful kids. My children are in their mid twenties and life is theirs for the taking. I’ve loved every moment of watching them grow. Well, I love it now. As events and issues were happening, I may not have had the appreciation for the moment as I do today. But as with anything and everything, the trials and tribulations of parenthood have shaped me in to the woman I am. My views on life would be vastly different I believe if I was not a mom. I would have missed out on so many joys, tears, fears and life lessons if I had or God had decided I wouldn’t mother. When I was late in my pregnancy with my first, a girl, I had an insatiable need for Jamoca Almond Fudge ice cream. Back then it wasn’t a flavor you could run out and pick up at the local grocer. It was only sold at Baskin Robbins. My wonderful husband stopped one night and grabbed a quart in an endless effort to make me happy. A few days later I asked that he again return to the store for more ice cream. He made some comment he thought was charming about my ever expanding body and in my advanced gestational stage, I thought he was being mean… I cried and screamed. He left our apartment with the slam of the door. That was it I was sure, it’s over. What should I say to my parents when I call and ask them to come and move me home? What will I say to my poor fatherless child? How could a man be so cruel… walking out on the women carrying his baby? I began to pack a few essentials… dreading the phone call I knew had to be made. I showered. Got dressed and steeled myself as I picked up the phone. The door flew open. There stood my husband with an entire 5 gallon, big brown beautiful tub of… Baskin Robbins Jamoca Almond Fudge! He walked by, kissed me on the cheek, stuffed the wastebasket sized container in the freezer and said… “Try not to eat it all in one day”. Gotta love that man of mine.
But what is a man? What defines when a boy becomes a man? In Judaism a boy becomes a man when he celebrates his Bar Mitzvah. In many cultures there are rituals and sacrifices that make a boy a man. Is it as simple as the passage of time or the acceptance of a religious doctrine? I don’t know. I do know that in my heart I have loved watching my son become a man. We do not practice and/or celebrate a religion that defines when that was to have happened. It has happened slowly, at a snail’s pace. At the same time it happened at the speed of light. It wasn’t the deepening of his voice or the growth of hair on his face. It was a look that passed between us, so caring, so tender, so like his father. It happened for the first time a number of years ago. My son is a hockey player, but he is so much more. He has played for most of his life. It is what he does, but it is by no means who he is at his core. He was playing in a game that meant a great deal to him as well as to his team. It was a crazy game and it was at a critical point. I could never sit still for a game and he understood that. For years he would look for me in the rink, but I was usually pacing and praying. He understood and accepted my nervousness. At this amazing moment, he was just about to take the face-off. He was bent down so low in his stance in his attempt to pull the puck back and to the player behind him. I’d seen this play a hundred times. He looked over at me, raised his eyebrow, smiled and winked at me. I exhaled. He had in that moment displayed the cool, calm maturity of a man. But it is only the calm that identifies a man? I don’t think so. When I had to call my children to tell them about the situation their dad was facing, they both reacted as I expected. My daughter took charge of the situation and got everyone together to make the long journey. She was outwardly flawless in her determination to get to her dad. Theirs is an extraordinary relationship that I am blessed to be witness to. I am not yet ready to share my stories of my daughter and I will want her blessing before I do. I trust you will understand and enjoy them when it is the right time. My son began texting me… asking me to go in to the hospital room and tell his dad this or that. As if he knew I had hit a rough spot, he texted me about an hour before they arrived, he said he was proud of me and that he would be there to hold me soon. I read it to my husband. I thanked my husband for helping me bring these two amazing people in to the world. I thanked him for being the best dad he knew how to be. As I went down to meet the kids to prep them for the condition their dad was in, I couldn’t hold my daughter back. She needed to see him, hold him, and be with him. My son didn’t want to see him just yet and that was fine. A look passed between us and I understood. My daughter was with him for a long time, talking and praying I suspect. Tears, fear, heart break and sadness came upon her. Her fiancé had made the trip home with her. As they are finding the rhythm of their lives and love she clung more to him than to me. I accept and understand her need to be with the man she loves and his need to care and comfort her. Her fiancé is a fine man. When my son finally went in to see his dad, his heart broke as well. He didn’t “man up” and hold in all his feelings or distance himself from the pain. He embraced it. He allowed himself to be open in his feelings whatever they may be, whatever form they would take. He is a good man.
I don’t know if I did all I was supposed to do for my daughter and son. I hope they are coming to terms with all that has happened. I cannot even begin to understand what it means to lose your father. Just as they cannot understand what it means to lose the love of your life. But I imagine we are not the biggest losers in this drama… my husband lost the 3 loves of his life.
So to me, a man is caring, loving, emotional, passionate, thoughtful and kind. My husband was all of these things and more. I believe my son is and will continue to be just like his dad. I believe them to both be great men.
I hope so…
But what is a man? What defines when a boy becomes a man? In Judaism a boy becomes a man when he celebrates his Bar Mitzvah. In many cultures there are rituals and sacrifices that make a boy a man. Is it as simple as the passage of time or the acceptance of a religious doctrine? I don’t know. I do know that in my heart I have loved watching my son become a man. We do not practice and/or celebrate a religion that defines when that was to have happened. It has happened slowly, at a snail’s pace. At the same time it happened at the speed of light. It wasn’t the deepening of his voice or the growth of hair on his face. It was a look that passed between us, so caring, so tender, so like his father. It happened for the first time a number of years ago. My son is a hockey player, but he is so much more. He has played for most of his life. It is what he does, but it is by no means who he is at his core. He was playing in a game that meant a great deal to him as well as to his team. It was a crazy game and it was at a critical point. I could never sit still for a game and he understood that. For years he would look for me in the rink, but I was usually pacing and praying. He understood and accepted my nervousness. At this amazing moment, he was just about to take the face-off. He was bent down so low in his stance in his attempt to pull the puck back and to the player behind him. I’d seen this play a hundred times. He looked over at me, raised his eyebrow, smiled and winked at me. I exhaled. He had in that moment displayed the cool, calm maturity of a man. But it is only the calm that identifies a man? I don’t think so. When I had to call my children to tell them about the situation their dad was facing, they both reacted as I expected. My daughter took charge of the situation and got everyone together to make the long journey. She was outwardly flawless in her determination to get to her dad. Theirs is an extraordinary relationship that I am blessed to be witness to. I am not yet ready to share my stories of my daughter and I will want her blessing before I do. I trust you will understand and enjoy them when it is the right time. My son began texting me… asking me to go in to the hospital room and tell his dad this or that. As if he knew I had hit a rough spot, he texted me about an hour before they arrived, he said he was proud of me and that he would be there to hold me soon. I read it to my husband. I thanked my husband for helping me bring these two amazing people in to the world. I thanked him for being the best dad he knew how to be. As I went down to meet the kids to prep them for the condition their dad was in, I couldn’t hold my daughter back. She needed to see him, hold him, and be with him. My son didn’t want to see him just yet and that was fine. A look passed between us and I understood. My daughter was with him for a long time, talking and praying I suspect. Tears, fear, heart break and sadness came upon her. Her fiancé had made the trip home with her. As they are finding the rhythm of their lives and love she clung more to him than to me. I accept and understand her need to be with the man she loves and his need to care and comfort her. Her fiancé is a fine man. When my son finally went in to see his dad, his heart broke as well. He didn’t “man up” and hold in all his feelings or distance himself from the pain. He embraced it. He allowed himself to be open in his feelings whatever they may be, whatever form they would take. He is a good man.
I don’t know if I did all I was supposed to do for my daughter and son. I hope they are coming to terms with all that has happened. I cannot even begin to understand what it means to lose your father. Just as they cannot understand what it means to lose the love of your life. But I imagine we are not the biggest losers in this drama… my husband lost the 3 loves of his life.
So to me, a man is caring, loving, emotional, passionate, thoughtful and kind. My husband was all of these things and more. I believe my son is and will continue to be just like his dad. I believe them to both be great men.
I hope so…
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Sunday 8/23/2009 Soundtrack
In a movie, reactions are based on many factors. As you take in the look of the actors, view scenery and hear dialogue, a feeling should begin to take shape. But with all of this, you will still need music to stir the final piece of your emotions. At least that’s how I feel. I know my reaction as the music from Gone with the Wind swells up… The theme from Top Gun begins to beat and the dada, dada, dada… from Jaws, still to this day makes me do a quick check of my surroundings, even when safely on dry land. Over the years, I often thought I would be great at choosing music for movies. Being a romantic I’m sure I could pick out just the right string piece to pull an extra tear or two from the viewers. As lovers reach the crescendo of passion the right music changes the perception from just sex to beautiful love making. Ok the camera angle would surely have something to do with that as well. But my life has always had a soundtrack. The artists have changed over the years as has the genre. I believe we all have songs that elicit immediate thoughts and memories, both good and bad. Music can for my generation make you immediately think of a product. If you heard Andy Williams sing the line... “Do you remember, the times of your life…” you would, I’m sure think of Kodak. Music signaled the time of day for many of us as kids. The long sustained whistle and then big top music meant the start of Bozo’s Circus in my early years. Even earlier, the ring of the bell and the soft music announced Romper Room was on. My mom had me taking naps for a long time. As a kid I hated it. Now I wish she could pull rank and make me take a nap every day. My nap time was in the afternoon, just about the time her soap operas were starting. I once overheard her tell a friend that she was so glad I had taken a great nap that day… I had slept until Days of our Lives had started. Well that was all I needed. Every day after that… I lay quietly in my bed until I hear… “Like sand through the hourglass…So are the days of our lives…music swells. Queue youngest child to “wake up” from her nap.
I buried myself in music. We didn’t have a stereo so many nights I sat in the car listening to one of 3 or 4 8-track tapes over and over again. At one point I did have a record player in my room. I would play the Partridge Family albums over and over. Thank goodness for headphones. I was a master lip sinc-er. Music kept me shielded from situations that were going on in my family. When I was lost in that world I was safe and normal. Once in high school I was flying to meet a boyfriend and his family for spring break. Yes, yes, I know very hip of my parents to let me go. I suspect I did some amount of manipulation to get them to say yes. Anyway, I was scared to be flying alone. As my dad walked me to the jet way door he reminded me to put the headphones on and listen to music, I would be fine. So I took my seat. A non-English speaking man sat next to me. I put the headphones on, buckled my seatbelt and settled in. I can do this… If I’m grown up enough to meet a boyfriend for a week at the beach… I can do this. I chose my music and ok, this was good…I’m relaxing, good song, peaceful, tension in the shoulders and neck going away…. Who’s shaking me? I popped my eyes open to see a Stewardess (that’s what they were called then) smiling about an inch from my face. I slid the headphones off… “Are you alright she asked”. I think I said “yes”, “Well than” she said in a sugary sweet voice, “please stop singing out loud, it’s disturbing the other passengers”. If I could have, I would have spent the rest of the flight hidden in the lavatory.
