As my journey through grief continues, one of the biggest changes has to be that I'm alone most of the time. I have never experienced loneliness such as this. I dodge the doldrums of aloneness during the daylight hours because of work. But after the sun goes down. The loneliness surrounds me like a huge overcoat. Heavy and encompassing.
The memories swirl in my mind. Most are good memories. Remembering the laughter we shared always makes me long for him to be here. I look to my left, as this is the position where he sat most of the time, and see that empty space. It screams at me, "HE'S GONE!". It's so quiet in the house now that it hurts my ears. The sound of quiet is the loudest noise I've ever heard in my life.
He filled up this whole house with his presence. I never knew that he took up that much space. I didn't realize how much of me he consumed. It was a good kind of consumption. He filled my space, my heart, my soul, my mind. Now, he's gone. His physical presence is no longer a factor in my day to day life and I, frankly, don't know how to live like this. I play the moments we shared as a couple over and over in my mind. The littlest details jump out at me. The words he spoke. The way he spoke them. The touch of his hand in mine. The look on his face as he slept. Knowing that I'll never experience those moments again is just too much to bear some times. I'll never make new memories with him again. I have to rely on the past memories to bring me comfort and make me smile.
I know I'll carry him within my heart for the rest of my life but sometimes that's not enough for the human side of me. I long to share a meal with him, a conversation or just watch him sleep.
Loneliness is not for the weak.
I miss him.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Cry Me A River
Yes. Today is yet another crying day. I've had these scattered throughout these weeks. I never quite know what brings them on. They just seem to happen.
Perhaps it was a memory I shared with a friend earlier today. Perhaps it was the video I watched earlier where I could see him and hear him but couldn't touch him. Perhaps it was my telling the customer rep at Direct TV that I have to cancel the service because I lost my husband's income due to his death so I can no longer afford their services. Perhaps it was the way I ate dinner. Alone and quiet. Perhaps it was the street I turned on to come home or the sight of a couple walking down the sidewalk hand in hand. Whatever it was, the dam broke and the tears flowed.
Anger crept in with this latest spell. Mad at John for not doing what he should have all of those years ago. "Just take the freakin pills already! What's so difficult about that?" Those are the words I used to say to him when I would find out he wasn't taking his medicine. Mad because if he had just taken the medicine perhaps the last 6 years would have been different, better. There's no way to tell. There's no guarantees but at least he would have given himself a fighting chance. Doing something is better than doing nothing.
I don't know if him taking his meds would have played in our favor or not. I don't know if it would have allowed him to extend the time he had here. I'll never know those things.
My heart is broken. I miss him so much it hurts inside. My soul is lonesome. My soul mate is gone. And I'm left here to pick up the pieces and try to carry on. I hate it. I hate that he's not here. I hate this whole thing without him in it. I hate being without him. I hate crying and still remaining in the same circumstance when I'm done.
Unfortunately for me, I know what this is all too well. It's called grieving. It's not for the weak nor the weak at heart. It's not for someone with little fortitude. It will eat you up and spit you out and not care how broken you are when it's done with you. I know there will be an end to these raw, sore feelings. But the journey to get there is wracked with a soul-searching, excruciating self examination. The little baby steps make the progress slow. And a slow progression is better than a no progression. As painful as it is, I know I must trudge on. I will prevail. My God says so.
Weeping may endure for a night, but joy will come in the morning.
I miss him. Pass the tissues, it's going to be a long night.
Perhaps it was a memory I shared with a friend earlier today. Perhaps it was the video I watched earlier where I could see him and hear him but couldn't touch him. Perhaps it was my telling the customer rep at Direct TV that I have to cancel the service because I lost my husband's income due to his death so I can no longer afford their services. Perhaps it was the way I ate dinner. Alone and quiet. Perhaps it was the street I turned on to come home or the sight of a couple walking down the sidewalk hand in hand. Whatever it was, the dam broke and the tears flowed.
Anger crept in with this latest spell. Mad at John for not doing what he should have all of those years ago. "Just take the freakin pills already! What's so difficult about that?" Those are the words I used to say to him when I would find out he wasn't taking his medicine. Mad because if he had just taken the medicine perhaps the last 6 years would have been different, better. There's no way to tell. There's no guarantees but at least he would have given himself a fighting chance. Doing something is better than doing nothing.
I don't know if him taking his meds would have played in our favor or not. I don't know if it would have allowed him to extend the time he had here. I'll never know those things.
My heart is broken. I miss him so much it hurts inside. My soul is lonesome. My soul mate is gone. And I'm left here to pick up the pieces and try to carry on. I hate it. I hate that he's not here. I hate this whole thing without him in it. I hate being without him. I hate crying and still remaining in the same circumstance when I'm done.
Unfortunately for me, I know what this is all too well. It's called grieving. It's not for the weak nor the weak at heart. It's not for someone with little fortitude. It will eat you up and spit you out and not care how broken you are when it's done with you. I know there will be an end to these raw, sore feelings. But the journey to get there is wracked with a soul-searching, excruciating self examination. The little baby steps make the progress slow. And a slow progression is better than a no progression. As painful as it is, I know I must trudge on. I will prevail. My God says so.
Weeping may endure for a night, but joy will come in the morning.
I miss him. Pass the tissues, it's going to be a long night.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Give Me Back My Bullets
"The Good Lord giveth and the Good Lord taketh away."
That says a mouthful. I guess I should be saying Social Security giveth, Social Security taketh away. They are REAL good at the taking away part. So good, in fact, that their taking away occurred before their letter arrived to inform me to give it back.
