How many people does it take to fill the hole in my heart?

I have taken the warnings about the holidays being a difficult time to heart. Too many notable events that are firsts. Too many thoughts that start, "Last year at this time we were....."  As a consequence I make plans and accept invitations. Anyone who calls with a, "Would you like to...." is greeted with an emphatic Yes!

In the last week and a half alone, I have gone out to dinner and seen a play, met with the Rabbi, attended an awards presentation for a very special person I met at the hospital, and was supposed to go out to dinner with another, but started having chills and thought it better to cancel. Darn!

 Christmas week started with dinner with two friends on Monday night, then Christmas Brunch with a friend's family including a 3-year-old. After 2-1/2 hours with the 3-year-old I was ready to go home for some peace and quiet and a nap. Rounding out the week was dinner in town with another friend and her family.

Sunday I went to visit someone I haven't seen for a while. And that brings me up to New Year's. I don't want to think about New Year's. Because if I do it will lead me down the rabbit hole of thinking about beginning a "new" year. And that "new" year is the first one of many to come without Rob by my side. Tears. Heartache.

See it is much better, easier right now to stay busy. Running around. Constantly on the move. It is the sitting and thinking that leads to feeling. And the grief can get so overwhelming. So quickly. I logically can tell myself it has not been all that long. But why does it still hurt so much?

Looking back over what I have been doing and with whom, I am staggered to realize it has taken 17 people to keep me on an even keel for a week and a half. And that does not include the friends I talked with on the phone. Or the ones I saw at the barn. Or the ones who emailed me. Boy when they say it takes a village, they (whomever they are) are not kidding.

All this is to help me try and fill the empty space in my life—left by one person. Robert.

Moving forward while still looking in the rear view mirror

I am moving forward, trying to figure out my life, looking to the future. How is this possible? I am on a path that I do not have much control over. And going forward seems to be the direction I'm heading. It feels like a juggling act to think of the future and have the past an active part of the present. I think of Linda Blair in The Exorcist when her head swivels is around and around.

Robert is such an integral part of the fabric of my life. He is everywhere with me. This morning I was preparing the cat's breakfast. I used to just open the can and mush it with a fork. Robert instructed me to add a can of warm water and then mush it to a smooth consistency. Now I do this every morning without a thought.

He bought me the computer I sit and write at. The iPhone—my lifeline was another of his gifts. Can't imagine managing without it now. My GPS unit was beginning to become undependable and when I got the Cavalia gig he uploaded the TomTom app to my iPhone and signed me up for traffic updates. Can't imagine navigating any other way now. Technology was his domain, and he brought me along kicking and screaming and resisting in every way. I now wonder why.

Everywhere I look I feel his presence. Where he sat on the couch. The table we bought together. The lights he put up. The door to his room. His books. His, now my car in the garage. A pine cone we picked up in Maine. I even wear some of his clothes. Or think of what he would say about some of mine ; -)

These are the objects and thoughts that are of the past and very much in the present. Physical items that are filled with memories. And the memories feel like walking through water. Initial resistance and then you get used to the feel of the water and keep going.

Forward movement is planning to go out to dinner with friends. Flying to Philadelphia in January for a trade show. Making arrangements to meet virtual friends at a horse event in February.

I am walking along a very steep narrow mountain ridge. Any misstep and I tumble off to one side or the other. But I keep walking, one step at a time, knowing that even when I do fall, I will clamber back up and keep moving on. How can this be? How do I keep putting one foot in front of the other?

Is this faith? Spirituality? Belief in something that I don't even know what to call?

The Way

I decided I needed to connect with some of the fun and life affirming activities Robert and I enjoyed through the years. With the Holiday Season in full swing I choose the Christmas Revels and called a friend to join me.

Only after the tickets were bought did I notice that this year the Revels' story was taking place in Spain. And not just anywhere in Spain, but along el Camino de Santigao de Compostela.

Synchronicity once again. I suppose I can find meaning and connections to just about anything these days. Both Rob and I loved Paulo Coelho's El Camino de Santiago. We had even talked of one day going to Spain to walk along part of el Camino de Santiago. And then the movie "The Way" came out with Martin Sheen and Emilo Estevez. Death, life, choices, friendship, love. A powerful and profound movie. And one we watched numerous times together.

I was faced with choices. Was this going to be too evocative for me? Should I cancel going? Plan on bringing lots of kleenex? Maybe embrace the synchronicity?

At times I am able to experience the world as a strange and wondrous place. I made the choice to enjoy myself. To encounter any memory that came up—and there were a lot—with joy, love and compassion. To bring Robert on this adventure into town with me, and watch the play unfold with him in my heart.

The Holidays

I seem to be in a cycle of crying at least once, twice, or more a day. I used to be able to skip a day here and there. Now are so many memories leaping in front of me. Like deer who jump out in front of your car and then get caught in your headlights.

Holiday season and lights are going up on houses. Robert and I always took one night and drove around admiring the bright colorful cheerful lights. One of our recent favorite streets to patrol was the one I travel on to and from the barn. When I saw the lights begin to appear I seriously considered changing my route.

Rob made a tape (shows you how long we've been doing this) and then a CD with selected Cowboy songs, to play as we drove along. Songs we grew up on like Roy Rogers' Happy Trails to You (particularly poignant as the next line is "Until we meet again). The theme song from Rawhide. Tex Ritter, Rex Allen, Gene Autry. I found the CD, but am not ready to listen to it yet.

Then there is the Fatima shrine just down the road from home where they have—oh I don't know—maybe 5-7 acres of paths all lit up with wonderful lights and decorations. Hanging in the trees, across the paths, a fabulous Nativity scene with a camel and donkey set in a field. Lighted stations of the cross. What else could good Jews do but enjoy the lights and wonderful holiday and religious music blaring from speakers.

We used to invite our Christian friends! But we always had our own special night to walk through this wonderland together. Another place I drive by frequently, and you can see the lights from the street. Last year when Rob could not go out in the cold I parked at the very edge so he could soak in the colors. Did not even think that that would be his last time.

And what would the holidays be without snow. A storm is coming and I got thinking how Robert made sure my car was prepped. He always filled my washer fluid. Reminded me to fill my gas tank. Who is going to do that now? You mean I have to take care of all this myself?

I am crying as I type. It is all the little things piling up. How will I ever be able to move on. At times like these it just feels so overwhelming. And like the future is going to be a cold empty place. See winter is here. And the snow is starting to fall. And where I usually am all happy about snow, right now I'm in despair.