My grown up life had a soundtrack. Mostly smooth jazz and easy listening. I would guess a mix of country should be added for the time not so jazzy or easy. Cymbals crashed when I woke up to find my husband struggling too breathe… If I was choosing the music for the next hour as paramedics, firemen and police tried to work miracles it would be the William Tell Overture...Racing, running, reaching … At the hospital as I waited for news… the theme from Love Story, slow and haunting… In the ER after they again revived him 45 minutes later and I was allowed to see him, hold him… I sang a song very quietly in his ear. A silly little song he had made up when we were dating. It was to the tune of You are my Sunshine… he sang it to me over and over during our lives together. For the next 16 hours or so our soundtrack was a mix of all the songs we had laughed to, danced to, cried to and loved to. They were a continuous loop in my head. I left the hospital at one point late in the evening. I knew tough decisions had to be made and I needed to ask God to lead me to make the correct ones. I needed to be alone. As I got back in the car to head back to the hospital, with clean clothes on, a bit of restored energy and most importantly a clear path, I turned on the radio. Playing was an old Kenny Rogers song from 1980. We always thought of it as our song. The song is called Love the World Away. Take my hand, let’s walk through loves door and be free from the world once more. Here’s my heart, we can find today and love the world away. I wanted to take his hand and continue to love the world away… but now it’s time to let him be free. Free, but with the knowledge that love was letting him walk through the door he was fast approaching.
I listen to more music now that I have at anytime time in my life. I’m searching for new songs with new meaning. My soundtrack will include songs that make me smile, make me remember, make me cry and make me stronger. So lately, I've been wondering, Who will be there to take my place, When I'm gone, you'll need love, To light the shadows on your face, If a greater wave should fall, It would fall upon us all And between the sand and stone, Could you make it on your own? If I could, then I would, I'll go wherever you will go, Way up high or down low, I'll go wherever you will go, And maybe, I'll find out The way to make it back someday, To watch you, to guide you, Through the darkest of your days.
This is called So Lately by the Calling. It’s the first of many in my new soundtrack. I think it says so many of the things I believe to be in the heart of my dear man.
I hope so…
I buried myself in music. We didn’t have a stereo so many nights I sat in the car listening to one of 3 or 4 8-track tapes over and over again. At one point I did have a record player in my room. I would play the Partridge Family albums over and over. Thank goodness for headphones. I was a master lip sinc-er. Music kept me shielded from situations that were going on in my family. When I was lost in that world I was safe and normal. Once in high school I was flying to meet a boyfriend and his family for spring break. Yes, yes, I know very hip of my parents to let me go. I suspect I did some amount of manipulation to get them to say yes. Anyway, I was scared to be flying alone. As my dad walked me to the jet way door he reminded me to put the headphones on and listen to music, I would be fine. So I took my seat. A non-English speaking man sat next to me. I put the headphones on, buckled my seatbelt and settled in. I can do this… If I’m grown up enough to meet a boyfriend for a week at the beach… I can do this. I chose my music and ok, this was good…I’m relaxing, good song, peaceful, tension in the shoulders and neck going away…. Who’s shaking me? I popped my eyes open to see a Stewardess (that’s what they were called then) smiling about an inch from my face. I slid the headphones off… “Are you alright she asked”. I think I said “yes”, “Well than” she said in a sugary sweet voice, “please stop singing out loud, it’s disturbing the other passengers”. If I could have, I would have spent the rest of the flight hidden in the lavatory.
My grown up life had a soundtrack. Mostly smooth jazz and easy listening. I would guess a mix of country should be added for the time not so jazzy or easy. Cymbals crashed when I woke up to find my husband struggling too breathe… If I was choosing the music for the next hour as paramedics, firemen and police tried to work miracles it would be the William Tell Overture...Racing, running, reaching … At the hospital as I waited for news… the theme from Love Story, slow and haunting… In the ER after they again revived him 45 minutes later and I was allowed to see him, hold him… I sang a song very quietly in his ear. A silly little song he had made up when we were dating. It was to the tune of You are my Sunshine… he sang it to me over and over during our lives together. For the next 16 hours or so our soundtrack was a mix of all the songs we had laughed to, danced to, cried to and loved to. They were a continuous loop in my head. I left the hospital at one point late in the evening. I knew tough decisions had to be made and I needed to ask God to lead me to make the correct ones. I needed to be alone. As I got back in the car to head back to the hospital, with clean clothes on, a bit of restored energy and most importantly a clear path, I turned on the radio. Playing was an old Kenny Rogers song from 1980. We always thought of it as our song. The song is called Love the World Away. Take my hand, let’s walk through loves door and be free from the world once more. Here’s my heart, we can find today and love the world away. I wanted to take his hand and continue to love the world away… but now it’s time to let him be free. Free, but with the knowledge that love was letting him walk through the door he was fast approaching.
I listen to more music now that I have at anytime time in my life. I’m searching for new songs with new meaning. My soundtrack will include songs that make me smile, make me remember, make me cry and make me stronger. So lately, I've been wondering, Who will be there to take my place, When I'm gone, you'll need love, To light the shadows on your face, If a greater wave should fall, It would fall upon us all And between the sand and stone, Could you make it on your own? If I could, then I would, I'll go wherever you will go, Way up high or down low, I'll go wherever you will go, And maybe, I'll find out The way to make it back someday, To watch you, to guide you, Through the darkest of your days.
This is called So Lately by the Calling. It’s the first of many in my new soundtrack. I think it says so many of the things I believe to be in the heart of my dear man.
I hope so…
Friday, August 21, 2009
Friday - 8/21/2009 Tee Shirts
A dear friend’s mother has passed away. I am so sorry for the loss to my friend and her family. I, on some level understand what she is going through or do I? I am somewhat conditioned to accept death when someone is older. The exact definition of older changes every year, surprisingly just around the time of my birthday. But when I hear that someone with 30 or 40 more years of life experience than me dies, I find I may be sad but understanding. My head and my heart are in balance and I automatically want to become the one who comforts and cares for the loved ones left behind. I say all of this with the understanding that I have not yet walked in those shoes. For the first time I am a bit worried about attending a funeral. Given recent events in my life, I have true mixed emotions. As I write this, I am notified of the passing of a former employee. The employee was a quiet woman who was most often mistaken for being unfriendly. How untrue. She was gentle and kind and told wonderful stories about her life and past experiences. My position dictates that I attend at least a portion of her services. I would attend regardless. But this too gives me a bit of angst. I must admit that it isn’t the sadness of death that is creating concern for me. I feel the muscles in my neck tense and I mentally begin to plan the steps I need to take to be sure to honor both of these women, so different, yet at heart the same.
My emotions are purely selfish. They are all about me and on some level I am ashamed. But, I have come to understand a few things recently. When I arrive at certain places or events, there are questions. I suspect the questions to sound something like, Oh, she’s here… why is she wearing that? Has she lost weight? Has she gained weight? Why is she tan? Do you think she looks pale? Do you think she looks happy? Doesn’t she look sad? Is she still wearing her rings? Why is/isn’t she wearing her rings? Have you talked to her? How does she sound? Is she sleeping enough? Is she sleeping too much? Do you think she’ll start dating? Do you think she’ll re-marry? And so on and so on. I’ll also get… the look. I’ve mentioned the look before. Once someone either recognizes me or is introduced to me and given the dreaded new addition to my name... a widow, the head leans slightly to the left, chin down, sad eyes, voice lowers and sometimes I get the quivering lip. Without question I then become…”Oh, poor (insert name here)”….
I was at a party a few months ago, standing in the kitchen pouring a cup of coffee. I was so enjoying a conversation with a young man I did not know. We had been bantering back and forth for about 10 minutes. I was enjoying the moment and found this young man to be fascinating. A relative came in and began making introductions. With all innocence assumed, I was introduced and then referenced by the statement, you know, the brother in law that died? This is his wife. Suddenly I wasn’t just a guest or family member or friend. I was someone fragile. Immediately, the look and then this young man suddenly had no knowledge of how to continue a conversation he was excelling at 45 seconds before. Now please don’t get me wrong. I know this is all out of love and compassion. But I feel as though I am a distraction. I feel as if I should carry a sign or card with a disclaimer on it. Back when I was newly pregnant in the early 1980s, there was a tee shirt that said... “I’m not fat... I’m pregnant.” The shirt was designed I imagine to explain the newly widened backside or possible baby bump that may not clearly indicate new life being created vs. the welcoming of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey in excess. What would or should my tee shirt say? Can I wear it to every social event going forward? Could it say, “Yes she lost her best friend and she is sad but she will move forward and be what her best friend wanted and believed her to be”? Maybe it should say, “yes, I’m sleeping, I’m tan, I’ve been working out, I’m not sure if happy is the way to describe me but I’m ok. My rings come and go depending on the day and the rest I’ll just figure out as it happens”. Pretty big tee shirt, might have to use both sides.
So I will go to honor these women. I’ll put my big girl pants on and do whatever I can to comfort my friend and her family and my employee’ children. I will smile and know that people are asking questions and I will pray that I am not a distraction to the celebration of the live of these beautiful ladies. I will go forward in an effort to live a full life. I believe at some point I’ll just become me again. Not me the widow. Sadly, that also signals the end of me… the wife and best friend.
In reality I want my tee shirt to say “thank you, thank you, thank you, for your love, care and compassion, it and you mean the world to me". I bet it will all fit on one side.
I hope so…
My emotions are purely selfish. They are all about me and on some level I am ashamed. But, I have come to understand a few things recently. When I arrive at certain places or events, there are questions. I suspect the questions to sound something like, Oh, she’s here… why is she wearing that? Has she lost weight? Has she gained weight? Why is she tan? Do you think she looks pale? Do you think she looks happy? Doesn’t she look sad? Is she still wearing her rings? Why is/isn’t she wearing her rings? Have you talked to her? How does she sound? Is she sleeping enough? Is she sleeping too much? Do you think she’ll start dating? Do you think she’ll re-marry? And so on and so on. I’ll also get… the look. I’ve mentioned the look before. Once someone either recognizes me or is introduced to me and given the dreaded new addition to my name... a widow, the head leans slightly to the left, chin down, sad eyes, voice lowers and sometimes I get the quivering lip. Without question I then become…”Oh, poor (insert name here)”….