My husband was retired/disabled upon his death and was drawing a monthly benefit from Social Security. I informed social security of his demise and handed them a death certificate at the same time. The dude who was working there at the time made a copy of the original death certificate and handed the original back to me. I politely asked him if he was sure he didn't need the original one with the little raised seal on it. He politely said, "No". He proceeded to input some of the info into their computer(which makes it official btw) and then told me how sorry he was that I had lost my husband 10 days before. "Thank you", I said as my daughter and I headed out of the door ecstatic that it only took us 15 minutes to pull that off. There were tons of aggravated people sitting in that room. I guess that there were not many there to report a death.
Before departing the office, I asked the guy about the check that had just been deposited into our account for my husband's July benefits. He said, "don't touch it until you get a letter from us and it will tell you what you need to do from there." Cool, I thought. Easy peasy!
But of course this is government business, so it's never easy peasy. The following week I received a statement from my bank telling me that Social Security had gone in and removed the money. No problem, I thought. That's less that I have to do. I thought it was a done deal at that point. But oh nooooooooo. That wasn't the end of it. I got a letter from Social Security this past Friday telling me that I needed to return the monies that they had paid for my husband's July benefits because and I quote, "Social Security doesn't pay benefits for the month of death." I immediately got on the phone and was ready to give them a piece of my mind. I told the guy who answered the phone what was going on and he told me to "calm down" and he would check the computer (which apparently is their version of the Holy Grail). I gave him all of the necessary info and he pulled up my husband's info. He says, "oh yes I see we've already taken that payment, so don't send us any money because we don't want you to overpay us". How nice of you I thought. I then proceeded to ask him about the not paying benefits in the month that the death occurs. I told him my husband passed away on July 22, which is well past the middle of the month shouldn't I be able to keep a portion? "No", he said. But...but...but..what about the money I spent on him prior to his death in July? (cricket's chirping.) "Hello?" . "Ma'am, we don't pay benefits for the month of death, that's all I can tell you." "But you can apply for the $255 death benefit while we're on the phone if you like". Ok..I like. "Please hold while I get a claims agent on the phone". Good grief.
So this lady comes on and tells me how sorry she is that my husband has died and that she'll file the paperwork for the death benefit but she needs to "ask a few questions first". I roll my eyes (thank goodness I'm on the phone for that part..lol). She asks me a gazillion questions and I answer them as best I can. She then asked me if I had been in the military. HUH? I say, "what's that got to do with anything?" (crickets chirping again) She says, "we have to ask". "Why?"She doesn't know I don't think. She then tells me that his Ex is entitled to widow's benefits if they were married for more than 10 years, which they were. Really? Not that I begrudge someone from getting what they're entitled to, but does the government realize how much money they might can save if they stop paying these numerous ex-wives that these husbands leave behind? Shouldn't they not pay them once they're the "EX"? No wonder social security is broke. It turns out that I can draw widow's benefits when I turn 60y/o and depending on what my income is determines how much I can get. But at least I was still married to him when he died. I don't get it. You (social security) go into our account, take out the money you've already paid because you "don't pay benefits in the month of the death", but you'll pay his ex-wife widow's benefit even though they didn't occupy the same space in over 30 years?
It's not about the money. It's about what's right imo. I used some of that money for his needs up until the date of his actual death and then I have to give it ALL back because he's not entitled to anything because he died. So whether he died on July 1st or July 31st, social security isn't responsible. But his ex can get benefits based on his record after he's gone but not the recipient themselves while they're alive.
The gubment giveth, the gubment taketh away. That's why this country's drowning in debt. The logic of this is just too illogical. Typical bureaucratic bull.
"Please do NOT pass go, please do NOT collect $100 but give us back our money even though you earned it through your hard work and sweat".
That says a mouthful. I guess I should be saying Social Security giveth, Social Security taketh away. They are REAL good at the taking away part. So good, in fact, that their taking away occurred before their letter arrived to inform me to give it back.
My husband was retired/disabled upon his death and was drawing a monthly benefit from Social Security. I informed social security of his demise and handed them a death certificate at the same time. The dude who was working there at the time made a copy of the original death certificate and handed the original back to me. I politely asked him if he was sure he didn't need the original one with the little raised seal on it. He politely said, "No". He proceeded to input some of the info into their computer(which makes it official btw) and then told me how sorry he was that I had lost my husband 10 days before. "Thank you", I said as my daughter and I headed out of the door ecstatic that it only took us 15 minutes to pull that off. There were tons of aggravated people sitting in that room. I guess that there were not many there to report a death.
Before departing the office, I asked the guy about the check that had just been deposited into our account for my husband's July benefits. He said, "don't touch it until you get a letter from us and it will tell you what you need to do from there." Cool, I thought. Easy peasy!
But of course this is government business, so it's never easy peasy. The following week I received a statement from my bank telling me that Social Security had gone in and removed the money. No problem, I thought. That's less that I have to do. I thought it was a done deal at that point. But oh nooooooooo. That wasn't the end of it. I got a letter from Social Security this past Friday telling me that I needed to return the monies that they had paid for my husband's July benefits because and I quote, "Social Security doesn't pay benefits for the month of death." I immediately got on the phone and was ready to give them a piece of my mind. I told the guy who answered the phone what was going on and he told me to "calm down" and he would check the computer (which apparently is their version of the Holy Grail). I gave him all of the necessary info and he pulled up my husband's info. He says, "oh yes I see we've already taken that payment, so don't send us any money because we don't want you to overpay us". How nice of you I thought. I then proceeded to ask him about the not paying benefits in the month that the death occurs. I told him my husband passed away on July 22, which is well past the middle of the month shouldn't I be able to keep a portion? "No", he said. But...but...but..what about the money I spent on him prior to his death in July? (cricket's chirping
So this lady comes on and tells me how sorry she is that my husband has died and that she'll file the paperwork for the death benefit but she needs to "ask a few questions first". I roll my eyes (thank goodness I'm on the phone for that part..lol). She asks me a gazillion questions and I answer them as best I can. She then asked me if I had been in the military. HUH? I say, "what's that got to do with anything?" (crickets chirping again) She says, "we have to ask". "Why?"