The forecast hysteria from weather reporters are driving me to distraction. Remember last year when we had a big storm Rob was very anxious because our neighbor hadn't dug us out immediately. He was feeling trapped. I was having a blast with the snow. Time to put some music on and move my energy from stuck in the past to at least maybe this moment.

Oh, almost forgot, went to get a flu shot. Another thing Rob was diligent about. And friends have been telling me I don't want to be sick at home alone. Okay how could that set me off? Well lets see - watching the nurse open the drawer to all the lavender colored gloves (I had my own boxes of lavender gloves while dealing with all the medical issues at home), the needles (I had my own supply while dealing with the medical issues at home), the wipes, the hand cleaner, the syringes. The procedure. Yet another mine field. Actually wrote mind field. And that is what it is. A mind field.

Breathing

I just noticed I don't think I have been breathing. Really breathing. I am just rushing around, and don't take the time for a breath, 'cause breathing can lead to thinking. And we where know where thinking leads us.

With my retail websites in full swing for the  Holiday Season I'm in super crush mode. As the orders come in I am immediately caught up in processing them. I feel frantic and anxious and panicky. And for the first time I stop and ask myself why?

I mean I want the orders—income. I want the orders—keep me busy. I want the orders—define who I am. And then it hits me. Another of these slamming into the wall insights.

Last year I was doing the exact same things. Working with the same people. Filling out the same shipping labels. Wrapping up items. Putting them in Priority Mail boxes. But it was always against the clock while I was at home. Because when I was done I would leap into my car and rush back to the hospital where Rob was waiting.

How do I adjust to the fact that I don't have to be anywhere? How do I break my mind set of pressure? And its my pressure, no external drivers. I feel my heart pounding in my chest just from writing this. Deja vu—all over again, the Time post. Deja vu—all over again, its all about me.

I do try to stop and catch my breath. Thought—breathing—tai chi. Rob and I learned tai chi together, practiced together and even taught together. We did our forms on the top of Mount Washington in New Hampshire, on the beaches in Maine, Massachusetts, California and many places in between. Maybe just maybe I can slow down enough to learn to breathe again.

I go to see my horses. Notice my energy is completely different, and I am breathing. The barn and my horses have always been a sanctuary for me. And now I find it is a place where I can and do indeed breathe.

I'm reading Pema Chodron's When Things Fall Apart and Michael A. Singer's The Untethered Soul and trying to put into practice what they write. To acknowledge thoughts and feelings, to separate from them and to let them go. To be more aware of what I'm feeling. I have to breathe to do this.

So when I get off the phone with a client and walk into the living room, as I was wont to do to discuss the call with Robert, I notice all the swirling energy that I bring with me. I notice my breath is up around my ears and I am positively vibrating. And this is from an enjoyable phone call! And I also acknowledge that I wander the house still expecting him to be in his usual places.

Rob used to tell me not bring this disruptive energy to him.To take a breath before I was going to talk about work. And I honestly didn't have a clue what he meant.

He wanted me to join him on a spiritual journey and to meditate more. Why could I not do this then? Now I look through his books on spirituality and meditation and take them off the bookshelf to read. To be closer to him? Searching for unanswerable answers?

I want to believe he knows I am on that journey now. I want to believe he is guiding me. I want to share his breath.

They used to wear black

I know the world does not stop when someone dies. It didn't stop when Robert died. Though it certainly should have. Life goes on as usual for everyone else. I am in the world with them and try and understand how they could not feel the pain, my pain.

I find the supermarket deadly, I can't go back to the discount warehouse, and the drug store is a mine field. All around me are people doing normal things. Maybe they too have this hole, this emptiness but it is not allowed to show. They certainly don't see mine.

You used to wear black when in mourning. Announcing to the world your fragile state. But black has lost its meaning, and become just another fashion color. It is such a fashion staple that colors are described as "the new black."

I want to walk around with a big sign that says I am in mourning, handle with care. I lost my husband, my best friend, my soul mate—all rolled into one.

With friends who know and understand its a bit easier. But recently I've been in social situations with people who do not know. And inevitably dinner conversations drift to someone they know who is sick. Been in the hospital. Has cancer. Is receiving treatment and then the details.

Or talk tends toward death. The other night it was about pets who died. And how painful it was. I was thinking I could relate—I too have had a recent loss. Your pet of 13 years. My husband of 42.

I hear the expression, "I just can't imagine what you are going through." Okay I can get that. I couldn't imagine it either. Even when I knew it was coming. I'm now wondering if by saying this it then gives the person permission to not go any further. Can't imagine, so not going to try.

I am raw. Every time I think the passage of time will help, I'm reminded of how long it been since I last saw him. Touched him. Heard his voice. And that won't change. Ever.

Mindfulness

I am working on mindfulness. Can you work on mindfulness? Focus on it? Study it? Practice it? I am sorting through thoughts, acknowledging them and trying to let them go. I am observing how I feel. But thoughts keep coming up and then I get hooked by a conundrum.

Holidays. I've been trying to ascertain holidays, anniversaries and dates of importance. Loosing my mindfulness here. Holidays like Thanksgiving that move around on the calendar are causing havoc. Do I anticipate the holiday or the date?

Last year Thanksgiving was on November 22nd. That day we were in the big city hospital. On November 28th they were talking of finally sending Robert home. Which happened on the 29th.

But this year Thanksgiving is on the 28th. And while I will be home on the 29th he still will not. I know I'm driving myself to distraction. But that is the point. Thinking about dates and anniversaries distracts me from feeling. Distracts me from mindfulness. Distracts me from sitting with my feelings.

What I have been able to observe is that my feelings are coming and going with great speed and incredible intensity. They appear full blown, stay for a while. Then like a huge wind that comes through and leaves, everything is wiped clean.

Had an incidence with my bank where I was in a full yelling rage. Wow! It was like taking a deep sniff of Wasabi to clear your sinuses. The rage was there and then it was gone. And I felt cleansed. Not so sure the person on the other end of the phone had a similar experience.

Just became a blogger for the Huffington Post! This blog. Blogging about my grief and dealing with being alone. When I got the email that they had posted my first submission I was elated! Such euphoria, happiness and delight. And such confusion and guilt about how could the most devastating event in my life produce such jubilation?