I was at a party a few months ago, standing in the kitchen pouring a cup of coffee. I was so enjoying a conversation with a young man I did not know. We had been bantering back and forth for about 10 minutes. I was enjoying the moment and found this young man to be fascinating. A relative came in and began making introductions. With all innocence assumed, I was introduced and then referenced by the statement, you know, the brother in law that died? This is his wife. Suddenly I wasn’t just a guest or family member or friend. I was someone fragile. Immediately, the look and then this young man suddenly had no knowledge of how to continue a conversation he was excelling at 45 seconds before. Now please don’t get me wrong. I know this is all out of love and compassion. But I feel as though I am a distraction. I feel as if I should carry a sign or card with a disclaimer on it. Back when I was newly pregnant in the early 1980s, there was a tee shirt that said... “I’m not fat... I’m pregnant.” The shirt was designed I imagine to explain the newly widened backside or possible baby bump that may not clearly indicate new life being created vs. the welcoming of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey in excess. What would or should my tee shirt say? Can I wear it to every social event going forward? Could it say, “Yes she lost her best friend and she is sad but she will move forward and be what her best friend wanted and believed her to be”? Maybe it should say, “yes, I’m sleeping, I’m tan, I’ve been working out, I’m not sure if happy is the way to describe me but I’m ok. My rings come and go depending on the day and the rest I’ll just figure out as it happens”. Pretty big tee shirt, might have to use both sides.
So I will go to honor these women. I’ll put my big girl pants on and do whatever I can to comfort my friend and her family and my employee’ children. I will smile and know that people are asking questions and I will pray that I am not a distraction to the celebration of the live of these beautiful ladies. I will go forward in an effort to live a full life. I believe at some point I’ll just become me again. Not me the widow. Sadly, that also signals the end of me… the wife and best friend.
In reality I want my tee shirt to say “thank you, thank you, thank you, for your love, care and compassion, it and you mean the world to me". I bet it will all fit on one side.
I hope so…
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Wednesday - 8/19/2009 Birds
As I sat on my deck this evening, a male and female yellow Finch arrived for one of their multiple daily visits to my feeders. I've watched them almost every day for the past few months. I love how the male is resplendent with his bright lemony yellow markings and beautiful feathered body. The petite, silky female seems so well suited to her mate. Strong yet yielding. I love to watch as they swoop down to first one feeder and then another. To see him move to a new feeder only to have her join him is to watch the very basis of a relationship. He watches out for her and she, for him. I've seen at times, other birds come to the feeders and in silent understanding the Finches, together, relocate to enjoy their meal in peace. As they fly away they seem to have a rhythm to their relationship. Each has their own identity that serves as the support and nourishment to the other's.
A strong marriage for humans is the same. During my 28 plus years of marriage, we had a rhythm. The beat often changed and we certainly passed the role of the drummer back and forth over the years. In the early years, I was so young. I looked to my husband for almost everything I needed. As I look back, that was almost the ruin of our lives together. I became so dependant on him that I didn't know my worth. As we struggled to pay bills, raise kids and get two steps ahead in the game, we almost lost each other. We did at one point have a very serious, no yelling or screaming, discussion of ending our union. Then something happened. A series of tragic life events hit us and hit us hard. Injuries, illness and then a death over the course of a few years, caused us to cling to each other in order to just get through the day. I took drastic steps to become the partner he needed. He became my very best friend, and I his. We had found what we should have begun with. When I was about 16 my father told me, "You don't marry the man you can live with, you marry the man, you can't live without". I knew during that time, so many years later, exactly what my father meant. My life and our rhythm were set in stone from that time forward.
The rhythm of our lives did change in such a positive way over the years. We managed school schedules, sports travel, business trips and a number of multi state moves for careers. One move had us living 600 miles apart for almost 4 years. Our rhythm stayed essentially the same... instead of a good morning kiss, I woke up to a "good morning, I love you" via telephone. where once was a snuggle to sleep was replaced with talking on the phone until one of us began the gentle breathing of a deep restful sleep. We made the most of our day and a half together each week. Many weekends were spent in hotels as we traveled to watch sporting event for our children or visit them at college. The rhythm of our chores however,changes dramatically. He learned to do laundry and chose to do it daily. I did mine weekly. He liked to plan out all his meals, I figured out what I had a taste for and picked it up on the way home. I took over yard work and enjoyed it. Bill paying was a phone discussion in an effort to keep "business" out of our precious weekend time together. A few years ago we were blessed to be offered positions in the same state...even in nearby towns. We jumped at the chance. As our rhythm changed yet again we discovered how to live together on a full time basis. Challenges came when he would do his and only his laundry, a small load every day. My husband would make his and only his lunch. I remember standing one night and watching him pack up leftovers for the next day. He looked up and was perplexed that I was questioning why he couldn't make my lunch at the same time. But we got past all that and really enjoyed living together again. Our beat was to the same drummer. We grocery shopped together at one of those ultra big supermarkets.. never dividing the list but walking the isles together, laughing and people watching. My husband could look at me and crack me up to such a degree that it could be embarrassing. We planned our menus, planned our weekends so we could be together as much as possible. Last year when we plotted out 2 islands in our yard for Maples trees and flowers, I said I wanted to have bird feeders. My husband just shook his head. I have been terrified of bird for many years. Even my kids stopped asking me to go in the bird house at the zoo, gosh it's was years ago. But we put up bird feeders and began watching the Doves, Finches, Cardinals, Robins and whatever else found it's way to feast and feast with passion. We planted perennials to attract bird.. we loved to watch and listen. One evening, out on the deck, my husband caught my eye and motioned for me to slowly turn my head. Just over my shoulder were two tiny, tiny Hummingbird flitting from flower to flower on our Hibiscus plant. Once they left we jumped at the chance to learn more about them. We got the right feeder, food and plants that they liked. We watched them daily, together. Late last fall we were enjoying the pre-sunset stillness when a large Hummingbird came up to my husband face and hovered... looking him in the eye it seemed. The bird did the same to me...and flew away. That was the last time my husband saw a Hummingbird. When my best friend died, I lost all sense of rhythm. I went without clean clothes for a few weeks. I know how to do laundry but it wasn't my chore. I can't seem to shop in that ultra big supermarket anymore. I've been in there once. I couldn't manage the size. I don't plan meals nor can I manage cooking for one, so I either eat out or eat at home but cookway too much. I still buy things I never ate but he did. I've thrown so much food out because it's spoiled that it is shameful. I don't want to beat my own drum. The other day, the Hummingbirds finally returned. I had not seem them all season. I was sitting on the deck and a big Hummingbird came right up to me as it had last year... could it be the same one? He seemed to want to see my face... I looked at his tiny face and saw all the wonderful colors his iridescent feathers had to display. And then he left. I have seen many Hummingbirds at my feeders everyday since.
It makes sense to tell the real story of my bird-phobia here. The scene is the inside of a 1972 VW Squareback. The blue beast as some friends called it. I was a newly licenced drive and was at a notoriously difficult intersection. No stop lights, only stop signs and hills and just the stuff a new driver has nightmares about. As I sat there, the drivers window open, waiting for the right moment to press the gas and ease up on the clutch.. a huge Black bird flew in my car. It had nowhere to go. No windows were open except mine. Back then there were no power windows and I couldn't reach the crack to get another window lowered. BAM! The Black bird slammed in to my head. CRASH! it hit the passenger window. The horrible painful noise the frantic flapping of it's wings made still gives me chills today. Ultimately I jumped out of the car and stood on the side of the road. Eventually the bird flew out of the car and I made my way to my destination. Scared, frightened, shocked and wing-beaten, I knew then that I would never let another bird get that close to me again.
But I have. So I know that what has scared me, hurt me, frightened me and made me feel as if I would never recover... can get better with time. I can overcome and enjoy again. I am positive I can find beauty and love again. I can look to the Finches, watch their rhythm. While it may not be the rhythm I'm used to,I can learn a new rhythm and I can certainly enjoy a new drummer.
I hope so...
A strong marriage for humans is the same. During my 28 plus years of marriage, we had a rhythm. The beat often changed and we certainly passed the role of the drummer back and forth over the years. In the early years, I was so young. I looked to my husband for almost everything I needed. As I look back, that was almost the ruin of our lives together. I became so dependant on him that I didn't know my worth. As we struggled to pay bills, raise kids and get two steps ahead in the game, we almost lost each other. We did at one point have a very serious, no yelling or screaming, discussion of ending our union. Then something happened. A series of tragic life events hit us and hit us hard. Injuries, illness and then a death over the course of a few years, caused us to cling to each other in order to just get through the day. I took drastic steps to become the partner he needed. He became my very best friend, and I his. We had found what we should have begun with. When I was about 16 my father told me, "You don't marry the man you can live with, you marry the man, you can't live without". I knew during that time, so many years later, exactly what my father meant. My life and our rhythm were set in stone from that time forward.
The rhythm of our lives did change in such a positive way over the years. We managed school schedules, sports travel, business trips and a number of multi state moves for careers. One move had us living 600 miles apart for almost 4 years. Our rhythm stayed essentially the same... instead of a good morning kiss, I woke up to a "good morning, I love you" via telephone. where once was a snuggle to sleep was replaced with talking on the phone until one of us began the gentle breathing of a deep restful sleep. We made the most of our day and a half together each week. Many weekends were spent in hotels as we traveled to watch sporting event for our children or visit them at college. The rhythm of our chores however,changes dramatically. He learned to do laundry and chose to do it daily. I did mine weekly. He liked to plan out all his meals, I figured out what I had a taste for and picked it up on the way home. I took over yard work and enjoyed it. Bill paying was a phone discussion in an effort to keep "business" out of our precious weekend time together. A few years ago we were blessed to be offered positions in the same state...even in nearby towns. We jumped at the chance. As our rhythm changed yet again we discovered how to live together on a full time basis. Challenges came when he would do his and only his laundry, a small load every day. My husband would make his and only his lunch. I remember standing one night and watching him pack up leftovers for the next day. He looked up and was perplexed that I was questioning why he couldn't make my lunch at the same time. But we got past all that and really enjoyed living together again. Our beat was to the same drummer. We grocery shopped together at one of those ultra big supermarkets.. never dividing the list but walking the isles together, laughing and people watching. My husband could look at me and crack me up to such a degree that it could be embarrassing. We planned our menus, planned our weekends so we could be together as much as possible. Last year when we plotted out 2 islands in our yard for Maples trees and flowers, I said I wanted to have bird feeders. My husband just shook his head. I have been terrified of bird for many years. Even my kids stopped asking me to go in the bird house at the zoo, gosh it's was years ago. But we put up bird feeders and began watching the Doves, Finches, Cardinals, Robins and whatever else found it's way to feast and feast with passion. We planted perennials to attract bird.. we loved to watch and listen. One evening, out on the deck, my husband caught my eye and motioned for me to slowly turn my head. Just over my shoulder were two tiny, tiny Hummingbird flitting from flower to flower on our Hibiscus plant. Once they left we jumped at the chance to learn more about them. We got the right feeder, food and plants that they liked. We watched them daily, together. Late last fall we were enjoying the pre-sunset stillness when a large Hummingbird came up to my husband face and hovered... looking him in the eye it seemed. The bird did the same to me...and flew away. That was the last time my husband saw a Hummingbird. When my best friend died, I lost all sense of rhythm. I went without clean clothes for a few weeks. I know how to do laundry but it wasn't my chore. I can't seem to shop in that ultra big supermarket anymore. I've been in there once. I couldn't manage the size. I don't plan meals nor can I manage cooking for one, so I either eat out or eat at home but cookway too much. I still buy things I never ate but he did. I've thrown so much food out because it's spoiled that it is shameful. I don't want to beat my own drum. The other day, the Hummingbirds finally returned. I had not seem them all season. I was sitting on the deck and a big Hummingbird came right up to me as it had last year... could it be the same one? He seemed to want to see my face... I looked at his tiny face and saw all the wonderful colors his iridescent feathers had to display. And then he left. I have seen many Hummingbirds at my feeders everyday since.