It's not about the money. It's about what's right imo. I used some of that money for his needs up until the date of his actual death and then I have to give it ALL back because he's not entitled to anything because he died. So whether he died on July 1st or July 31st, social security isn't responsible. But his ex can get benefits based on his record after he's gone but not the recipient themselves while they're alive.
The gubment giveth, the gubment taketh away. That's why this country's drowning in debt. The logic of this is just too illogical. Typical bureaucratic bull.
"Please do NOT pass go, please do NOT collect $100 but give us back our money even though you earned it through your hard work and sweat".
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Disappearing Act
There are so many things to get done after you lose someone you love. Pay for the funeral, notify social security, pick out the headstone, file the insurance papers, and notify my job.
Along with those things mentioned above, there are also other, more tedious things to do. I have to remove him from dependent status with my job benefits, take him off of the bank account, change the car title from his name to mine, and take his name off of the mortgage and the deed to the house. I feel like I have this giant, pink eraser in my hand and I'm slowly making him disappear from existance. I know, I know. I don't have that kind of power but it certainly makes me feel that way.
As I take each step, I feel like I'm erasing his history, his record of being here. His name will disappear from everything and it will be like he's never been here at all. I don't want to do these things. I don't want to NOT get mail with his name on it.
With each task it seems he dies yet again. The only trace of him is in my heart and on my walls and dressers. I desperately try to hang onto anything that proves he was here and that he lived. But it's inevitable. It will be beyond final when tax season comes. Afterall, until the IRS knows you're dead, you're still alive for all intents and purposes.
This was all brought about today because I received an email from the human resources department about my "life changing event" that allows an employee to make changes to their benefit elections outside of the normal "window" of opportunity that usually occurs in October of each year. They sent me the costs of my benefits without the spouse portion. It's no longer "employee & spouse", it's the "employee only" election now. And it lists how much cheaper these benefits are when you're all by yourself. I almost cried (again). Talk about a reality check. When you see it on paper, it's even more real than when you try to formulate it in your mind.
Along with those things mentioned above, there are also other, more tedious things to do. I have to remove him from dependent status with my job benefits, take him off of the bank account, change the car title from his name to mine, and take his name off of the mortgage and the deed to the house. I feel like I have this giant, pink eraser in my hand and I'm slowly making him disappear from existance. I know, I know. I don't have that kind of power but it certainly makes me feel that way.
As I take each step, I feel like I'm erasing his history, his record of being here. His name will disappear from everything and it will be like he's never been here at all. I don't want to do these things. I don't want to NOT get mail with his name on it.
With each task it seems he dies yet again. The only trace of him is in my heart and on my walls and dressers. I desperately try to hang onto anything that proves he was here and that he lived. But it's inevitable. It will be beyond final when tax season comes. Afterall, until the IRS knows you're dead, you're still alive for all intents and purposes.
This was all brought about today because I received an email from the human resources department about my "life changing event" that allows an employee to make changes to their benefit elections outside of the normal "window" of opportunity that usually occurs in October of each year. They sent me the costs of my benefits without the spouse portion. It's no longer "employee & spouse", it's the "employee only" election now. And it lists how much cheaper these benefits are when you're all by yourself. I almost cried (again). Talk about a reality check. When you see it on paper, it's even more real than when you try to formulate it in your mind.
- Health Care - Employee Only (widow)
- Dental Care - Employee Only (widow)
- Vision Care - Employee Only (widow)
- Life Insurance - Employee Only (widow)
That's what I saw in that email. A stark reminder that I am a widow. But I don't feel like a widow. Wait a minute, what does a widow feel like? If it's defined by loneliness or meals for 1 then I must be a widow.
I want to throw this eraser in the Atlantic ocean and never see it again. But I can't. I have to use this tool of torture and take care of business.
Afterall, that's what us widows do, apparently.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Wake Up Call
Often times when a person is grieving, it's the little things that seem to set you back in your quest to a healed you.
This weekend was particularly hard for me. I'm not sure what brought on the sadness. Nothing specific is my guess but it was a crying weekend for me nonetheless.
I awakened over the course of this weekend to the reality that my husband is indeed gone. I must trudge my way through whatever is left of my life without him. As this reality hit me (again), I found myself face to face with the fact that out of all the things that I have missed in these last 3 weeks, the thing I miss the most is waking up with him beside me. I hate waking each morning to that empty room. It's so void of everything that was John.
Oh sure, I have pictures galore of him on the walls and on the dressers but his presence is gone. This is never more clear than in the early morning hours as I'm waking up for the day. I received some measure of comfort from seeing him lying there in that hospital bed, his chest rising and falling softly as he took in life giving air. I had become so accustomed to it that I feel lost without it. No more light snoring as he cruised into REM sleep, no more rhythmic breathing noises as he snoozed way past wake up time, no more sudden movements of his legs as he wrestled with restless leg syndrome. No more 'good morning dears' and 'I love you's'. POOF!