As I was driving over the metal grating on a bridge in town I was overwhelmed with grief. This particular road surface brought back a memory with Rob that is over 41 years old about our first car together. Tears flowed down my face.

Last night I was sitting in bed reading about mindfulness with my cats lying on me. My spiritual cat rested his head on the hand holding the book. I felt his warm breath on my hand, and knew I had to put the book aside. He just looked into my eyes. He reached out his paw to touch me as he continued to gaze deep into my soul. My mind was furiously trying to make sense of what this meant.

When I let go of all thought I was flooded with deep feelings of compassion and love. Love from and for this furry being physically sitting on me, love from and for other cats in my life that are now gone, deep love from and for Robert.

Thanksgiving

Seems everyone is warning me about the holidays. The first ones I will be experiencing? celebrating? living through? without Robert.

To forewarn myself I have been trying to remember last Thanksgiving. Nothing comes to mind. I know all the things we didn't do. I didn't cook a mighty bird. We didn't do it at home. Nope to visiting friends. Ditto for going out to a restaurant. I have images of past years but last year is a blank. What on Earth did we do last Thanksgiving?

I will admit, right here and now that the mind can be wonderful at times. Amnesia is bliss. Amnesia protects. Amnesia insulates. Amnesia is absolutely my best friend. Until.

Until. Quite an interesting word until. I prefer to linger a bit before until hits. And hit it does. Like a sucker punch. No wonder my mind kept offering up amnesia.

Last year I had my Thanksgiving dinner of turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, some sort of green vegetable and apple pie in the cafeteria of the big city hospital. Alone. While Rob was lying upstairs in a hospital bed recovering from surgery. The surgery that sealed our fate. Where the doctors leaned over the bed afterwards and said, "We can treat you, but we can't cure you this time."

To put this into context....Remember my post "Numbers, but no one is counting" a while back? The number 10? It stood for 10 months. The last 10 months we had together. The clock started ticking just before Thanksgiving. Turns out my post "A Broken Heart" was the one year anniversary of this surgery.

Seems while the conscious mind can offer up amnesia, the unconscious never forgets. I am awakening to time marching on. Understand now that I was stuck. In the abstract 10 can still be an important number, but now I am at 12 and apparently counting once again. Moving forward. I choose to take thanks in this.

Amusement Park

My support system includes the chaplain/rabbi "M" from the hospital. She offered continuity at the hospital during the numerous stays, admissions, treatments. According to her she first met Robert when I wasn't there. I still puzzle over how he could have met anyone when I wasn't there because I was always there, but I digress (see previous post).

I talk with her to help me process the grief that has overwhelmed me recently. Someone to explore thoughts and check my reality, maybe I should say sanity. It is really hard to do this on one's own.

We talk about the roller coaster. And I share a friend's comment that "the good thing about them is that the ride ends and you get off."

Whoa right there! I never ever in my wildest dreams, fantasies or plain old thoughts considered that it would stop and I could get off. This ride has been going for two years and counting. Get off?!?!?!!? I can not even comprehend the concept.

As I try to explain this to "M" I realize the idea of getting off is terrifying. As out of control the roller coaster may be, it is a known quantity. Okay I don't know when it will do its thing—it goes up, it goes down, it goes loop-de-loop. But I do know that it will always be changing, and I just hang on tight.

My original visual was that I am hanging on to the bar with legs flying out behind. Holding on for dear life. As we talk I realize that the imagery had changed at some point. Because now I find I am sitting inside the car and the seat wraps around me, and holds me while it does its thing. I may have no control but we are one the roller coaster and I.

"M" asks me to visualize standing on a platform next to the roller coaster. I have to see the platform first. Individual planks of wood in a natural coloring, with spaces between the boards. There is no railing. Just this platform somehow suspended in space next to the cars of the roller coaster. I do notice that the roller coaster has stopped next to the platform.

After what feels like an eon I hesitantly step onto the platform. This is in no way comforting. I feel myself sway and battle vertigo. The roller coaster beckons reassuringly. When I share with "M" what I'm feeling she suggests I build stairs down to the ground, and even add a railing.

I look at the stairs and realize they lead down down down to the ground where there is a Ferris Wheel. Oh boy I can now go around in upward circles. She laughs and says I am building my own amusement park! So I quickly add a Carousel filled with horses going up and down. And I can ride the Carousel. But the roller coaster is beckoning again.

Attention span?

I am packing up a box and run out of packing tape. So I walk to basement where I keep my supplies and pick up a roll of tape. I notice the cats' litter box needs to be cleaned, and knowing I will probably forget if I don't deal with it now head to the kitchen to get a garbage bag.

While in the kitchen I see the broom leaning against the counter with a pile of dirt neatly swept up. But not picked up. I don't even remember doing this. So I go into the garage to get the dust pan. My eyes fall on a bin filled with all the items I took out of my car, a month ago when I brought it in for service. The thought was that I would go through each item and see if I really needed it in the trunk. But that was a month ago.

I pause. Think about dealing with this now. Realize I better continue on my errand. If I can only remember what it is. Oh yes the dust pan. Back to kitchen and sweep up the pile of dirt and put it into the garbage. Which reminds me of the garbage bag I need for the litter box. Get one from under the sink and return the dust pan to the garage.

Where I notice that the small garbage can in the corner is missing a garbage bag. And look I have one in my hand! As I turn to go back into the house I see on the steps a container of new kitty litter. Great I'm on the path toward completing a task.

Pick up litter container, stop and get a new garbage bag from under the sink. Walk through the living room on my way......oh the music has stopped. I walk over to the couch and fiddle with the iPhone to get it working with the AppleTV on the big screen over the fireplace. As I try and figure out HDM1 or HDM2 I vaguely remember I was doing something when I got distracted.

As I get up from the couch I trip over the litter container. Ah that's what I was doing. And head for the basement. I clean the litter box! Yippe Ki Yay! But what is with this roll of packing tape that I'm wearing as a bracelet? Grief rots your brain.

A broken heart

I was lying in bed last night reading and notice my heart pounding pounding pounding pounding. Loud, hard and fast. Not a good thing. Immediately took medication I take nightly.

As I'm feeling my heart continue to pound and race, I am struck with the undeniable fact I am alone. Totally alone. Completely alone.  What to do? Go to the ER immediately? Wait to see if the pill works? How long do I wait? There is no one to debate with. Except myself.