It makes sense to tell the real story of my bird-phobia here. The scene is the inside of a 1972 VW Squareback. The blue beast as some friends called it. I was a newly licenced drive and was at a notoriously difficult intersection. No stop lights, only stop signs and hills and just the stuff a new driver has nightmares about. As I sat there, the drivers window open, waiting for the right moment to press the gas and ease up on the clutch.. a huge Black bird flew in my car. It had nowhere to go. No windows were open except mine. Back then there were no power windows and I couldn't reach the crack to get another window lowered. BAM! The Black bird slammed in to my head. CRASH! it hit the passenger window. The horrible painful noise the frantic flapping of it's wings made still gives me chills today. Ultimately I jumped out of the car and stood on the side of the road. Eventually the bird flew out of the car and I made my way to my destination. Scared, frightened, shocked and wing-beaten, I knew then that I would never let another bird get that close to me again.
But I have. So I know that what has scared me, hurt me, frightened me and made me feel as if I would never recover... can get better with time. I can overcome and enjoy again. I am positive I can find beauty and love again. I can look to the Finches, watch their rhythm. While it may not be the rhythm I'm used to,I can learn a new rhythm and I can certainly enjoy a new drummer.
I hope so...
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Tuesday - 8/18/2009 Heaven
People talk about heaven a great deal. Some believe heaven is somewhere above the clouds. Others believe it is right here on earth. There is also the discussions about what happens to you in heaven. Many of the beliefs we have are based on our religious practices or childhood teachings.
I've heard people talk about a waiting period or place where the dead go before they go to, actual heaven. I've often wondered what happens there. Is it similar to boot camp where you get your all mighty issued clothing? I picture angels with large pins in their mouths, measuring tapes in their hands gently calling out the persons measurements to ensure a proper fit. Because it's heaven I would expect the size chart to be somewhat altered or adjusted. Maybe like flight attendant's, the size chart has someone who would normally wear a 12 in an 8. Ah heaven.... So I imagine the sizing can go along fairly quickly until you get to the measuring of the wings... depending on the size you would have to worry about balance and of course how that may effect the ability to fly. My husband had a 54 inch shoulder span. A special order set of wings I'm sure. No off the rack for him. One friend of mine believes that the waiting period is to see if you get to stay or after evaluation of your life... you head south. I think you get the point.
So let's assume my beloved has made his way up to the Big House, no not the U of M stadium..heaven. OK there is an argument that U of M is heaven but no... they have to do their own blog. I picture him all spiffy in his wings, halo and his trademark messy hair. I suspect you get a few days to wander around, make yourself at home... reconnect with those you have lost. I know in my heart that my husband was greeted by his mom, dad and little brother. Many friends and relative who made the trip before him will welcome him with open arms. I know those angels said a special prayer for me and my children as soon as they saw him. I thank them in my prayers each night. There was probably one surprise meeting in heaven. My husband's grandfather was in his late 90s when my husband passed away. Being so old and a bit fragile it was decided that Grandpa would not be told about the passing of his grandson. Grandpa passed away shortly after my husband. I can just imagine as Grandpa arrived and saw my husband standing there with open arms... are you allowed to say hell in heaven? I'm sure there was a bit of confusion as to who got there first but...I'm sure it all worked out.
In my perception of heaven, all things and people are equal. People with illness are well, disabilities are none existent, those who arrive with a broken heart are healed and full of love, and they are loved back. Social or educational status mean nothing. If this is really what heaven is, I find great fun and comfort thinking about my husband playing baseball with the greats he grew up idolizing. His bad ankles and numerously broken fingers working perfectly as he pitches to the heroes of his childhood. I picture him chatting over dinner with JFK and Jackie O... asking what really happened on that November day in Dallas. Mostly I picture him talking and laughing with his dad. Having been only 6 when his father died, I know my husband would share all his successes and yes, even his perceived failures with him. He would talk so lovingly about his children and how proud he always was of both of them. My husband would share insight about his sisters and their families. My heaven has my husband's father taking my husband great big hands in his and telling my husband how he has watched and guided him for all these years and how very proud he has been to see the wonderful man his only son has become. My heart tells me he said one more thing in that moment. He would look into my husband's beautiful eyes and gently explain that now it is his job to watch and guide his wife to happiness and his children to joy, peace and love. My heaven has him doing all in his power to do exactly what his father asked him to do.
A few weeks ago there was another member of our family who went to heaven. I suspect there was no stop to get fitted for issued clothing for our dog, Max. Max was 11 years old and a very large breed dog. With age, hip and spine problems it became painfully obvious that I needed to make a decision. Max and I had been through so very much together. He was my buddy and at 155 lbs. was more like a person than a pet. Max missed his "dad" and seemed to be telling me that he wanted to join him. He took his death badly. I have had to make so many hard decision in the past 5 months. The decision to put Max down was horrible. What if I was wrong? What if this was a temporary thing? But after speaking with his vet and as silly as it sounds, speaking with Max, I made my decision. Max's hips were so bad he needed help to get up the 2 step in to the house, how was I going to lift him into the car...? We went outside. I looked at him and he looked at me with a glisten in his eye... I asked him to help me get him in the car. He hopped up, only needing help at the last minute. He sat down and before I closed the door... I asked him if he wanted go see dad, he winked at me and gave me a kiss. At the vet he hopped out of the car and walked in with me. He looked back once after they took him from me.... and I believe the next person he saw was my husband... tennis ball in hand, ready to play...
I hope so...
I've heard people talk about a waiting period or place where the dead go before they go to, actual heaven. I've often wondered what happens there. Is it similar to boot camp where you get your all mighty issued clothing? I picture angels with large pins in their mouths, measuring tapes in their hands gently calling out the persons measurements to ensure a proper fit. Because it's heaven I would expect the size chart to be somewhat altered or adjusted. Maybe like flight attendant's, the size chart has someone who would normally wear a 12 in an 8. Ah heaven.... So I imagine the sizing can go along fairly quickly until you get to the measuring of the wings... depending on the size you would have to worry about balance and of course how that may effect the ability to fly. My husband had a 54 inch shoulder span. A special order set of wings I'm sure. No off the rack for him. One friend of mine believes that the waiting period is to see if you get to stay or after evaluation of your life... you head south. I think you get the point.
So let's assume my beloved has made his way up to the Big House, no not the U of M stadium..heaven. OK there is an argument that U of M is heaven but no... they have to do their own blog. I picture him all spiffy in his wings, halo and his trademark messy hair. I suspect you get a few days to wander around, make yourself at home... reconnect with those you have lost. I know in my heart that my husband was greeted by his mom, dad and little brother. Many friends and relative who made the trip before him will welcome him with open arms. I know those angels said a special prayer for me and my children as soon as they saw him. I thank them in my prayers each night. There was probably one surprise meeting in heaven. My husband's grandfather was in his late 90s when my husband passed away. Being so old and a bit fragile it was decided that Grandpa would not be told about the passing of his grandson. Grandpa passed away shortly after my husband. I can just imagine as Grandpa arrived and saw my husband standing there with open arms... are you allowed to say hell in heaven? I'm sure there was a bit of confusion as to who got there first but...I'm sure it all worked out.
In my perception of heaven, all things and people are equal. People with illness are well, disabilities are none existent, those who arrive with a broken heart are healed and full of love, and they are loved back. Social or educational status mean nothing. If this is really what heaven is, I find great fun and comfort thinking about my husband playing baseball with the greats he grew up idolizing. His bad ankles and numerously broken fingers working perfectly as he pitches to the heroes of his childhood. I picture him chatting over dinner with JFK and Jackie O... asking what really happened on that November day in Dallas. Mostly I picture him talking and laughing with his dad. Having been only 6 when his father died, I know my husband would share all his successes and yes, even his perceived failures with him. He would talk so lovingly about his children and how proud he always was of both of them. My husband would share insight about his sisters and their families. My heaven has my husband's father taking my husband great big hands in his and telling my husband how he has watched and guided him for all these years and how very proud he has been to see the wonderful man his only son has become. My heart tells me he said one more thing in that moment. He would look into my husband's beautiful eyes and gently explain that now it is his job to watch and guide his wife to happiness and his children to joy, peace and love. My heaven has him doing all in his power to do exactly what his father asked him to do.
A few weeks ago there was another member of our family who went to heaven. I suspect there was no stop to get fitted for issued clothing for our dog, Max. Max was 11 years old and a very large breed dog. With age, hip and spine problems it became painfully obvious that I needed to make a decision. Max and I had been through so very much together. He was my buddy and at 155 lbs. was more like a person than a pet. Max missed his "dad" and seemed to be telling me that he wanted to join him. He took his death badly. I have had to make so many hard decision in the past 5 months. The decision to put Max down was horrible. What if I was wrong? What if this was a temporary thing? But after speaking with his vet and as silly as it sounds, speaking with Max, I made my decision. Max's hips were so bad he needed help to get up the 2 step in to the house, how was I going to lift him into the car...? We went outside. I looked at him and he looked at me with a glisten in his eye... I asked him to help me get him in the car. He hopped up, only needing help at the last minute. He sat down and before I closed the door... I asked him if he wanted go see dad, he winked at me and gave me a kiss. At the vet he hopped out of the car and walked in with me. He looked back once after they took him from me.... and I believe the next person he saw was my husband... tennis ball in hand, ready to play...