In the blink of an eye, that was all gone. I was left with this wasteland of space in the bedroom. Our bedroom had always seemed so small with the 2 of us in it. No more. It's huge now. There's nothing to fill it up any longer.
I hate being without him. I hate waking up without him. I hate having to hate those things. I never thought that I'd be without him. Never even considered it. Even with the difference in our ages, I never thought it would come to pass. I had always pictured us together.
Unfortunately, things rarely turn out the way you picture them. My biggest fear is that I'll never find anyone to share this empty space with or even if I want to find anyone. Right now, I don't. I still feel John here with me. In my heart. In my mind. In my soul.
I miss him.
Each day brings a new dawn. Each day brings a new opportunity. Each day brings another day without him. Now that's a wake up call that no one wants.
This weekend was particularly hard for me. I'm not sure what brought on the sadness. Nothing specific is my guess but it was a crying weekend for me nonetheless.
I awakened over the course of this weekend to the reality that my husband is indeed gone. I must trudge my way through whatever is left of my life without him. As this reality hit me (again), I found myself face to face with the fact that out of all the things that I have missed in these last 3 weeks, the thing I miss the most is waking up with him beside me. I hate waking each morning to that empty room. It's so void of everything that was John.
Oh sure, I have pictures galore of him on the walls and on the dressers but his presence is gone. This is never more clear than in the early morning hours as I'm waking up for the day. I received some measure of comfort from seeing him lying there in that hospital bed, his chest rising and falling softly as he took in life giving air. I had become so accustomed to it that I feel lost without it. No more light snoring as he cruised into REM sleep, no more rhythmic breathing noises as he snoozed way past wake up time, no more sudden movements of his legs as he wrestled with restless leg syndrome. No more 'good morning dears' and 'I love you's'. POOF!
In the blink of an eye, that was all gone. I was left with this wasteland of space in the bedroom. Our bedroom had always seemed so small with the 2 of us in it. No more. It's huge now. There's nothing to fill it up any longer.
I hate being without him. I hate waking up without him. I hate having to hate those things. I never thought that I'd be without him. Never even considered it. Even with the difference in our ages, I never thought it would come to pass. I had always pictured us together.
Unfortunately, things rarely turn out the way you picture them. My biggest fear is that I'll never find anyone to share this empty space with or even if I want to find anyone. Right now, I don't. I still feel John here with me. In my heart. In my mind. In my soul.
I miss him.
Each day brings a new dawn. Each day brings a new opportunity. Each day brings another day without him. Now that's a wake up call that no one wants.
Friday, August 14, 2009
A Family Affair
I grew up with only 1 sister. It was just she & I. She was older so I was the baby (ewwww..lol). So I never knew what it was like to have a large, immediate family. I have always looked at large families as being too many people in 1 place at one time. I never really wished I had more brothers and sisters.
Then, I met my future husband. We dated for a short while and then moved in together and lasted for 25 years. Imagine the look on my face when he informed me for the first time that he had 11 siblings. E-L-E-V-E-N! I'm sure I must have made some type of face (not a good one either) and probably said something stupid like, "how did you survive with that many people in the house?". He then explained to me that all eleven never resided in the same house at the same time. The older 6 were out of the house when the younger 6 were being reared for the most part. I was still floored by the fact that a woman could have that many children and still have all of her hair!
I didn't know what to think of having that big of a family. I was nervous when it came time to meet ALL of these people. Thank God my future husband thought of my sanity and "eased" me into meeting them. It was done a tablespoon at a time. Kind of like sipping that nasty cough syrup one slurp at a time. Eventually you get it all down, it just takes longer. The small doses worked for me and probably for them as well.
25 years later, I can't imagine my life without those 11 people and their families(which translates into a HUGE amount of people). Especially now that my husband is no longer on this side of heaven with me. I wasn't sure what was going to come about after my husband's passing. We really weren't particularly close with them in the early years of our relationship. He usually put work, sleep and working on his car before family gatherings. He later learned that was not the way to live life and changed his ways.
There are 7 sisters and 4 brothers left to carry on. They have graciously accepted me as part of this family and they did it a long time ago. I worried, in the moments after my husband's death, if I would be left alone to deal with the loss of the one I loved the most in this world. I knew that wouldn't be the case but I couldn't help but think that on some level.
I've talked with a number of the sisters since he's passed and they've told me how much of a part of this family I've become over the years. I couldn't believe some of the things they were saying. Perhaps I didn't realize just how much I had worked my way into their hearts over the years. It sure is good to know that they see me as part of their lives.
For the first time in my life, I have a big family. I have 11 siblings. And you know what? It's not as bad as I once imagined. In fact it's rather comforting. They circled the wagons and protected me at a time when I needed them most. They have thanked me for the care I gave their brother over the course of his illness and they're checking on me regularly. One sister even told me that since I'm young and chances are I will find a new beau somewhere down the road, that she hoped that I wouldn't cast them aside. Me...cast them aside! I was in awe and touched by that statement because my husband had told me years ago that if and when something ever happened to him, his family would make sure I felt like I belonged. He said, that's what big families do. He liked being part of a big family and he pulled me into his and I think I won't ever be able to walk away from them. I told the sister that spoke those words about not casting them aside that if I do ever meet someone and he's not willing to accept them as part of me, then he'll be cast aside not them. For I will forever remember the moments that have occurred over the last 3 weeks and I don't want to go back to being a family of 2. I've gotten a taste of the big family cake and "how sweet it is"!
Vive La' Big Famlay!