Quickly I decide to head out. It is so easy to fall into the 'Going to ER' mode, in the middle of the night, on a weekend. Its like a worn comfortable sweater. Its reassuring. Its calming. Its familiar. Its normal even. Gather a few overnight items, grab my large briefcase, computer, charging cord, magazine and book and I'm ready. I mean you never know.

Driving to the hospital in the dark is strangely comforting. Can't count the number of times I've done this. Although never alone. But in the dark that does not seem to matter. How many times had we driven these roads, sitting side by side, each in our own worlds, holding hands?

Its like I'm in suspended animation when I enter through the big sliding doors and describe my racing heart. They order an "immediate" EKG and I wait. And wait and wait. Think about what I'll tell the nurse in triage. "What brought you in tonight?" A broken heart.

I am trying hard to stay connected with myself and yet the past ER visits are flooding in. The nurse comments, "Oh you haven't been here before." Of course I have! Numerous times. "Your birthday?" I can spout Robert's much easier than I can remember mine. "Medications?" Have Robert's list down pat. Mine? Haven't a clue.

See the form with the empty fields that she is slowly filling. A blank form? I am so used to seeing Rob's overflowing form. And it hits me hard. This is all about me. This is one of those "It is all about me moments." Not quite what I had had in mind for an "All About Me Moment".

After tests and blood work I am told my heart is fine. No evidence in Western medicine of a broken heart. Their equipment doesn't detect the hole in my heart.

Daze

There does not seem to be any differentiation between weekdays and weekends. The days just run together. Everyday is a day. Just a day. Another day. What day is it?

I do the same things day in day out, weekday and weekend. Its repetitive and feels empty. I punctuate the sameness with dinner with friends. Phone appointments. Horse play dates. Anything that necessitates my making an entry into iCal, and connecting with someone.

I check my phone calendar repeatedly and I am comforted seeing dots. Looking at the calendar and not seeing dots is terrifying. Then someone will call and a dot is added.

Don't remember it being like this. The daily routine was comforting. The rhythm of life. But now its busy work intended to fill the hole in my life, the hole in my heart.

I remember there used to be markers in the week. Alternating Wednesdays and every Friday were spent at the cancer center. Strange to say but this was together time. Life fit into this schedule. But this weekly structure is now gone.

Roller Coaster

The roller coaster took a steep plunge yesterday. Don't even remember what started the tears and sobs. Oh yes I do. Was in the supermarket and remembered I wanted to pick up a loaf of bread. And that thought lead to the bread isle and the brand I used to buy for Rob. And the tears started welling up in my eyes.

The little things are piling up. Using the red Nikon camera he got me. Seeing his keys. Wearing his watch. Doing the garbage. Walking through the garage. Doing laundry. Coming across cards he sent me. Changing a light bulb in the basement. Buying kleenex. Opening the refrigerator. Sitting in a chair. Talking on the phone.

Maybe its from stopping all the busy work yesterday. Sitting still trying to breath and meditate. Of course I sat on Rob's side of the couch. He used to sit here and meditate—I hoped it would help me.

So yes to achieving some peace, but it also awakened the grief I've only allowed out for short intervals.

Last night I got into bed early, crying and sobbing. One of my cats joined me. Purring as loudly as I was sobbing. He was as inconsolable in his need for love as I was in my expression of grief. He just had to be held. And have his tummy rubbed, something Rob taught him. He repeatedly butted his head against my face, wiping away my tears with his fur.

Silence

I listen to the silence of the house. The furnace goes on, so the silence is not quite as all enveloping. I listen to the silence of the house and hear a cat's claws click on the wood floors. I listen to the silence of the house and hear water dripping from a leaky faucet. I listen to the silence of the house and hear my heart beat.

I sit and listen to the silence of the house and my cat jumps into my lap and purrs. Beyond the purr there is growing silence. The furnace has shut off, the faucet tightened. My heart still beats.

I hear the sound of a car driving by outside. A bird chirps. I hear leaves rustling in the wind. A branch taps at the window. A hairy woodpecker drills the side of the house. My cat still purrs. My heart still beats.

I remember as a child being so afraid of the silence of the house. I try and understand that fear. For now there is solace in the silence of the house.

The business of grief

"Grief is a process unique to each individual. No one can tell you how long and in what manner you should grieve. However....." begins a letter from a Bereavement Services & Program Development Center.

I have had it with the "howevers". Grief counseling has made grief a profession. A business. There is a process, an agenda, an all knowing knowledge. A road map, a plan and it is set. With markers, and dates, and warnings. The idea of the individual seems to have been forgotten.

Their language. Semantics. Definitions. Interpretations. There are phases, stages, curves and wheels. And they fit you into them. Nice and tidy. Where is the individual experience?

I'm not doing well with the rules, guidelines and warnings I'm encountering in talking with various grief experts. Wait at least three months before participating in a group. Anniversaries are looming events you have to watch out for. You think you are doing fine now? Just wait 'til 3 months, then six months, a year, two years. These are big milestones. Think you have reached rock bottom? Well you haven't.

What happens if an individual has milestones that come at 2-1/2 months and 5 months? Or 4 months 1 week? What if you don't adhere to observing anniversaries and live day by day, moment by moment. I refuse to be stuffed into their pigeon holes.

I'm sure they have their empirical data to support what they say. But data is data. And to create a structure there are the highs and lows that are tossed out. The individuals.

Physics has shown that in observation of particles, the particles perform as the observer expects! Think about that. Individuality is lost, and you fulfill their predictions.

The latest last straw was when I described what I'm going through as a roller coaster. And a professional grief counselor corrected me that it is not a roller coaster! And she went on to describe what it looks like. Her interpretation. No doubt from years of experience. But NOT mine.

Excuse me, whose grief are we talking about? I don't know what I'm experiencing? I don't know how to describe how I feel?!?!?!!?

Mechanical aptitude

A friend invited me to help her go shopping with her 2-year-old grandson. He jumped right into his specially built car seat. The harness contraption looked like a parachute harness, only miniaturized. Hooks, latches, buttons so small I had to put on my reading glasses to figure it out.

Now I do consider myself mechanically inclined. Just haven't practiced much. Or maybe I've only practiced mechanical prowess on medical equipment recently.

Fortunately the two-year-old had the shoulder part of the kiddie seat harness done pat. The lower restraint part? Red button that does nothing when you press on it. My friend tells me she and her husband spent a half hour the other night and still don't know how to get it to release. Then I spy an arrow. It is not a press on red button, its a push down red button. I am so proud of myself.