I hope so...
Monday, August 17, 2009
Monday - 8/17/2009 Strategery
Like many people around the world, I spent the majority of the Bush administration waiting for the president to butcher the English language. He had an uncanny ability to create new words when perfectly good words already existed. I can't imagine what it must have been like to be the president's speech writer. Imagine being his handler. Was the president so wrapped up in the moment, so passionate about the subject matter that his brain could not keep pace with his mouth? Was this an "in the moment" reaction common to those in high stress environments? Is it a medically recognized affliction?
In my case the answers would be yes...and no. In the past few months I have developed a case of a little know illness or condition called widow brain. Some clinicians call it widow's brain and yes, it shows no gender bias but widower brain is awkward to say.The symptoms are forgetfulness, trouble speaking, scattered thoughts and an inability to make general sense at times. I can only feel sympathy for the former president as I hear words come out of my mouth, I never intended to say. I feel so bad for people I know well and routinely call by the wrong but similar name. I work with a lovely young man named Shane. I've called him Sean more than I've called him Shane since I lost my husband. Thankfully he is so kind to never say anything. At this point I wonder if he would answer me if I called him by his given name. At my husband's service, I was introducing my son to a number of co-workers. I see these people 5 days a week and as I went around the circle I introduced husbands and wives, I came to a woman I had grown very close to over the course of the past year. I knew her name started with a D or was it S? What was her name? I stood there for what seemed to be an eternity and everyone was staring at me waiting for me to say.. this is Diane. But was it Diane? I couldn't remember. I was a bit surprised that no one saw the obvious neon question mark I was sure was floating just over my head and jumped in to make the intoduction. So I just.. excused myself and walked away. I have a new little trick. I am a fabulous fake sneezer. Now when I'm in a situation where I can't remember a name, I have an Oscar caliber sneeze attack and excuse myself for the moment. So far it's work.
I forget things. Not huge things but things big enough. I've left containers of cream in the car after a trip to the store only to discover them again.. a week or so later. Think about the last time someone handed you a post expiration date milk carton and said.. smell this... Now magnify that by a few 85 degree days. Not pretty. Twice I've attempted to get out of the car without putting it in park. Once was at the airport, yow. Last week, I left early for work in an effort get a jump on the day. Traffic was non-existent and I cruised on in to Starbuck's, ordered my Venti, non-fat, 2 equal latte from Cameron and was poised to start the day on a high note. As I pulled in to one of the much coveted front row parking space, only available to the early birds, I reached down to grab my latte. OK, how come there are 2 coffees there? What? Huh? As I sat in my car trying to roll back the past 40 minutes or so.. it hit me. I had first stopped, because I was so early, at McDonald's to get coffee...and then Starbucks. Later that morning I called a friend who is a clinical psychologist.. she assured me I was OK and that the fog would lift slowly but surely. She likened widow brain to asking your brain to juggle 20 or 30 balls of knowledge and emotion at once. I felt better knowing I wasn't really falling apart.
Along with the names and forgetfulness, I say things that make no sense. Not really all that different than before I became a widow, but I tend now to run words together or pronounce words in the strangest ways. I know I am sometimes in the middle of a sentence and just by the look on peoples face, I know I've said something wrong. I've been told this is common to people in high stress situations.
Once when I was very young, maybe 5Th or 6Th grade I found myself in a stressful situation where I had a great deal of difficulty communicating what was happening to me. My dad and I had gone to the airport to pick up some neighbors who were arriving home from vacation. We went in to check on their arrival, keep in mind, no cell phones, no Internet, no instant information. This was the 70's. We waited in line. As my dad approached the ticket counter, I was off to the side. And I saw it. They were big and black and shiny. Names were stenciled on the side of each different shape and sized box. My mouth got dry and I became dizzy. I couldn't breath. My dad grabbed my hand and asked if I was OK... How could he be functioning? He saw it too. How could he not react, show emotion? We met up with our neighbors, tears running down my cheeks, my head was starting to hurt from the rise in my blood pressure. I kept seeing that image over and over again... My dad whispered to the neighbors and they nodded in understanding. I didn't expect much of a reaction from them, they hadn't seen what I saw. We drove home, me gulping air as I tried to contain my sobs. As soon as I could free myself from the back seat when we arrived home, I ran for the front door. I needed my mom... she would understand, she would tell me it would be alright. As I ran into the living room.. she was there..."isawdavidcassidysluggage"... I screamed... what she said over my cries... "isawdavidcassidysluggage". A look passed between my parents... my mom questioning with her eyes the possible trauma I may have experienced.. with a cool calm only reserved for those with the clearest of thinking she asked my dad to explain. My dad took a deep breath, not sure where to being and said..."She saw David Cassidy's luggage. You know the hippie from the Partridge Family". I began to sob again.
I've been told as the stress and fog begin to dissipate, so does widow brain and it's effects.
I hope so.
In my case the answers would be yes...and no. In the past few months I have developed a case of a little know illness or condition called widow brain. Some clinicians call it widow's brain and yes, it shows no gender bias but widower brain is awkward to say.The symptoms are forgetfulness, trouble speaking, scattered thoughts and an inability to make general sense at times. I can only feel sympathy for the former president as I hear words come out of my mouth, I never intended to say. I feel so bad for people I know well and routinely call by the wrong but similar name. I work with a lovely young man named Shane. I've called him Sean more than I've called him Shane since I lost my husband. Thankfully he is so kind to never say anything. At this point I wonder if he would answer me if I called him by his given name. At my husband's service, I was introducing my son to a number of co-workers. I see these people 5 days a week and as I went around the circle I introduced husbands and wives, I came to a woman I had grown very close to over the course of the past year. I knew her name started with a D or was it S? What was her name? I stood there for what seemed to be an eternity and everyone was staring at me waiting for me to say.. this is Diane. But was it Diane? I couldn't remember. I was a bit surprised that no one saw the obvious neon question mark I was sure was floating just over my head and jumped in to make the intoduction. So I just.. excused myself and walked away. I have a new little trick. I am a fabulous fake sneezer. Now when I'm in a situation where I can't remember a name, I have an Oscar caliber sneeze attack and excuse myself for the moment. So far it's work.
I forget things. Not huge things but things big enough. I've left containers of cream in the car after a trip to the store only to discover them again.. a week or so later. Think about the last time someone handed you a post expiration date milk carton and said.. smell this... Now magnify that by a few 85 degree days. Not pretty. Twice I've attempted to get out of the car without putting it in park. Once was at the airport, yow. Last week, I left early for work in an effort get a jump on the day. Traffic was non-existent and I cruised on in to Starbuck's, ordered my Venti, non-fat, 2 equal latte from Cameron and was poised to start the day on a high note. As I pulled in to one of the much coveted front row parking space, only available to the early birds, I reached down to grab my latte. OK, how come there are 2 coffees there? What? Huh? As I sat in my car trying to roll back the past 40 minutes or so.. it hit me. I had first stopped, because I was so early, at McDonald's to get coffee...and then Starbucks. Later that morning I called a friend who is a clinical psychologist.. she assured me I was OK and that the fog would lift slowly but surely. She likened widow brain to asking your brain to juggle 20 or 30 balls of knowledge and emotion at once. I felt better knowing I wasn't really falling apart.
Along with the names and forgetfulness, I say things that make no sense. Not really all that different than before I became a widow, but I tend now to run words together or pronounce words in the strangest ways. I know I am sometimes in the middle of a sentence and just by the look on peoples face, I know I've said something wrong. I've been told this is common to people in high stress situations.
Once when I was very young, maybe 5Th or 6Th grade I found myself in a stressful situation where I had a great deal of difficulty communicating what was happening to me. My dad and I had gone to the airport to pick up some neighbors who were arriving home from vacation. We went in to check on their arrival, keep in mind, no cell phones, no Internet, no instant information. This was the 70's. We waited in line. As my dad approached the ticket counter, I was off to the side. And I saw it. They were big and black and shiny. Names were stenciled on the side of each different shape and sized box. My mouth got dry and I became dizzy. I couldn't breath. My dad grabbed my hand and asked if I was OK... How could he be functioning? He saw it too. How could he not react, show emotion? We met up with our neighbors, tears running down my cheeks, my head was starting to hurt from the rise in my blood pressure. I kept seeing that image over and over again... My dad whispered to the neighbors and they nodded in understanding. I didn't expect much of a reaction from them, they hadn't seen what I saw. We drove home, me gulping air as I tried to contain my sobs. As soon as I could free myself from the back seat when we arrived home, I ran for the front door. I needed my mom... she would understand, she would tell me it would be alright. As I ran into the living room.. she was there..."isawdavidcassidysluggage"... I screamed... what she said over my cries... "isawdavidcassidysluggage". A look passed between my parents... my mom questioning with her eyes the possible trauma I may have experienced.. with a cool calm only reserved for those with the clearest of thinking she asked my dad to explain. My dad took a deep breath, not sure where to being and said..."She saw David Cassidy's luggage. You know the hippie from the Partridge Family". I began to sob again.
I've been told as the stress and fog begin to dissipate, so does widow brain and it's effects.
I hope so.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Saturday - 8/15/2009 Shelter
I grew up in what now I know was an average home with an average family. In another word, dysfunctional. My parents loved us but as many parents, my self included, didn't have all the tools to be what they wanted to be. I am the youngest child of 4 with a slightly longer gap in age between me and the other kids.
Growing up in middle-class America in the 1960-70 era was pretty cool. We played outside all day every day all summer. Our parent knew we were safe as long as we didn't venture off our block. Everyone played with everyone. No one cared what your religion was or how much your dad made a year. Most moms stayed at home. My mom worked. Well, all moms worked it's just that back then people didn't feel that staying at home raising a family, doing the cooking and the cleaning and the like was work. Mom's took care of the house, Dad's did the lawn, fixed the car and went to a job outside the home to earn money for the family. We had cook outs and sleep-overs, camped in the back yard, late night games of kick the can or hide and seek. Fond memories come to mind of the older kids stealing a massive wooded spool from the ComEd facility near the neighborhood. It was used to hold what we would now think of as cable type lines. The center of the spool could be opened by removing a panel. Pillows were added to line the inside for safety.. ok, right. Then one of us would climb in and be rolled up and down the block. If I had to compare it to anything else it would be the equivalent of being placed in a dryer and run through a fluff cycle. One problem was you had to brace yourself so you didn't fall out of the opening. I'm telling you all this only as an observer as I never actually rode the spool. My brother and sister wouldn't let me. I was too small, too young, too much their baby sister to be put in that dangerous situation. The same held true when they lite bottle rockets or snuck in to our little town without permission. Or when things between my parents erupted. I was being sheltered. It wasn't until later that I understood this was out of pure love and admiration.. back then they were just mean, old, big, dumb, stupid.. you know where I'm going. My fate was sealed... I would always be the baby sister, nothing could change that. But they were always going to believe it was their job to shelter me from the storms of life.
