The Fog of This Last Year is Lifting

Ah the holidays. Time to get together and celebrate. It is really a very hard time of year. I know I've said it before, and will probably say it again and again. I can't figure out what happened to last year. I drive around and see the holiday lights decorating houses and think, "Last year 'we' drove and looked at the lights together." Oh no, that is not right. It was two Christmas' ago that we did that. Last year? I was in a fog and while I know I did a lot of things and rode my roller coaster there are these gaping holes.

For instance the other day the FedEx guy came to the front door around 3:30 PM. It was getting dark. I thought about turning on the porch light but knew the bulb had blown. My hand automatically went to the switch and to my utter astonishment the light went on. When did I change the bulb? I have no memory of doing it. But apparently I did.

The fog has lifted. And everything is appearing in sharp relief. And the pain is more intense. Or maybe it is just intense. How can I qualify when I can't remember? What is the comparison?

With the fog lifting I find I am now existing on two planes (plains?). One is looking back and the other is looking forward. The backward glances are struggling to understand how I got here. And where Robert is. The forward action is making plans for the future. And right now I'm embracing what I once thought of as a fantasy. Then repositioned as a dream. And now slowly working its way into reality. A truck and horse trailer.

Great metaphor. Truck/SUV. Movement. Going places. Change. Travel. Speed. Moving on. Did you know they call a trailer a tag-along? I'm learning new words. I'm truck shopping on my own. I can say I want a Hemi and don't even flinch. A towing package is a must. Who knew? 5.7 liter engine. V8. Automatic. What is coming over me? A friend asked me what color. Color? That is not even on my list of considerations.

I continue to drive Rob's Z3. Okay it's mine. But it will always be his. The humungous thing will be mine. The Z3 will be his. The trailer will be mine. Maybe it will be Cici's. The Z3 shall always be Rob's. I'm just driving it. And crying. How is this all possible? We were supposed to grow old together.

The two planes keep converging. How can you look behind and walk forward at the same time?

The Transformational Qualities of Golden Light

I've kept the door to Robert's room closed all this time. I go in when I need something, but can not bear to have to door open. Can not bear to see his Large Dark Computer Monitor sitting on his desk. Dark, quiet, unused, off.

A few weeks ago, during my ongoing dark days I noticed a Golden Light coming from under the door to his room. This Light....coming from "under" the door....draws me in. I have to take a look.

The Light is so inviting, warm, enticing. I just have to open the door to see it. I really have no choice here. Have to see. And when I do I experience a glowing, loving Light that envelopes me. It is the Autumn Light pouring in from the window I rationalize. It is filling the room. It is an amazing light.

I stand in the doorway and look in at the light. And I turn and look into my room, which was right next to his. This glorious "Golden Light" was not in my room. I rationalize that it is "just Autumn Light." I rationalize that it is the angle of sun, the orientation of the room, the relationship of the trees and shrubs outside the windows that allows the light to flood his room, and not mine.

I decide right then and there that I want this Light in my life. I want this Light in the house. And I leave the door open!

And so begins the reclamation. Realize that I can move the monitor off the desk. I don't have to look at it anymore. Why did this not occur to me before? The next day as I am doing a photo setup in my office—which entails clearing off my work table and setting up lights and background and tripod—I think about how much I would really like to have a place to leave my photography equipment set up all the time. And it hits me! Rob's computer table would be perfect. And look it is now empty. But not for long!

As the transformation of the room takes place, the roller coaster continues its journey. I have exciting high times and then I come across a physical object or just walk into a memory and go into free fall.

I spend a focused afternoon sorting through what is remaining of his things in the room. The floor is finally cleared. I look over the bare room. It is a blank slate for me to make it into whatever I want. I put some plants for the window seat and I drag in an arm chair to create a quiet corner. From the basement I bring up an old spool chest that doubles as an end table to the chair. And look Rob had the perfect small lamp to goes on the table.

As I gaze around the room I notice the walls are all empty. This has me burrowing in the closets for artwork. I uncover an old portfolio of drawings, etchings and paintings. Of course as I go through the artwork memories flood in. When I did a drawing, when we bought that picture, that Rob loved that one. Memories of our life together. Another reminder of the loss and change.