Then, I met my future husband. We dated for a short while and then moved in together and lasted for 25 years. Imagine the look on my face when he informed me for the first time that he had 11 siblings. E-L-E-V-E-N! I'm sure I must have made some type of face (not a good one either) and probably said something stupid like, "how did you survive with that many people in the house?". He then explained to me that all eleven never resided in the same house at the same time.
I didn't know what to think of having that big of a family. I was nervous when it came time to meet ALL of these people. Thank God my future husband thought of my sanity and "eased" me into meeting them. It was done a tablespoon at a time. Kind of like sipping that nasty cough syrup one slurp at a time. Eventually you get it all down, it just takes longer. The small doses worked for me and probably for them as well.
25 years later, I can't imagine my life without those 11 people and their families(which translates into a HUGE amount of people). Especially now that my husband is no longer on this side of heaven with me. I wasn't sure what was going to come about after my husband's passing. We really weren't particularly close with them in the early years of our relationship. He usually put work, sleep and working on his car before family gatherings. He later learned that was not the way to live life and changed his ways.
There are 7 sisters and 4 brothers left to carry on. They have graciously accepted me as part of this family and they did it a long time ago. I worried, in the moments after my husband's death, if I would be left alone to deal with the loss of the one I loved the most in this world. I knew that wouldn't be the case but I couldn't help but think that on some level.
I've talked with a number of the sisters since he's passed and they've told me how much of a part of this family I've become over the years. I couldn't believe some of the things they were saying. Perhaps I didn't realize just how much I had worked my way into their hearts over the years. It sure is good to know that they see me as part of their lives.
For the first time in my life, I have a big family. I have 11 siblings. And you know what? It's not as bad as I once imagined. In fact it's rather comforting. They circled the wagons and protected me at a time when I needed them most. They have thanked me for the care I gave their brother over the course of his illness and they're checking on me regularly. One sister even told me that since I'm young and chances are I will find a new beau somewhere down the road, that she hoped that I wouldn't cast them aside. Me...cast them aside! I was in awe and touched by that statement because my husband had told me years ago that if and when something ever happened to him, his family would make sure I felt like I belonged. He said, that's what big families do. He liked being part of a big family and he pulled me into his and I think I won't ever be able to walk away from them. I told the sister that spoke those words about not casting them aside that if I do ever meet someone and he's not willing to accept them as part of me, then he'll be cast aside not them. For I will forever remember the moments that have occurred over the last 3 weeks and I don't want to go back to being a family of 2. I've gotten a taste of the big family cake and "how sweet it is"!
Vive La' Big Famlay!
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Enemy ...Mine
I'm learning, as my healing journey slowly progresses, that I'm my own worst enemy sometimes. Just when it feels that I'm going to have a good day, I remember a particular moment in our lives and I fall apart all over again.
The moments don't have to be anything special, like our wedding day or anything. In fact most times, it's the small, seemingly insignificant moments that seem to scream the loudest in my memory banks. Anything from watching him shave before work to him waking me up for work when he got home in the mornings. Those times are etched permanently in my brain.
I remember when I first moved in with him in 1985 and he used to come home from work at 6am and sit on the side of the bed, smoking a cigarette, with his uniform shirt unbuttoned and his belt buckle undone, in his sock feet. I'd be in the bathroom taking a shower and getting dressed and when I opened the door he would start talking. Telling me about his night at work and how tired he was and how glad he was to "curl up" and get some sleep. I would walk into the bedroom and stand between his legs and give him a kiss. We'd fall onto the bed and I'd never want to leave. I'd tell him that I could lay there with him the rest of my life and never get up and he'd say, "We'd starve to death". We both would laugh and he'd coax me into getting up. He was afraid I'd be late and get written up. I was in the Navy back in those days and they always wanted you to be on time for some reason. He'd always say, "you'll never blame me for the court martial". I'd just shake my head. As I reluctantly would get off of him, he'd say, "I'll be here when you get home". Oh those words. I never knew how much they meant to me until now. I never knew what they meant to him when he said them either. It was his way of saying to me that he wasn't going anywhere and that he'd always be here at the end of the day. And he was.......for 25 years.
Those little, shared moments that were meant for only he & I are more precious than gold. I wouldn't trade them for any amount of money. I cling to them as if they are a lifeline thrown from a ship in the middle of the perfect storm. My only connection to my long, lost love. Those heart strings get stretched to the max every now and then but especially since I've put him to rest. I dredge up those memories and brush off the cobwebs and then I proceed to cry. That feeling in that moment is something that I will forever be able to recall. Memories transport us back to those moments so you can live them all over again. It's fascinating that the human mind can do that for us. The sights, sounds, smells and feelings are just as real the 2nd time around as they were the 1st. The only thing that's changed for me is that one of the main characters is missing.
When I rejoin the here and now, the let down is astronomical. It's like free falling from the highest peak and landing face first on the concrete. SMACK! Those memories tucked in the corners of my memory bank waiting for the next time I need them. They serve to help me move forward. Each one as good as the original. Each one a reminder of what I've lost. Therefore creating that feeling of loneliness. I create those myself each time I venture into the memory bank. I cause myself to feel sad. But I think that the memory and reliving it is well worth the price of a few moments of sadness. I tell myself, "hey, at least you had those times". Some folks are not as blessed. Some people go through their whole lives without what I had with John. That is the real tragedy.
I was blessed to have lived it and my husband was along for the ride. And wherever I went, there he was also. Now, he's here in a different way. I have to get used to that way. I feel him at the same time that I long to feel him. Here....but not here. That's where I'm at today.