When I called one of my sisters, to tell her of the situation I was in with my husband and that he was dying, her reaction was, as I knew it would be, "I'm on my way". "No" I told her. Just let Mom and Dad know and tell the family. Again she said she could be there as fast as she could legally drive... I thanked her, I think and asked that she stay available but not yet make the trip. I needed her, and all of my family but I could not afford to be sheltered from this situation. I had to rearrange the stars and become the grown up that my family never saw me as. I needed to not be the baby. Ultimately my brother and sisters didn't listen to my day long request to not come in to be with me and I will be forever thankful... but did come hide out in a nearby town.. ready at the gate when I needed them. When I contacted them in the late afternoon, I expected them to be arriving in a few hours..they were there in 15 minutes. My fear of falling apart when the girls arrived was unfounded. I remained calm. I sheltered them from my pain. I comforted them. I was the grown up and it felt good. My brother is another story. We are so different, yet exactly the same. But he and I crossed new paths and I believe gained a new understanding and respect for each other. I remained the grown up and totally in control until a few days later, after my husband had passed and my parents arrived. I was sad with my dad, but when I saw my mom and she said my name... time reversed. I held her and sobbed. My whole body hurt with the pain of loosing my precious husband and she knew. I became the baby again and my mom was there to be just that... my mom. I will forever hold that moment so very close to my heart as dearly as the birth of my children and the peaceful moment as I watch the last breaths leave my husband.
A few month later I was thinking about those few days and replaying the events in my mind as I have done a thousand times. I was feeling as though all of this had made me better. A stronger woman. I felt as though the playing field of my family dynamic was somewhat level now. My sister called on a Sunday afternoon, I was at work so, I knew. Something had happened. She hemmed and hawed, not like her at all. My dad was sick, very, very sick she told me. He was in the ICU and they didn't know what was wrong. I asked questions, fresh from my ICU experience, I had a fingernails worth of knowledge on what to ask, but needed to get some perspective on the illness. Again she danced around the answer. Was he breathing on his own? Again, not an answer. She suggested I get there as soon as possible. We hung up and I went back to work. My head was spinning. Damn it. How could they all do this to me? Didn't my dad know I was still not ok? Who did he think he was. My cell rang again. It was my sister. I was sure she was calling to say my dad was dead. If I don't answer it... he can't be dead. But I did answer it. It was my nephew,a 3rd year redident calling to answer my questions. Thank God. I found out what I needed to and he suggested not making the trip until the morning. I made the trip and met my family at the hospital the next day. As I walked in to ICU... the smell or actually lack ofsmell bothered me immensely. I avoided eye contact in an ill-fated attempt to shelter my self. When I saw my dad, he was so heavily medicated that he was out of it. I wanted to touch him. I wanted to slap him and ask him what the hell he thought he was doing. I wanted to ask if he was doing this for attention. I knew he wasn't but that's what I thought. I walked towards him, keenly aware that all eyes were on me. My mom, sisters and brother were all watching to see what I would do. Would I crumble and revert back to being the care needing baby sister? I so wanted to put my hand in my dad's but was terrified. Terrified that it would be cold. Terrified that he would not squeeze or hold my hand. My husbands hands were so cold, and he never did squeeze back. I slipped my hand in Dad's. It was so nice and warm, He held my hand and held it long and hard. This was a horrible mix of emotions. I was so relieved but so angry. While this was great... it wasn't the hand I wanted to be holding.
A few hours later, after tests had been run and long after mass amounts of antibiotic has been pumped in to my dad, he opened his eyes and with great clarity asked for a glass of juice. The crisis had passed. He was still very ill with a blood infection throughout his body, but he would survive. As we were all rejoicing, my dad lovinly looked at my mom and said, "oh honey, I'm so sorry I scared you". For the first and I pray only time in my life I was jealous of my mother. She's old... she's been married for 50+ years why did she get to have her husband wake up and apologize and I didn't? I was so angry. I took the 3 hour drive home shortly after that. Again the car is my confessional. I screamed and cried at why she (my mom) got to have what I so desperately wanted and needed. I didn't call my mom or dad for a few days, preferring to get the medicalupdates from my sisters. It wasn't until a few weeks ago that I spoke to my dad. We sat down at a birthday party together. In my new grownup states I told him and my mom how I felt. My dad told me that he was scared when he began feeling sick. Scared for me. He was scared when he felt my hand slid into his. Scared that if he didn't try hard enough to get better, what would happened to his baby. My mom told me she didn't want anyone to call me when the crisis began. It wasn't until a trusted friend and doctor at the hospital told her she had to call me, was I notified. We cried, laughed and accepted what had happened. I extracted a promise from both of them that I will hold them to forever. They will never ever get sick again and they will never shelter me from the good, bad and/or ugly of life. I expect them to keep that promise for another 30 or 40 years.
I hope so...
Growing up in middle-class America in the 1960-70 era was pretty cool. We played outside all day every day all summer. Our parent knew we were safe as long as we didn't venture off our block. Everyone played with everyone. No one cared what your religion was or how much your dad made a year. Most moms stayed at home. My mom worked. Well, all moms worked it's just that back then people didn't feel that staying at home raising a family, doing the cooking and the cleaning and the like was work. Mom's took care of the house, Dad's did the lawn, fixed the car and went to a job outside the home to earn money for the family. We had cook outs and sleep-overs, camped in the back yard, late night games of kick the can or hide and seek. Fond memories come to mind of the older kids stealing a massive wooded spool from the ComEd facility near the neighborhood. It was used to hold what we would now think of as cable type lines. The center of the spool could be opened by removing a panel. Pillows were added to line the inside for safety.. ok, right. Then one of us would climb in and be rolled up and down the block. If I had to compare it to anything else it would be the equivalent of being placed in a dryer and run through a fluff cycle. One problem was you had to brace yourself so you didn't fall out of the opening. I'm telling you all this only as an observer as I never actually rode the spool. My brother and sister wouldn't let me. I was too small, too young, too much their baby sister to be put in that dangerous situation. The same held true when they lite bottle rockets or snuck in to our little town without permission. Or when things between my parents erupted. I was being sheltered. It wasn't until later that I understood this was out of pure love and admiration.. back then they were just mean, old, big, dumb, stupid.. you know where I'm going. My fate was sealed... I would always be the baby sister, nothing could change that. But they were always going to believe it was their job to shelter me from the storms of life.
When I called one of my sisters, to tell her of the situation I was in with my husband and that he was dying, her reaction was, as I knew it would be, "I'm on my way". "No" I told her. Just let Mom and Dad know and tell the family. Again she said she could be there as fast as she could legally drive... I thanked her, I think and asked that she stay available but not yet make the trip. I needed her, and all of my family but I could not afford to be sheltered from this situation. I had to rearrange the stars and become the grown up that my family never saw me as. I needed to not be the baby. Ultimately my brother and sisters didn't listen to my day long request to not come in to be with me and I will be forever thankful... but did come hide out in a nearby town.. ready at the gate when I needed them. When I contacted them in the late afternoon, I expected them to be arriving in a few hours..they were there in 15 minutes. My fear of falling apart when the girls arrived was unfounded. I remained calm. I sheltered them from my pain. I comforted them. I was the grown up and it felt good. My brother is another story. We are so different, yet exactly the same. But he and I crossed new paths and I believe gained a new understanding and respect for each other. I remained the grown up and totally in control until a few days later, after my husband had passed and my parents arrived. I was sad with my dad, but when I saw my mom and she said my name... time reversed. I held her and sobbed. My whole body hurt with the pain of loosing my precious husband and she knew. I became the baby again and my mom was there to be just that... my mom. I will forever hold that moment so very close to my heart as dearly as the birth of my children and the peaceful moment as I watch the last breaths leave my husband.
A few month later I was thinking about those few days and replaying the events in my mind as I have done a thousand times. I was feeling as though all of this had made me better. A stronger woman. I felt as though the playing field of my family dynamic was somewhat level now. My sister called on a Sunday afternoon, I was at work so, I knew. Something had happened. She hemmed and hawed, not like her at all. My dad was sick, very, very sick she told me. He was in the ICU and they didn't know what was wrong. I asked questions, fresh from my ICU experience, I had a fingernails worth of knowledge on what to ask, but needed to get some perspective on the illness. Again she danced around the answer. Was he breathing on his own? Again, not an answer. She suggested I get there as soon as possible. We hung up and I went back to work. My head was spinning. Damn it. How could they all do this to me? Didn't my dad know I was still not ok? Who did he think he was. My cell rang again. It was my sister. I was sure she was calling to say my dad was dead. If I don't answer it... he can't be dead. But I did answer it. It was my nephew,a 3rd year redident calling to answer my questions. Thank God. I found out what I needed to and he suggested not making the trip until the morning. I made the trip and met my family at the hospital the next day. As I walked in to ICU... the smell or actually lack ofsmell bothered me immensely. I avoided eye contact in an ill-fated attempt to shelter my self. When I saw my dad, he was so heavily medicated that he was out of it. I wanted to touch him. I wanted to slap him and ask him what the hell he thought he was doing. I wanted to ask if he was doing this for attention. I knew he wasn't but that's what I thought. I walked towards him, keenly aware that all eyes were on me. My mom, sisters and brother were all watching to see what I would do. Would I crumble and revert back to being the care needing baby sister? I so wanted to put my hand in my dad's but was terrified. Terrified that it would be cold. Terrified that he would not squeeze or hold my hand. My husbands hands were so cold, and he never did squeeze back. I slipped my hand in Dad's. It was so nice and warm, He held my hand and held it long and hard. This was a horrible mix of emotions. I was so relieved but so angry. While this was great... it wasn't the hand I wanted to be holding.