The kitchen disposal didn't take kindly to my putting pitted olives down it. Thought pitted meant there were no pits. There were pits. Either way it jammed. I flipped the wall switch a couple of times (or more). Just in case it would jump start. Opened the cabinet doors to see if there was anything obvious. Like what? Not sure.

There on the wall of the cabinet was an Allen wrench. I know what an Allen wrench is. Grab it out of it's wall bracket. Now what? Usually I'd just ask Robert. Not an option. It has to go somewhere, it has its very own wall clip! Can't see any obvious places. Email my brother. Get a long explanation back but see the words, "on the bottom". And lo and behold the special Allen wrench fits. I turn it. And the disposal starts right up!

Also saw the words "unplug from wall." I spent more time trying to figure out where the disposal was plugged in than it actually took to fix. This is because it was wired into the wall.

To compensate for today not only being a Sunday, but also the end of Daylight Savings Time with a whole additional never ending hour, I decide I'll clean the house. A couple of weeks ago I traded Rob's treadmill for a working vacuum cleaner. A whole other story.

The upright vacuum has been standing quietly in the corner. I've been admiring the ingenious industrial design with all sorts of attachments cleverly integrated. Each piece has its own specific allocated place with clips and hooks.

I uncoil the electric cord, plug it in, and spend the next 5 minutes looking for the on/off switch. Creative design. The tilt release is easy to find and away we go.

Only it is not picking up dirt, dust or cat hair. Another time I'd have just called to Robert. Okay, I've read about this. I'm on my own, need to be resourceful. And have a back up plan—buy a new vacuum in a box with lots of pictures and directions. Or I suppose I could Google the make and model and hope for lots of pictures and directions. I decide to forge ahead unaided.

I turn it on and off a few times, now that I know where the switch is, hoping it will fix itself. Nope. Resort to pushing buttons and levers and manage to release the canister. And then the hose disconnects and dumps someone else's dirt all over the vacuum, my floor and me.

When I try and put the hose back into its slot, notice that there is a clump of jammed vacuumed stuff (I can think of other words but stuff is the most gender neutral). Duh! I pull it out. Yup, I am keeping my fingers crossed I will be able to vacuum all this back up.

Struggle to figure out how the canister clips back in, and where the hose hooks. And a long straight attachment falls off. But wait, the canister has snapped into place and the machine is working. Sucking up all its own dirt and all of mine. I am so proud of my resourcefulness. My mechanical aptitude. I fixed the vacuum!

As we (the vacuum and I) roll down the hall, other attachments start to fall off. It is vacuuming up the dust and dirt and cat hairs. Just leaving in our wake various tools that I have yet to ascertain their specific allocated spaces.

Time

Time is mine. It is all mine. Not anyone else's. I don't share time or my time or your time or their time with anyone. It is my time.

Not sharing time is terrifying. I'm not accountable to anyone. I can stay out as long as I want. I don't have anyone home waiting for me. I'm alone. I'm adrift. I'm unanchored.

Where before there was time now there is a hole. I peer into it and wonder how I am going to manage to get through the next minute, hour, day. Time stretches out interminably before me. It is all mine. And I frantically make dates and appointments and schedule friends and activities.

Sundays are the hardest. On Sunday time is so elastic it just stretches out and out and out. The hands on the clock do not seem to move no matter how busy keep myself.The digital clocks don't change either.

There used to be boundaries on time. "I'll only be gone for two hours (or 10 minutes)." Now they are gone. "I'm going out and will be back by twelve". Tethers. Gone. "Come with me, it will only be 15 minutes." Together no more.

"My time" used to be when I went to the barn to play with my horses. But there was always an awareness in the back of my mind that Robert was home. I'd play and have fun with horses and friends, but there was always a clock ticking.

Is this what widowhood is about? Is this what losing my other half means? When "my time" used to be over I'd always call, "I'm on my way home. Do we need anything?" Not any more. Now the time is all mine.

Two minus one

The words have changed. And language is taking its toll once again. Or maybe it is math that is causing this mayhem.

Where there were two, it is now one. Where it was us, it is now I. We are no longer....oops there is no we. It is now me. Couple? Nope single. Together is now alone. Mr. & Mrs. is now, can you believe this? I was addressed as Miss while  at a store tonight.

From Wikipedia a glimmer of hope: "The singular 'they' is the use of this pronoun as a gender-neutral singular rather than as a plural pronoun." So I can still be a 'they'? The entry continues: "The correctness of this usage is disputed." Hope is dashed.

Went to lunch with a friend and we were seated at a cute little table for two. Do they have cute little tables at restaurants for one? Walking through the bar area on way to bathroom I noticed several women eating alone. And noted where they were sitting. At the bar, you have the illusion of a space for one. At one of the tiny raised tables—yes a table for one. Perfect. I'll keep that in mind.

I can no longer drive in the HOV lane. Where do I sit in the movie theater? Dare I go out to a fancy restaurant and be asked, "Are you waiting for someone?" Or "Will someone be joining you?" How do I visit a museum or go to a play or a concert? I've always shared these experiences. Can I enjoy them alone?

The bed has two sides, I occupy only one. Meals are single place settings. Only my phone rings. I sit on the couch alone. Go to the grocery store to buy food for only me. Do my own laundry. And come home to the cats.

Friends are still couples. I listen to what "they" did. Everywhere I look there are couples. Is this our natural state? I was mine for my entire adult life.

They say time heals everything—well I'm waiting.

Waiting

I've been waiting. Not sure for what but found that waiting has become my natural state. Waiting for diagnosis, waiting for treatment. Waiting for results, waiting for improvement. Waiting for doctors and answers. Waiting for drugs to work. Waiting to wait.

Hard to say this out loud but I waited for Robert to die. And I waited for the grief to really hit. I waited for his car to become mine. I waited for his ashes to be delivered to me. I waited for the life insurance check to come in the mail. I waited. Patiently.

Didn't know I was waiting 'til Sunday afternoon. As I was wandering around the house waiting for the day to pass, I stopped, "What was I waiting for?"

For Robert to come home? To wake up from this nightmare? For something to change my reality? What? Was? I? Waiting? For?

With sobs I realized "This is it." There is no more waiting. I am here. This is it.