I manage to dry my eyes and find myself gravitating to a series of four pencil drawings that I did years ago. The drawings were done over the course of about a week. They are of one fern palm slowly unfurling. Growing from curl into full glory. Blossoming so to speak.

Buy four frames, trim the drawing and hang the series up over my photo table setup. They are now the first things I see when I look into the room from the doorway. A welcoming vision of hope and growth. There is a metamorphosis taking place.

One wall of the room is changed. What do I want to do with the rest? What artwork do I want to hang on the wall. I acknowledge that this is going to be "MY" room. Not my office, not my work room. But my inspiration room. My creative outlet room.

I pick out another drawing I did in life class while in Art School and match it with a life drawing my Aunt did. The two nudes are facing each other on the wall now.

I want my sewing machine out of the closet. Out where I can see it. Where I can use it at the slightest whim. And that means bringing the oak library table that many years ago we transported in the "Air Car". An ancient VW beetle convertible that we stuck the table up out the back.

It used to be my work table but has been relinquished to the basement for years. Of course there is a ton of stuff piled on it. And then there is the fact that it is 6 feet long and extremely heavy. Clearing it off is the easy part, but no way can I manage moving it on my own. How will I get it up the stairs?

You know how when you change one thing it starts a cascade of change? Each decision necessitated another decision and another and another. I mean while I was changing "the room" I thought about other things I wanted to change, or put up, or put out. And each act of change entailed confronting cascading memories. Sigh.

I was rummaging through a box in the basement thinking it was filled with kitchen items. But when I unwrapped the bubble wrap I found a collection of handmade pots that I had given up hope finding. They have not seen the light of day for a long long time. I bring them upstairs into MY room where there is a white bookcase. I quickly clear the shelves and position each pot perfectly. Of course the pile of books and objects that came off the shelves is now on the floor needing to be placed elsewhere.

And so it goes. Move one item and have to deal with three or four other items. And handling each piece provokes memories. And tears.

But the room is complete. Filled with very specific objects that have very specific memories to me. Rob is there in the room. He filled it with that Golden Light entice me to open the door and begin the next stage of my journey.

Hitting the wall of grief both metaphorically and literally

I've said this before. Everything has changed. My world is turned upside down. I look at things differently. I think differently. I am more aware of how language and words shape my experience. I'm on my own. Living my life. And as my blog title says, "Who am I this time?"

Clearly horses are a dominate part of my life. They were when Robert was alive, and now even more so. I start wondering what it would be like to have a truck and horse trailer. To be able to take my horse to clinics or play dates easily. I start saying that I have a fantasy about driving around the country to visit my horse friends—with my horses.


Then I realize that a fantasy doesn't have much chance of becoming reality. So I change my language to I have a dream of owning a truck and horse trailer. My pragmatic side chimes in that I already own two cars. My Saab and Rob's Z3 2-seater convertible. I can not imagine selling either of them. I fill the Saab with lots and lots of stuff and I drop the top on the Z3 and drive around with the wind in my hair. And where would I even park a truck?


Seems the Universe decides to help me out. I was in an accident and totaled my Saab. Air bag deployed and my trusty Saab gave it's life so I can walk away unhurt. And yes all I can think of is how much I want to be able to call Rob and tell him what happened. To have him to come and pick me up, and wrap his arms around me and tell me everything will be okay.

I have driven Saabs my entire driving life. First one was a Red 1967 93 (in those days it was called a ninety three) two stroke engine Saab that had been my parent's car. Learned to drive this 4 speed manual transmission car. Failed my first driver's test in this car. Passed my driver's test in this car. Robert and I had many of our first driving adventures in this car. Even learned car repair—I'm talking about drum brakes, carburetors, engine rebuilding with this car.

I can go on and on with Saab stories. Saab models: 93s, 900s, back to 9-3 designation. Colors: Red, Silver, White, Champagne Beige, Silvery Green, Metallic Midnight Blue, Green, Silver. Now they no longer exist. And now I no longer own one. Yet another passing. Yet another loss.