A few hours later, after tests had been run and long after mass amounts of antibiotic has been pumped in to my dad, he opened his eyes and with great clarity asked for a glass of juice. The crisis had passed. He was still very ill with a blood infection throughout his body, but he would survive. As we were all rejoicing, my dad lovinly looked at my mom and said, "oh honey, I'm so sorry I scared you". For the first and I pray only time in my life I was jealous of my mother. She's old... she's been married for 50+ years why did she get to have her husband wake up and apologize and I didn't? I was so angry. I took the 3 hour drive home shortly after that. Again the car is my confessional. I screamed and cried at why she (my mom) got to have what I so desperately wanted and needed. I didn't call my mom or dad for a few days, preferring to get the medicalupdates from my sisters. It wasn't until a few weeks ago that I spoke to my dad. We sat down at a birthday party together. In my new grownup states I told him and my mom how I felt. My dad told me that he was scared when he began feeling sick. Scared for me. He was scared when he felt my hand slid into his. Scared that if he didn't try hard enough to get better, what would happened to his baby. My mom told me she didn't want anyone to call me when the crisis began. It wasn't until a trusted friend and doctor at the hospital told her she had to call me, was I notified. We cried, laughed and accepted what had happened. I extracted a promise from both of them that I will hold them to forever. They will never ever get sick again and they will never shelter me from the good, bad and/or ugly of life. I expect them to keep that promise for another 30 or 40 years.
I hope so...
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Thursday - 8/13/2009 Attraction
The thing about attraction is that it can be so many different things to each of us. Is it a scent? The way someone looks? A great smile, a great chest or a great ass? Something in a voice? Some one's laugh? To me it's all of this, every second of the day, every day of my life. I have found that whatever it is inside of me that causes me to be attracted to men is on super warp speed with a dash of hyper sensitivity. It's almost embarrassing. Since becoming a widow, I find that almost all men, without exception all men, big men, small men, cute men, old men, men who may not choose to be men, men that like men better than they would ever like me, young men, stupid men... I hope you are getting the point. I'm attracted to them. Within the first few weeks of my new life I followed a man around the grocery store simply because he asked me if ground chuck was better than ground beef. I thought of ways I could prepare his choice of beef. I thought about what we would do on our first date, how we would share the story of our meeting fondly with our friends and family. Was he cute? Have all his teeth? Walk upright without his knuckles scrapping the floor? Who knows. I was too busy planning a future with him. I strategically placed myself a few isles ahead of him assured he would be thinking about finding me again in the milk section and the rest would be blissful history. Yea, not so much. His significant other approached him as he was making a critical but ultimately incorrect yogurt decision. I remember watching her take the offending yogurt choice out of the cart, laugh at his ineptness and grab the correct yogurt, touching his arm in a revoltingly charming way. I got a little dizzy at what I had just put myself through... Was this how I really was going to spend the next 30 or 40 years? Following strangers around Kroger? Good golly miss molly no! Well actually, the next time it was Target. Too much would be added to my humiliation bucket but it involved an air mattress and a wedding registry. I can't even tell you about following someone in their car one night after they held a door for me at Starbuck's. Much to my shock and dismay, we have decided not to marry. Help me, please.
But I need attention. I was paid an extraordinary amount of attention over the past 30 years. I'm one of those women who never wants you to make a fuss about me... but I really do. High maintenance I guess, but the worst kind... I deep down really don't get or think that I am an HM woman. Being an HM is dangerous stuff. I set myself up for disappointment at every turn. But oddly I'm not always that disappointed. I have a huge "flirt" gene. But that too has changed. I've discovered that I cannot flirt and/or be flirted with as I have for my entire life. I blush, get flustered and tongue tied. Not an effective part of the flirt process. After careful investigation as to why this art has been removed from my bag of tricks, I think I've figured it out. For 30 years I could flirt my ass off because, I had a safety net. I had a 6 foot 4 inch safety net that would catch me if I fell or pull me out of the street if a car was coming when I crossed. If I flirted with someone and it was not mutual, making the interaction, in a word lame, I could tell my net man and we would laugh. And he would flirt with me. If it was mutual I would still get word to the net man and because I was feeling good about myself, attractive to another human other than the net man, I had an internal..boost. The net man felt good too I think. But I knew however the flirt went.. I was safe. Safe to return to being a mom and a wife and a friend. The net man is gone. I've tried to flirt in groups, with good strong friend around but they just don't have the net man touch. The reality is they just don't know how to handle me. I do need to be handled. I need to be told when I need to step it up or cool it down. I need a new handler and a new net man.
One more word on attraction. I am not a technical person at all. I recently got a new phone and because I didn't save some of my numbers on the SIM card I lost them.. whatever? When it said save I said yes. Anyway I tend to get calls with just the number, no names. So one evening I get a text and I figured it's one of the friend who's number I no longer have. The text simply said "hey". I responded.. "what's up" They responded "who's this?" I responded "you texted me who is this?". They responded "Morgan.. a friend gave me his number and I think I entered it wrong" I responded "no problem.. have a good night" About 10 minutes later I get another text. They respond "how old are you?" I responded "much older that you I'm sure" Now I'm in shock.. am I being picked up by some amazingly handsome, incredible rich and intelligent guy named Morgan? I was sure of it. Oh no, 10 minutes later and no response... what did I say? How could I have ruined this wonderful relationship we were building? I was on the brink of shock, sadness and heartbreak. They responded(pure bliss) "how do you know if u r older if you don't tell me". OK, breath.. you can do it.. it's like fishing.. reel him in... I respond "45+". Waiting, waiting.. the response is taking too long what could be happening in my texter's rich, highly educated, going to come riding down my street on a white horse to rescue me mind? So I had to do it... I googled his phone number...... Up pops a Myspace page for... 16 year old Dan aka Dan the Man a high school sophomore. Just then... They respond.."wow u r too old for me". I respond "have a good life". So much for attraction. I think I can get it under control.
I hope so.
But I need attention. I was paid an extraordinary amount of attention over the past 30 years. I'm one of those women who never wants you to make a fuss about me... but I really do. High maintenance I guess, but the worst kind... I deep down really don't get or think that I am an HM woman. Being an HM is dangerous stuff. I set myself up for disappointment at every turn. But oddly I'm not always that disappointed. I have a huge "flirt" gene. But that too has changed. I've discovered that I cannot flirt and/or be flirted with as I have for my entire life. I blush, get flustered and tongue tied. Not an effective part of the flirt process. After careful investigation as to why this art has been removed from my bag of tricks, I think I've figured it out. For 30 years I could flirt my ass off because, I had a safety net. I had a 6 foot 4 inch safety net that would catch me if I fell or pull me out of the street if a car was coming when I crossed. If I flirted with someone and it was not mutual, making the interaction, in a word lame, I could tell my net man and we would laugh. And he would flirt with me. If it was mutual I would still get word to the net man and because I was feeling good about myself, attractive to another human other than the net man, I had an internal..boost. The net man felt good too I think. But I knew however the flirt went.. I was safe. Safe to return to being a mom and a wife and a friend. The net man is gone. I've tried to flirt in groups, with good strong friend around but they just don't have the net man touch. The reality is they just don't know how to handle me. I do need to be handled. I need to be told when I need to step it up or cool it down. I need a new handler and a new net man.
One more word on attraction. I am not a technical person at all. I recently got a new phone and because I didn't save some of my numbers on the SIM card I lost them.. whatever? When it said save I said yes. Anyway I tend to get calls with just the number, no names. So one evening I get a text and I figured it's one of the friend who's number I no longer have. The text simply said "hey". I responded.. "what's up" They responded "who's this?" I responded "you texted me who is this?". They responded "Morgan.. a friend gave me his number and I think I entered it wrong" I responded "no problem.. have a good night" About 10 minutes later I get another text. They respond "how old are you?" I responded "much older that you I'm sure" Now I'm in shock.. am I being picked up by some amazingly handsome, incredible rich and intelligent guy named Morgan? I was sure of it. Oh no, 10 minutes later and no response... what did I say? How could I have ruined this wonderful relationship we were building? I was on the brink of shock, sadness and heartbreak. They responded(pure bliss) "how do you know if u r older if you don't tell me". OK, breath.. you can do it.. it's like fishing.. reel him in... I respond "45+". Waiting, waiting.. the response is taking too long what could be happening in my texter's rich, highly educated, going to come riding down my street on a white horse to rescue me mind? So I had to do it... I googled his phone number...... Up pops a Myspace page for... 16 year old Dan aka Dan the Man a high school sophomore. Just then... They respond.."wow u r too old for me". I respond "have a good life". So much for attraction. I think I can get it under control.
I hope so.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Wednesday 8/12/2009 Support
The word support is defined as... to promote the interests or cause of, to uphold or defend as valid or right or to pay the costs of...
So how should you react when someone tells you they are there to support you? What does that mean to a middle aged widow? Where do people learn to be supportive? Maybe boys learn it in 5th grade.. remember when they separated us and the girls watched a horribly old cartoon about menstruation? Maybe that's when the boys were told to be supportive of girls and ultimately women. Maybe girls inherently know how to support. But again, what does that mean? And how do you teach someone to be "supportive"?
I know everyone wanted to be supportive of me after my husband died. People expressed so much love to me and my children. In my family we were taught to offer our support to others who may be in need. But what does that look like, on both sides, for the offerer and receiver? Offers of "anything you need, you just call" came out at the end of every conversation. Offers to cut the lawn or do the yard work were almost the only thing the men on my street could manage to say to me. The wives in the block kept a steady stream of "stop on in for dinner whenever you want". All polite and well intended but, I can almost hear the sighs of relief every night at supper time when I don't ring their door bells or once a week when I cut my own lawn. Co-workers said "if there's anything you need...". Again all out of love and respect. But they didn't know what to do either. While many asked me what they could do, I couldn't tell them. Giving up my list of household chores as well as personal tasks would mean giving up control of more of the life I knew, before. I had to keep all the marbles in my hands however often I dropped one. I wish in those first few months I'd said yes to those who asked to carry a marble or two. We would both have benefited.
I can only speak for myself. I wanted to be supported, needed it, craved it. But what that meant to me on Monday was decidedly different on Tuesday. Was it a hug, a shoulder to cry on, an ear to listen to me talk about my husband for the millionth time? The trouble was (is) I don't know the answer to these questions. I will say that on one particular night, Lasagna, stove top s'mores and a bottle of not really good Merlot were just the support I needed. A repeat of the much helpful support nosh the next day... not likely.