Hot cold

I like a cool...okay make that cold house. I like to snuggle under a quilt. I like to wear fleece to keep warm. Shirts, jackets, vests, socks, pants....did I forget anything?

From the chemo Rob could just not get warm. So the heat was set up high, there were heaters in every room and we got an electric blanket for the bed. The monthly electric bill includes is a chart of how your energy consumption compares with your neighbors. We were out consuming our neighbors. Our usage was in the stratosphere.

One of the first things I did when I returned home from the hospital the last time was reset the thermostat to just above freezing. Disconnect all the heaters and put them in a closet. Strip the electric blanket with all its wires off the bed.

My cats anxiously watched. They loved the heaters, the hot house, the electric blanket. "What the hell are you doing? We will freeze!" I made a concession to my energy conservation activities and plugged in their heater bed.

They slept with me in the bed without the electric blanket for a while. And then the nights started to get cold and they abandoned me in favor of their heater bed. Hmmm.

I'll admit I was now sleeping in layers of fleece with layers of blankets and it was all getting a bit unmanageable. Decided to go out and buy a high lofting comforter. The bed would be so easy to make—top sheet and comforter.

And herein lies the quandary. While I've put pictures back up on the wall, and put Robert's books back onto the bookshelf, changing the bedding seemed a radical decision. Remember its the little things that catch you. The irrational things. The unexpected common things.

It became "A Mission". Learned that while you used to be able to buy just a comforter now everything is packaged in 6 to 8 piece sets. Shams, decorative pillows, bed skirt, comforter. All I wanted was a comforter!

Went to four stores. Found the Marimekko comforter in store two (just comforter alone, you would think I could take this as a sign). Smiled. It felt so happy. Brought back memories of the 70s and our early years together. And thought, What would Rob think? Could I do this? Why was I so indecisive? How could I feel happy and sad at the same moment?

Remember I said I went to four stores? I left the Marimekko comforter in store two, drove on to stores three and four. Looked a more and more comforter sets. Drove back to store two. There was a couple in the isle eyeing comforters. Mine was still there on the top shelf smiling at me.

Stripped the bed and remade it with the Marimekko comforter. It brought a smile to my face and peace to my heart. And most importantly it passed the cat test. They slept with me!

Widow

I was on the phone talking with a friend right after Rob died. She had lost her husband suddenly two years before. There was comfort in talking with her as she understood the loss. The going from two to one.

And then she said, "Now that you are a widow...." And in that nanosecond I felt like I had been hit in the chest by a huge fist. I could not catch my breath. I could not hear anything else she was saying. My mind was reeling.

One word: widow and immediate total complete unequivocal denial. I'm not a widow.

I've thought long and hard about death and dying. Had to. Never even once thought of that word. To have all that I had gone through be condensed into such a word just didn't seem right or just or fair or acceptable.

Type "widow" into Google images and look what comes up. And hearing widow I'll admit long black dress, veil and old old woman filled my mind's eye. I am not a widow. I could not fight death but I sure as hell can fight being labeled as such. Nothing I've been through prepared me for this. But then again, I can say that about everything I'm experiencing these days.

A month

Its been a month since Rob died. And it is getting harder.  When I wake up I miss him so and cry. I cry while I'll going about my morning routines. I cry when I get into bed alone at night. I cry while I’m driving the car.

Music reminds me of him. I hear lyrics I never heard before in songs I've listened to thousands of times. And I cry. I'm running out of kleenex. All the boxes that were full and all over the house are disappearing.

I thought it might, just might, get easier. Maybe at first it was too easy. And now its catching up with me. Maybe its just the way it is for me. Maybe.

Last weekend a friend called and asked me if I was getting out of the house much. I said when and where?  Last night - dinner and then a production of Oklahoma. Arranged to meet at a restaurant in town. It was all straight forward. A nice way to deal with an "anniversary". I seem to walk around with my eyes wide open and my mind on pause.

I parked in the garage that was one block for our very first apartment. We had dinner right across the street from the theater school Rob attended. We walked right past our old street, on streets whose names are achingly familiar.

My mind was offering all sorts of memories of the neighborhood as I knew it. Of antique shops, laundromats, a place where I bought my first floor easel, a great old hardware store with walls of drawers, the market where I bought "cracks" (cheap eggs).

I was walking two paths simultaneously. I was walking with my friend and walking with Rob. If only I could make it a three way conversation. I was young and excited and living in the city for the first time. I was older and visiting the city I know so well. That it was nighttime with street lights created the perfect milieu for the collision of my two worlds. Living and grieving.

Eulogy

We were soooo young when we met on the high school newspaper. He was an outgoing editor and I was an incoming one. I vividly remember that first meeting—sitting on the floor in front of him. I reached back and touched his knee and felt an electric current run though my body.

I knew in that instant that he was “the one”. And during the last several months as we have reminisced he told me that he had felt that same current. He quipped that we met editing copy all those years ago (45) and were still editing copy together.

We had a marketing and advertising business and at Robert’s urging we refocused it last year to align with MY passion—horses. We found and worked with passionate loving compassionate people. And I have new friends across the country from this reaching out to the equestrian community. The recent culmination of this was being contacted by Cavalia, headquartered in Canada, to be their equestrian representative during their engagement here. This was my nirvana.

He went back to school in his 50s for a PhD in Clinical Psychology. And he found his greatest meaning of life in his work as a therapist. His internship offered him the opportunity to begin the experience of working one on one with people. And it was his greatest disappointment when he had to fill out the forms ending this work due to cancer. “Robert was such a sweet man with a beautiful spirit and generous heart,” said his friend and supervisor.

I have watched in awe these last two years as Robert touched the hearts of everyone he met along his cancer journey. He never complained about the pain. Or the injustice of the NG tube. At each hospital admission he took the time to learn each and every person’s name, and remembered them. Such a seemingly small thing.

 

We had a constant stream of visitors the last three weeks at the hospital. And I don’t just mean old friends. Nurses who were not assigned to him stopped in to chat. Doctors who were no longer involved with his care, stopped by to visit. Palliative care, ministers, oncologists, rabbi, case manger, social workers, patient care assistants, surgeons, IV nurses. One would leave and someone else was right behind them. The case manager commented that he was harder to get in to see than the President!

All the years together, the good times, the tough times, dropped away as we sat together in the hospital each time. Then it was only that moment that mattered. 