The moments don't have to be anything special, like our wedding day or anything. In fact most times, it's the small, seemingly insignificant moments that seem to scream the loudest in my memory banks. Anything from watching him shave before work to him waking me up for work when he got home in the mornings. Those times are etched permanently in my brain.
I remember when I first moved in with him in 1985 and he used to come home from work at 6am and sit on the side of the bed, smoking a cigarette, with his uniform shirt unbuttoned and his belt buckle undone, in his sock feet. I'd be in the bathroom taking a shower and getting dressed and when I opened the door he would start talking. Telling me about his night at work and how tired he was and how glad he was to "curl up" and get some sleep. I would walk into the bedroom and stand between his legs and give him a kiss. We'd fall onto the bed and I'd never want to leave. I'd tell him that I could lay there with him the rest of my life and never get up and he'd say, "We'd starve to death". We both would laugh and he'd coax me into getting up. He was afraid I'd be late and get written up. I was in the Navy back in those days and they always wanted you to be on time for some reason. He'd always say, "you'll never blame me for the court martial". I'd just shake my head. As I reluctantly would get off of him, he'd say, "I'll be here when you get home". Oh those words. I never knew how much they meant to me until now. I never knew what they meant to him when he said them either. It was his way of saying to me that he wasn't going anywhere and that he'd always be here at the end of the day. And he was.......for 25 years.
Those little, shared moments that were meant for only he & I are more precious than gold. I wouldn't trade them for any amount of money. I cling to them as if they are a lifeline thrown from a ship in the middle of the perfect storm. My only connection to my long, lost love. Those heart strings get stretched to the max every now and then but especially since I've put him to rest. I dredge up those memories and brush off the cobwebs and then I proceed to cry. That feeling in that moment is something that I will forever be able to recall. Memories transport us back to those moments so you can live them all over again. It's fascinating that the human mind can do that for us. The sights, sounds, smells and feelings are just as real the 2nd time around as they were the 1st. The only thing that's changed for me is that one of the main characters is missing.
When I rejoin the here and now, the let down is astronomical. It's like free falling from the highest peak and landing face first on the concrete. SMACK! Those memories tucked in the corners of my memory bank waiting for the next time I need them. They serve to help me move forward. Each one as good as the original. Each one a reminder of what I've lost. Therefore creating that feeling of loneliness. I create those myself each time I venture into the memory bank. I cause myself to feel sad. But I think that the memory and reliving it is well worth the price of a few moments of sadness. I tell myself, "hey, at least you had those times". Some folks are not as blessed. Some people go through their whole lives without what I had with John. That is the real tragedy.
I was blessed to have lived it and my husband was along for the ride. And wherever I went, there he was also. Now, he's here in a different way. I have to get used to that way. I feel him at the same time that I long to feel him. Here....but not here. That's where I'm at today.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Some Things Never Change
I went back to work today. Re-joining the land of the living so to speak. It was hard. I was tired by the end of the day. That didn't surprise me. I knew it would take my body some time to get back into the swing of things. It felt like I was easing myself into a salt water bath with open wounds all over. It stung. It was reality in my face. The real world had not gone away nor had the earth stopped turning just because I lost my soul mate. Things just continue as though he wasn't even here.
I dreaded the inevitable. Coming home at the end of the workday without him being here. For the first time in 25 years, I knew my husband wasn't going to be coming home or at home when I got there. What a dose of reality! It slapped me right between the eyes! Sobering and painful.
I hadn't known what it was like to come to an empty house since I was 20 y/o. It's not fun. No love, no laughter, no life. Silence was the only sound and it was deafening.
My husband had always worked the graveyard shift at his job as a security officer. He was on the night shift when I met him and he liked it. It wasn't as bad as folks may have thought. I think it actually contributed to our relationship being so successful on some level. We rarely "crossed paths" during the week. He'd come home at 6:00am and I'd leave for work at 8:00am. He was in the bed and asleep by the time I would go out the door. I come home at 4:30pm and he'd be laying down for his pre-work nap at around 5:30pm. I'd wake him up between 9:00 and 9:15pm so he could get ready for work and be there by 10:00pm. So we'd have approximately 1 to 1.5 hours "together" during a typical work day. That would change depending on how tired he was or how much sleep he had gotten the day the before. We had 2 nights off together, Friday and Saturday. He'd go back to work on Sunday night. So Sunday was usually a "rest up" day for him and he rarely deviated from his schedule because it was hard on him once he returned to work if he did. But through all of that, he was here each and every day of my return from work until he got ill. He was out of the house for a while when he first fell ill in 2003. He came home in November of 2003 after a 10 month stay in a rehab facility. He remained here until this last illness took up residence. So all together I was without him in the house for about 18 months over the whole course of his illness. But those times I had always known he'd be home when he got better. Now, that luxury is gone. He's never coming home. NEVER again.
I don't know how to keep going except to keep going. I felt naked today. Like I had a big sign on my back that said, "tread easy, widow here". I still wear my wedding rings because I still feel like I'm married to him. I still feel him here. And I still hold him in my heart. I guess that will change as time passes but for now I'm not comfortable not wearing the rings, so I wear them.
The job is still the job. Nothing has changed. Folks looked at me with that pity face. If they only knew how much I once had there would be no pity. Jealousy perhaps, but not pity. I got through the day just as I'll get through every day to come for the rest of my life. I know that it will get easier. I do know that. But getting to those easier times is the whole challenge.
One foot in front of the other. One day at a time, one hour at a time and sometimes it's one minute at a time.