I went in search of support from strangers. I know, I know.. Mom always said "never talk to strangers...". This was different. I googled, my new obsession, "widow support" and found a website. Many of the articles were outdated and I felt as though I wasn't their anticipated audience. I was not a young widow with little kids or a widowed lady in the later seasons of life. There was however a chat link... I had found it... the support I needed that no one, no matter how loving, sincere or creative could give me. I was just me. A fellow human who had a loss. I wasn't defined by anything else. I wasn't a mom or daughter or sister. I could be having a great day, horrible day or not really care at all about anything of any significance. I could look like crap, feel like dirt. These people were me.. only a man or woman older, younger anywhere in the world. But they were in the same situation I was in. It was the Mickey Mouse club for widows and widowers. The line from the Mickey Mouse Club song... "why? because we like you" runs through my head every time I log in. I wanted to come along and sing their song and be as welcome as could be... We all have log in names but those comfortable enough, share their real name. There are no long sorrowful stares, no heads cock slightly to the left accompanied by the heavy sigh when I say hello. There is friendship, cyberhugs and chat about how you really feel, what you are afraid of, insurance companies, possible future relationships and what you want your life to be again or how you begin anew. I want and need the support of my family and friends. I want to be supportive in whatever definition we all decide fits our lives. I have come to the conclusion that support can only be defined in the moment when you give it or receive it. I hope someday to have grandchildren. This will be the life lesson I will be sure to teach. I must say that I also reached out to a local support group as well. The group was highly touted and is held weekly at a beautiful church. The cliche of all of us sitting in a circle telling our tale, did not appeal to me. But I went. Twice actually. Never got out of the car either time... I watch people go in and did what I shouldn't and judged a book by it's cover. I plan to go back next week. I plan to get out of the car... and go inside. I think I can do it....
I hope so.
So how should you react when someone tells you they are there to support you? What does that mean to a middle aged widow? Where do people learn to be supportive? Maybe boys learn it in 5th grade.. remember when they separated us and the girls watched a horribly old cartoon about menstruation? Maybe that's when the boys were told to be supportive of girls and ultimately women. Maybe girls inherently know how to support. But again, what does that mean? And how do you teach someone to be "supportive"?
I know everyone wanted to be supportive of me after my husband died. People expressed so much love to me and my children. In my family we were taught to offer our support to others who may be in need. But what does that look like, on both sides, for the offerer and receiver? Offers of "anything you need, you just call" came out at the end of every conversation. Offers to cut the lawn or do the yard work were almost the only thing the men on my street could manage to say to me. The wives in the block kept a steady stream of "stop on in for dinner whenever you want". All polite and well intended but, I can almost hear the sighs of relief every night at supper time when I don't ring their door bells or once a week when I cut my own lawn. Co-workers said "if there's anything you need...". Again all out of love and respect. But they didn't know what to do either. While many asked me what they could do, I couldn't tell them. Giving up my list of household chores as well as personal tasks would mean giving up control of more of the life I knew, before. I had to keep all the marbles in my hands however often I dropped one. I wish in those first few months I'd said yes to those who asked to carry a marble or two. We would both have benefited.
I can only speak for myself. I wanted to be supported, needed it, craved it. But what that meant to me on Monday was decidedly different on Tuesday. Was it a hug, a shoulder to cry on, an ear to listen to me talk about my husband for the millionth time? The trouble was (is) I don't know the answer to these questions. I will say that on one particular night, Lasagna, stove top s'mores and a bottle of not really good Merlot were just the support I needed. A repeat of the much helpful support nosh the next day... not likely.
I went in search of support from strangers. I know, I know.. Mom always said "never talk to strangers...". This was different. I googled, my new obsession, "widow support" and found a website. Many of the articles were outdated and I felt as though I wasn't their anticipated audience. I was not a young widow with little kids or a widowed lady in the later seasons of life. There was however a chat link... I had found it... the support I needed that no one, no matter how loving, sincere or creative could give me. I was just me. A fellow human who had a loss. I wasn't defined by anything else. I wasn't a mom or daughter or sister. I could be having a great day, horrible day or not really care at all about anything of any significance. I could look like crap, feel like dirt. These people were me.. only a man or woman older, younger anywhere in the world. But they were in the same situation I was in. It was the Mickey Mouse club for widows and widowers. The line from the Mickey Mouse Club song... "why? because we like you" runs through my head every time I log in. I wanted to come along and sing their song and be as welcome as could be... We all have log in names but those comfortable enough, share their real name. There are no long sorrowful stares, no heads cock slightly to the left accompanied by the heavy sigh when I say hello. There is friendship, cyberhugs and chat about how you really feel, what you are afraid of, insurance companies, possible future relationships and what you want your life to be again or how you begin anew. I want and need the support of my family and friends. I want to be supportive in whatever definition we all decide fits our lives. I have come to the conclusion that support can only be defined in the moment when you give it or receive it. I hope someday to have grandchildren. This will be the life lesson I will be sure to teach. I must say that I also reached out to a local support group as well. The group was highly touted and is held weekly at a beautiful church. The cliche of all of us sitting in a circle telling our tale, did not appeal to me. But I went. Twice actually. Never got out of the car either time... I watch people go in and did what I shouldn't and judged a book by it's cover. I plan to go back next week. I plan to get out of the car... and go inside. I think I can do it....
I hope so.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Tuesday - 8/11/09 I hope so
Today I begin blogging.
I'll need to bring you up to speed. I am a late 40 something, recently widowed, slightly overweight mother of 2. I was married for 28 years and 9 month until my darling husband had the bad taste to suffer a pulmonary embolism and die. My children are in their 20's with life just beginning to open doors and clarify paths for them.
Having your spouse die is terrible on so many levels. Financial, emotional, physical and I think most of all mental. I hope to explore and share with you how this all adds to or subtracts from my life. You may find it interesting or you may not. Basically, I just need someone to talk to.
Here we go...
When my husband passed away so very suddenly, there seemed to be so much to do, but I had no idea how to do it. There were arrangements to be made, calls to be placed, people to console and the dog had to get his shots. Oh and I think there is a load of towels in the washer... OK that's how my mind was working... I kept bouncing from one thing to another. My brother kept saying that I was so organized. He kept seeing me with a pen and a pad of paper and assumed I was taking copious notes. I was writing down the bad things I wanted to say to my family, my husband's family, my kids and yep.. the dog.
There is no manual for what you are supposed to do when you are middle aged and your best friend and husband dies. The hospital handed me a pamphlet that said call your funeral home. Do I have a funeral home? What funeral? Do you decide based on closeness to your house? Are you supposed to shop around? View a few and see who has the best deals? I selected one near our home that seemed nice, I guess. The staff there was comforting. I can't imagine working in an industry like that. Do they use sick humor like hospitals do? I hope so.
The service was very nice I heard people say. I knew my husband so well that I chose to do the eulogy and act as MC. So many people had so many nice things to say. I can't remember the exact words but I knew at the time they were comforting to everyone...except me. I wasn't ready to be comforted.
Over the course of the next week or so people were in and out of my house. The "chicken network" shut down and I was left on my own. What is the "chicken network"? I have come to discover that there is some hidden communication command center that pops up whenever someone who is well loved dies. The network alerts those in the area that the family is in need of chicken. All types of chicken. Roasted, broasted, fried, Paprikash, tetrizzine and of course wings. Once the grieving family begins to have a reduction in chicken level.. the network sends out a signal and more chicken is dispatched. It's quite simple really. Then suddenly, I was alone.
That's when my greiving started in earnest. I went back to work. I was fine all day... smiled, laughed, joked.. but the car, was hell. I was inconsolable in the car. When you think about it, what a great place to really cry and scream your guts out. One day I was driving home, so very proud of myself that I was almost in my neighborhood and I hadn't broken down in a mess of mascara running, snotty nosed tears. Then it happened. A squirrel ran under my car and I hit him. I started to scream. My chest hurt, nose running and I couldn't breath. Was I a horrible monster? Another living thing dies while I'm near it. What does that say about me? Irrational I know but those are the thoughts that came to me as I pulled over. I made it home, had a glass of wine and went to bed. I avoided the area of the squirrels death for a week... choosing to go 3 miles out of my way so I didn't have to see any squirrel parts.
So we are now at just about 5 months into this process. I hear it gets less painful as time goes by. I hope so....
I'll need to bring you up to speed. I am a late 40 something, recently widowed, slightly overweight mother of 2. I was married for 28 years and 9 month until my darling husband had the bad taste to suffer a pulmonary embolism and die. My children are in their 20's with life just beginning to open doors and clarify paths for them.
Having your spouse die is terrible on so many levels. Financial, emotional, physical and I think most of all mental. I hope to explore and share with you how this all adds to or subtracts from my life. You may find it interesting or you may not. Basically, I just need someone to talk to.
Here we go...
When my husband passed away so very suddenly, there seemed to be so much to do, but I had no idea how to do it. There were arrangements to be made, calls to be placed, people to console and the dog had to get his shots. Oh and I think there is a load of towels in the washer... OK that's how my mind was working... I kept bouncing from one thing to another. My brother kept saying that I was so organized. He kept seeing me with a pen and a pad of paper and assumed I was taking copious notes. I was writing down the bad things I wanted to say to my family, my husband's family, my kids and yep.. the dog.
There is no manual for what you are supposed to do when you are middle aged and your best friend and husband dies. The hospital handed me a pamphlet that said call your funeral home. Do I have a funeral home? What funeral? Do you decide based on closeness to your house? Are you supposed to shop around? View a few and see who has the best deals? I selected one near our home that seemed nice, I guess. The staff there was comforting. I can't imagine working in an industry like that. Do they use sick humor like hospitals do? I hope so.
The service was very nice I heard people say. I knew my husband so well that I chose to do the eulogy and act as MC. So many people had so many nice things to say. I can't remember the exact words but I knew at the time they were comforting to everyone...except me. I wasn't ready to be comforted.
Over the course of the next week or so people were in and out of my house. The "chicken network" shut down and I was left on my own. What is the "chicken network"? I have come to discover that there is some hidden communication command center that pops up whenever someone who is well loved dies. The network alerts those in the area that the family is in need of chicken. All types of chicken. Roasted, broasted, fried, Paprikash, tetrizzine and of course wings. Once the grieving family begins to have a reduction in chicken level.. the network sends out a signal and more chicken is dispatched. It's quite simple really. Then suddenly, I was alone.
That's when my greiving started in earnest. I went back to work. I was fine all day... smiled, laughed, joked.. but the car, was hell. I was inconsolable in the car. When you think about it, what a great place to really cry and scream your guts out. One day I was driving home, so very proud of myself that I was almost in my neighborhood and I hadn't broken down in a mess of mascara running, snotty nosed tears. Then it happened. A squirrel ran under my car and I hit him. I started to scream. My chest hurt, nose running and I couldn't breath. Was I a horrible monster? Another living thing dies while I'm near it. What does that say about me? Irrational I know but those are the thoughts that came to me as I pulled over. I made it home, had a glass of wine and went to bed. I avoided the area of the squirrels death for a week... choosing to go 3 miles out of my way so I didn't have to see any squirrel parts.
So we are now at just about 5 months into this process. I hear it gets less painful as time goes by. I hope so....
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