45 years is a long time to love someone. We always allowed each other to grow and change, and even challenged one another. He was my constant companion, my soul mate, best friend, lover, husband, teacher, student, business partner. I know our love will endure and that our souls will find one another again.

Just books

Robert was working on his dissertation and had accumulated a ton of books. He always loved books and rarely met one he didn't want to take home, or order online. His psychology library grew and grew and grew.

He put up shelves in his room/office and was quickly surrounded by all his books. It got to be overwhelming while he was battling cancer. So he began to organize and box them up. Then he put them in a storage unit. And that is where they've been sitting.

Robert told me to donate them to Jungian Institute as his dissertation was on dreams. That there was no rush to do this. However I decided to empty the storage unit now, not willing to continue to pay the monthly fee. And I started the process (look there is that word again) of filling up my car (my 4-door car, not my car that was his car) with said boxes of books. 14 boxes of books for Institute.

Books went from house to storage unit (Robert did this). From storage unit to garage (I did this) and today from garage to Institute (me again).

Went like clockwork. Director of Institute helped me move books from my car into her office. They will be added to their library. I even designed a bookplate in Robert's name.

All this time I've thought of these books as well...books. Boxes of books to be moved. I handled the boxes numerous times. And while I noted Rob's organization by topic and notation on the boxes, they were just books.

Just books. I mean I had no use for them. I would never read them. There was no room in the house. They were just books.

And then the Director thanked me for donating Robert's Library. Thanked me for our generosity. And they became Robert's books. And I was leaving them there. And the grief welled up. And I'm sobbing once again.

Bereavement Group

I decide I might benefit from a grief group. Promise myself that I have to connect with the leader or moderator, as well as the people in the group. If I don't feel a connection I'll go look for another group.

Get a referral from a friend of a friend about a great leader of a Bereavement Group. Hmm is that what they are called? Not Grief Groups? Bereavement? A whole new word to work into my vocabulary.

Major road construction and I drive by the address. My GPS tells me to "turn around when possible." I drive past again, "turn around when possible."

I begin to wonder if the Universe is testing me. How much do I really want to go to this Bereavement Group? It is so tempting to just give in and say I tried but could not find it. But to whom am I saying that? This is about me. I'm the one who decided to go. Complete my third U-turn.

Enter the meeting room. And I immediately realize I am the youngest person in the room. I'm panicking. Why I didn't see the road construction as a sign from the Universe "Do Not Enter."

Again the thought flits through my mind, How much do I really want this? I gather my evidence - I am the only one with color in their hair, with long hair, wearing jeans, with cute ankle boots, with an iPhone!

Okay everyone here is grieving a husband or wife. But.....they talk about year anniversaries of death (I'm at three weeks and counting). Of headstones and grave sites (Robert was cremated). Of visiting cemeteries and talking to their loved ones twice a week (Robert is currently sitting on top of the bookcase and we talk all the time). Of their adult children (no kids and I find myself relating to their children).

Oh I cry. The tears just start and pour down my face. There is something safe about crying in front of these people. But no one says anything. Or maybe no one says anything.

It ends, the room empties quickly, I'm searching for my car keys and look up and the two (older) men are waiting for me. And invite me to their Social Club at the Senior Center! I am not used to being a hot young thing. Grief? Bereavement?





 

Numbers, but no one is counting

I have all sorts of numbers dancing around in my head. I feel I use them to create a buffer or fence between me and people. Throw out my numbers and see if you can top that!

2, 10, 3, 71, 4, 7, 42, 45, 20, 62 ,5, 23, 24, 30, 13 2, 8, 6
2 years from original diagnosis of cancer. 7 months of chemotherapy, 5 weeks of daily radiation, 6 months of no treatments, 10 months after recurrence, 30 days clean CT scan, 3 weeks to live, 42 years married.

I use them like posts marking my journey. Some are pounded into the ground straight and will never move. Some are just stabbed into the hard ground and tilt a bit . A few are stuck into mud, and one is in quicksand.

I awoke this morning thinking of all the numbers I use and keep holding onto. Wondering what purpose they serve. All these numbers and imagery. Am I using them not only to distance myself from others, but to create a mental distraction for myself?

My tears are streaming down my face as I sort through my thoughts to write. As much as I hate the word process guess I am processing. And much as I love to get caught up in intellectual pursuits my emotions are right on the surface. As the Borg say, "Resistance is futile."

My car

Boy I didn't think I'd be able to do that. But when I went to pick up Robert's car from having it serviced—and after driving a loaner car for two days—guess I was ready.

One of the helpful guys said, "Is this your car?" And I said, "No, my car is the little Z3." MY CAR!!!! The words just fell out of my mouth. Holy shit!

Dropped the top and headed for home. Even though the day was grey and overcast. It was top down driving weather. Highway driving. Secondary roads. Curvy fun filled roads where I pushed me and the car. Trying to find "the line" thru the turns to straighten out the road and go faster faster faster.

The sun came out. Rob was smiling down at me in my silver roadster. I've been wondering when I would stop referring to it as Robert's car. Yup its the little things. They work both ways. 

Its the little things

Life goes on. One moment at a time. One foot in front of the other. I'm sure there are other homilies. I go thru the list continually. I feel things getting better, I keep myself busy, and then when I least expect it Wham!

I was going through some of boxes and I came across a small velvet pouch. Of course I had to see what was inside. Just a small traveling picture frame. Oh no!

Rob had been traveling to California for his psychology degrees, Masters and then PhD in Clinical Psychology. He'd spend one week a month out there. I remembered when he bought frame, he said he wanted to put it on the night table by the bed in the hotel room.

I now opened the hinged frame and there is a picture of me on one side and our two cats on the other.

Boy did I lose it.

See its the small stuff that sneaks up on you.

Sleep blessed sleep

I slept for 12 hours last night! Hallelujah! Yippee Kiyah! Its been a   l o n g   time coming. I've been waiting for my sleep, blessed sleep of my own. Now will it repeat? One night down.

Actually closer to 11-1/2 hours but who is counting?!?! At 8:30 PM I was in bed, and took an assist from Ambien. Those little pills have only been giving me 4 hours if I'm lucky. But not last night. I remember waking up at 4:30 AM thinking it was way too early to start the day. Lets see if I can fall back to sleep for maybe an hour or so. And then it was 8:00 AM.