I dreaded the inevitable. Coming home at the end of the workday without him being here. For the first time in 25 years, I knew my husband wasn't going to be coming home or at home when I got there. What a dose of reality! It slapped me right between the eyes! Sobering and painful.
I hadn't known what it was like to come to an empty house since I was 20 y/o. It's not fun. No love, no laughter, no life. Silence was the only sound and it was deafening.
My husband had always worked the graveyard shift at his job as a security officer. He was on the night shift when I met him and he liked it. It wasn't as bad as folks may have thought. I think it actually contributed to our relationship being so successful on some level. We rarely "crossed paths" during the week. He'd come home at 6:00am and I'd leave for work at 8:00am. He was in the bed and asleep by the time I would go out the door. I come home at 4:30pm and he'd be laying down for his pre-work nap at around 5:30pm. I'd wake him up between 9:00 and 9:15pm so he could get ready for work and be there by 10:00pm. So we'd have approximately 1 to 1.5 hours "together" during a typical work day. That would change depending on how tired he was or how much sleep he had gotten the day the before. We had 2 nights off together, Friday and Saturday. He'd go back to work on Sunday night. So Sunday was usually a "rest up" day for him and he rarely deviated from his schedule because it was hard on him once he returned to work if he did. But through all of that, he was here each and every day of my return from work until he got ill. He was out of the house for a while when he first fell ill in 2003. He came home in November of 2003 after a 10 month stay in a rehab facility. He remained here until this last illness took up residence. So all together I was without him in the house for about 18 months over the whole course of his illness. But those times I had always known he'd be home when he got better. Now, that luxury is gone. He's never coming home. NEVER again.
I don't know how to keep going except to keep going. I felt naked today. Like I had a big sign on my back that said, "tread easy, widow here". I still wear my wedding rings because I still feel like I'm married to him. I still feel him here. And I still hold him in my heart. I guess that will change as time passes but for now I'm not comfortable not wearing the rings, so I wear them.
The job is still the job. Nothing has changed. Folks looked at me with that pity face. If they only knew how much I once had there would be no pity. Jealousy perhaps, but not pity. I got through the day just as I'll get through every day to come for the rest of my life. I know that it will get easier. I do know that. But getting to those easier times is the whole challenge.
One foot in front of the other. One day at a time, one hour at a time and sometimes it's one minute at a time.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Service for One?
Another "first" for me has come and gone. I went to the local I-HOP the other night because I was in the mood for some breakfast food for dinner. Love breakfast for dinner, don't you?
No one told me how lonely eating by yourself could be. This, of course, wasn't the first time I had eaten alone at the I-HOP. But it was the first time I've eaten there without my husband being on this side of heaven.
Funny....a few months ago I would have relished the opportunity to consume a meal in peace. Savoring each bite and even putting off going home to face those tasks that often awaited me as a caretaker until the last possible moment. This has all changed now. I dread going home because of what DOESN'T await me any longer. Although our 22y/o daughter still resides in the home with me, the house still looms empty for me. Just knowing that my husband was there in some capacity apparently was all I needed to feel "normal". I always knew that no matter what my days held, John was at home waiting for me.
In the early years of our relationship that thought kept me coming home night after night. I never knew what was going to happen each evening. Would he be asleep? Would he be laying on the couch in front of the TV? Would he be outside under the hood of the car "tinkering"? It really didn't matter what he'd be doing. What mattered was that he was there. For 25 years, he was there day after long day. A smile on his face and a wisecrack on his tongue. What I wouldn't give to have that now.
The last 6 years weren't quite as unpredictable as the first 19. His illness relegated him to the same fate day in and day out. Sitting in that wheelchair trying to get back to his "pre-illness" self. It was a constant struggle for him. But I kept coming home. It got harder as the illness took it's toll on him. Saddened by his deterioration, it was hard to look him in the eye most days. I tried with every fiber of my being to treat him the same. I failed most of the time. How could I? He wasn't the same. I knew I was failing. He knew it too. My attempts were met with smiles sometimes and at other times with grumbles and groans. But I continued to talk with him just like he was a willing participant right up until the end. Creating, at times, the answers I thought he would give during a conversation. I knew him that well. I suspect I missed the mark on occasion. He never corrected me. His will was gone. He just existed at that point. My heart broke. I'm sure he heard it. I know I did. Then his broke for me and I heard that too.
Love is like that. One hurts for the other and ends up hurting themselves. We were blessed to feel this kind of love. It's a love that only happens for someone once in a lifetime. I've experienced that once in a lifetime love at a young age and now I have to get through what's left of my life knowing that I won't experience that again. It rings hollow but it's the path I've been put on and apparently I can travel that road. Alone. It's a personal journey. One that will heal and reveal.
No one told me how lonely eating by yourself could be. This, of course, wasn't the first time I had eaten alone at the I-HOP. But it was the first time I've eaten there without my husband being on this side of heaven.
Funny....a few months ago I would have relished the opportunity to consume a meal in peace. Savoring each bite and even putting off going home to face those tasks that often awaited me as a caretaker until the last possible moment. This has all changed now. I dread going home because of what DOESN'T await me any longer. Although our 22y/o daughter still resides in the home with me, the house still looms empty for me. Just knowing that my husband was there in some capacity apparently was all I needed to feel "normal". I always knew that no matter what my days held, John was at home waiting for me.