The reason this is such an event—make that Event—is that every time, especially in the last 10 months, that Robert had to go back to the hospital, I checked in as well. We were lucky in that lately we were given a private room with a firm foam couch where I slept each and every night he was there.

I mention the firm foam of the couch as I have also slept at the hospital in reclining chairs, fold out chairs, cots, all sorts of bed-like contraptions that fold. Folding is the common theme. The reclining chairs never reclined enough, and you are stuck in one position—on your back. Once one would not lock in the recline position so I had to stay braced all night, otherwise the chair would spring back into the upright position—almost catapulting me across the room. The cots had thin mattress and crossbar supports that are ergonomically designed to cause the most pain and discomfort to one's hips and back.

That describes the sleep accommodations. But the real issue was that I was on Robert's sleep cycle. I mean I was there for him. And if he was awake so was I. And I am not saying this to come across as a saint. It was just that way it was for me. Moment by moment. I mean who wants to be awake alone at night in a hospital room? He once joked that he'd open his eyes and look over at me and I'd already be out of bed and on my way to him. That's my love.

During his last three weeks in the hospital sleep was elusive for him. An hour and a half to two hours at a time at most. Then he'd be awake for anywhere from thirty minutes to two hours before getting back to sleep. This was agony for me. I just wanted to sleep. I just wanted to sleep. I just wanted to sleep.

Robert's car

Robert was passionate about his car. I mean amidst the turmoil of those last few days he was clear minded enough to instruct me to never sell it. And sign the title over to me.

This photo hangs in our bedroom. It is a panoramic print that is over 5 feet long. BMW Roadster Homecoming 2006 with 500 other crazy about their car owners. Spartanburg, South Carolina.

His car, a 2000 Z3 has clearly not been driven much in the last 10 months. The inspection sticker expired February 2013. Of course Robert also told me where to get it serviced and who to specifically call (his service adviser).

I dutifully made an appointment - for today. Get a new state inspection sticker, change the oil, safety check—all so I can go screaming down the highways with the top down and my hair streaming out behind me.

Up bright and early, moved my car out of the driveway, grabbed my sunglasses. Right foot on brake, left foot on clutch, key in ignition and start it up. Dashboard lights flashing but no engine engagement. No deep throated exhaust. Nothing.

Apparently the battery is dead. I don't waste the energy thinking is this synchronicity? more symmetry? coincidence? or just a dead battery? Call AAA to get car jump started and only an hour later than planned I'm on my way to the dealer.

As I am driving along I realize just how well this car fits me. It envelopes me in a hug. I feel an overwhelming connection with Robert, and feel his passion for this car, and for me.

Feeling the anger

Finally! My blood is boiling. I am so sick of being told what I "should" be doing, how I "should" be acting, what I "should" be feeling. They are not asking me. They are just telling me!

Where do they come off telling me?!?!? They haven't gone through the last two years, the last ten months, the last three weeks of my life.

Grief, grieving, sorrow, loss is an immensely personal experience. No two people go through it exactly the same I am learning.

After all this time focused so intently on taking care of Robert, I want the time to focus solely intently on me. How I'm feeling. How I'm doing. How I'm acting. How now it is all about me and no one else. I want to feel totally self absorbed.

I want to wallow in my grief. Feel every bit of pain. Yearn for Robert with every molecule of my being.

And I don't care what they say. $%(?!?!?#?$?%^?^

So why am I sobbing?

A nurse named Liz

It's late and Robert is very restless and feeling the effects of all the medications. I ring for a PCA for help. A young woman answers the bell and tells me it is shift change, the next PCA will help. And she leaves! Then she comes back with someone else.

They assess the situation and say they will be right back and walk out. This has never ever happened before. It is like evil gremlins have taken over for the night.

I am feeling panicky. Robert has insisted on getting out of bed and he is unstable on his feet and I know I cannot manage the situation on my own. I'm trying to support him and look for the call button. It is on the other side of the bed. As I struggle to hold him and reach across the bed I am seething with rage. I ring the bell again.

A nurse calmly walks in and asks me what I need. I quickly explain the situation and she says not a problem. With Liz's help we strip the bed, remake it and get Robert back in and settled.

Liz then looks at the clock and says, (I love this part of the story and I am not making it up)  "Oh it's midnight, I have to go. I am taking another patient down to radiology." And out the door she flys.

A short time later our night shift nurse comes to check in and make sure everything is okay. I tell her what happened and ask her to thank Liz again for me.

"Liz? I don't know any nurse named Liz." In the morning I check with the charge nurse to express my appreciation for Liz. No one knows a nurse named Liz.

No chronology

There is no chronology. Just a ribbon of time that stretches forward and backwards. It has been folded and looped over and over onto itself to create layers and points of intersection. I touch one place and slip into a memory that catches me by surprise.

I was driving home from an errand yesterday. I am aware that I am doing a lot of errands. Maybe its pend-up needs from spending so much time taking care of Robert and not being able to  going out. Or maybe it is just part of my dancing about to keep busy. The illusion being that busy will keep the emotions at bay.

It was early morning and that thought resonated with me. I started thinking about the early morning time that Robert died. And realized that just three weeks earlier, at that very time, we were on our way to the ER. He never came home. Symmetry?

Tears stream down my face, as once again and again and again grief overwhelms me.

Thougths and ramblings of a beginning

Where to begin? Random thoughts, musings, stories, feelings. A chance to express what I am feeling in words as opposed to tears. A chance to put down "on paper" what has happened, what is happening and possibly what will happen. A chance to figure out, or at least think about who I am and who I will become.

This blog is about an ending and a beginning—all at the same time. Robert, my soul mate, lover, best friend, business partner, husband, did I mention best friend? teacher, and oh so much more died on September 26, 2013 after a two year battle with cancer. We thought we were winning. We were wrong.

I tend to think in weeks, seems safer in weeks— a bit more distance than to count days. That means its two weeks and a bit more. Facing week three. And its seems to be time to start writing.

We met in high school, on the school paper. He was an outgoing editor I was incoming and the last issue of the paper was put out by both editorial teams. We knew each other for 45 years. We've been married for 42.

Today I decided I wanted to put back up all the artwork, photos, prints, paintings that Robert had taken down over the last couple of years. I was thinking that I was making the house mine, reclaiming it. But as I was lying in the paddock with my horses grazing around me, I let my mind wander, and I realized I was putting the house back to where it was in happier times.

Before the cancer diagnosis and all its cascading effects. Before.