In the early years of our relationship that thought kept me coming home night after night. I never knew what was going to happen each evening. Would he be asleep? Would he be laying on the couch in front of the TV? Would he be outside under the hood of the car "tinkering"? It really didn't matter what he'd be doing. What mattered was that he was there. For 25 years, he was there day after long day. A smile on his face and a wisecrack on his tongue. What I wouldn't give to have that now.
The last 6 years weren't quite as unpredictable as the first 19. His illness relegated him to the same fate day in and day out. Sitting in that wheelchair trying to get back to his "pre-illness" self. It was a constant struggle for him. But I kept coming home. It got harder as the illness took it's toll on him. Saddened by his deterioration, it was hard to look him in the eye most days. I tried with every fiber of my being to treat him the same. I failed most of the time. How could I? He wasn't the same. I knew I was failing. He knew it too. My attempts were met with smiles sometimes and at other times with grumbles and groans. But I continued to talk with him just like he was a willing participant right up until the end. Creating, at times, the answers I thought he would give during a conversation. I knew him that well. I suspect I missed the mark on occasion. He never corrected me. His will was gone. He just existed at that point. My heart broke. I'm sure he heard it. I know I did. Then his broke for me and I heard that too.
Love is like that. One hurts for the other and ends up hurting themselves. We were blessed to feel this kind of love. It's a love that only happens for someone once in a lifetime. I've experienced that once in a lifetime love at a young age and now I have to get through what's left of my life knowing that I won't experience that again. It rings hollow but it's the path I've been put on and apparently I can travel that road. Alone. It's a personal journey. One that will heal and reveal.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Memory Lane
Every once in a while I would pull out the old photo albums and look at the smiles from the past. It was a pleasant walk down memory lane on most occasions. I'd laugh as I looked at a particularly crazy photo of me or the kids or the husband. The changes that occurred in us over the time span of just a few years could be amazing. It always fascinated me to see such changes.
This trip down memory lane, however, was much more melancholy. As I struggle to get back to some sort of normalcy, I run across something that will trigger a happier time. Sometimes I close my eyes and hear my husband's voice as I stare into his Kodak eyes. The sound of his laughter is something that I've been without for about 5 years now. He had stopped laughing as often once the illness came about. I suppose he had little to laugh or smile about. I would tell him on occasion over the last 6-8 months that I missed him. He would look at me like I was crazy with an expression of "I'm here you know". But it wasn't really him. He had changed so much over the course of this illness that I would barely recognize him at times. I missed my old John. The one that laughed and joked and danced the "bugaloo" every once in a while. The one who endlessly talked while sitting in front of the TV at night. The one that snored ever so gently as he dreamed his little dreams over the years. That John was long gone. I had grieved him over the last 6 years many times over. Yet, I find myself crying now because his physical presence is gone. I realized, for the first time, that just having him here, no matter his condition, was enough to appease me.
Sad that after a life well lived, all that was you can fit into a cardboard box or a plastic garbage bag. I'm slowly cleaning out his stuff and with each step, he disappears a little more. So I cry. I smell his clothes and hats hoping just to get a whiff of him. No luck with the clothes. The hat carries his smell. His essence. I deep breathe it in. AAAAAHHHHHH....JOHN! I cry. I still have to do all the legal things, remove him from the mortgage, from the deed to the house, from the car, from the bank account, etc. With each step, he'll disappear. I feel like I'm erasing him from the earth. Pretty soon, no one but his family and I will even remember he was here. I want to hold onto him so badly. Feel his touch, see his face, kiss his forehead, run my fingers through his hair and tell him that I love him. I know that he hears my cries and wishes that he could help.
Sometimes memory lane can be painful. Sometimes it can be therapeutic. Sometimes it serves as a reminder as to just how much we've lost. Sometimes it reminds us of just how much we were blessed along the way.
This trip down memory lane, however, was much more melancholy. As I struggle to get back to some sort of normalcy, I run across something that will trigger a happier time. Sometimes I close my eyes and hear my husband's voice as I stare into his Kodak eyes. The sound of his laughter is something that I've been without for about 5 years now. He had stopped laughing as often once the illness came about. I suppose he had little to laugh or smile about. I would tell him on occasion over the last 6-8 months that I missed him. He would look at me like I was crazy with an expression of "I'm here you know". But it wasn't really him. He had changed so much over the course of this illness that I would barely recognize him at times. I missed my old John. The one that laughed and joked and danced the "bugaloo" every once in a while. The one who endlessly talked while sitting in front of the TV at night. The one that snored ever so gently as he dreamed his little dreams over the years. That John was long gone. I had grieved him over the last 6 years many times over. Yet, I find myself crying now because his physical presence is gone. I realized, for the first time, that just having him here, no matter his condition, was enough to appease me.
Sad that after a life well lived, all that was you can fit into a cardboard box or a plastic garbage bag. I'm slowly cleaning out his stuff and with each step, he disappears a little more. So I cry. I smell his clothes and hats hoping just to get a whiff of him. No luck with the clothes. The hat carries his smell. His essence. I deep breathe it in. AAAAAHHHHHH....JOHN! I cry. I still have to do all the legal things, remove him from the mortgage, from the deed to the house, from the car, from the bank account, etc. With each step, he'll disappear. I feel like I'm erasing him from the earth. Pretty soon, no one but his family and I will even remember he was here. I want to hold onto him so badly. Feel his touch, see his face, kiss his forehead, run my fingers through his hair and tell him that I love him. I know that he hears my cries and wishes that he could help.
Sometimes memory lane can be painful. Sometimes it can be therapeutic. Sometimes it serves as a reminder as to just how much we've lost. Sometimes it reminds us of just how much we were blessed along the way.
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