But I have the Z3 and it is becoming mine. Really mine. Slowly it is filling with stuff. My stuff that I was hesitant to put in it before. And the acceptance of the car as mine hits hard. Really hard. I have to drive it. No choice of cars any longer. And every day I get into it I have to face it was his. And he is no longer.

So of course I call his service adviser and make an appointment for an oil change and safety inspection. Exactly as I did one year ago. Yet another reminder.

Recognize the accident was about 'hitting the wall'. Was I charging along thoughtlessly? Another hint from the Universe? I hear that old Paul Simon song in my head all the time now, "Slow down, you move too fast...."


The roller coaster roars downward, and I'm waiting for the g-force (read that as grief force) to ease up a bit.

Through the Portal of the First Year Anniversay of Robert's Death

I'm through the portal, past the first year anniversary of Robert's death. And I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it looks the same from this side. To put it succinctly I'm still here and he is not.

The roller coaster roars on. I have accomplished some amazing things this year on my own. I have traveled to places and met people like never before. I've had to deal with car issues, home maintenance, getting sick, everything in "normal" everyday life on my own. And yes I am still standing. And yes I have had fun. But...there is still a gaping hole.

The distance of time doesn't change the facts. And in some way it is harder now because I believed everyone who said the big hurdle was the first year anniversary. The realization is it is even more real with this passage of time. I think during the year just putting one foot in front of the other required so much energy that that was all I could manage.

I have gotten past that. Only here on this side the total complete reality hits harder than ever. He is not coming back. He will never walk through that door, hold my hand, sleep with me, kiss me. The finality now that the fog has lifted hits me like a sledge hammer.

There was such emphasis on first anniversary. I heard that going through the first year with all of life's events, "the first after his death" would make a difference. Well I say "they" lied. Because I now get to experience the second Fall we are not together. And I think back to what I did last year, and get an "OH!" and try and think back to the year before that.

Sometimes I feel that year one was about just getting through it. One step, one day, one moment at a time. Now I recognize and am forced to embrace the truth that this is indeed it. No going back. No return to before. No Robert.

I have to go on alone. Driving home from the barn today, I was thinking, what was I going to do when I got home? And I am confronted with the truth that I have to make all the decisions. Self direction. It is all about me. After so many years of being with Robert, my life was we. It is now utterly and totally me. Looking back I found I wrote about this almost exactly a year ago "Two Minus One."

Coming Up on the One Year Anniversary of the Death of My Husband.

Feels like I'm closing in on the finish line. Huffing and puffing with sore feet and a dry throat. Never have I so completely marked off one year. Time has flown by, time has stood still, time has inched along agonizingly. I can not ever remember paying such close attention to the passage of time. I can not ever remember having a date loom so....so....so. I planned my last adventure to New Mexico and Colorado in June so that I could look forward to the month of September. And not view of the approach of September with dread.

This year has been a time of pain and grief and discovery. As Rob had said to me, "It will be an opportunity for Personal Growth." Yeah right. I came back from my Southwest Adventure all full of myself. Convinced I was managing fine on my own. A few days back my cat took sick. And I found myself dealing with what was going on with him by myself. I so yearned to have Rob to share my worry. I so totally didn't want to deal with this by myself. What, another medical issue in the month of September. Would all Septembers be like this? Was this a month that I would want to remove from the calendar?

My cat's illness caused me again look inside myself. God this "Personal Growth" thing just keeps going on and on and on. Was he expressing through his illness what I was not able to? He had a cough. His throat was sore and closed. Like when you are caught in overwhelming grief and can't make a sound. Was I blocking my grief? Was I fooling myself that I was fine with the coming anniversary?

My latest rant has been why do I, we, people, society, you "celebrate" the death of one we love? Why mark the date of their demise? Their passing? Their death? Isn't the fact of their being gone enough? Why mark it with such meaning? Widows are "one year out" "two years out" "six years out". Why not focus on happier dates? Like birthdays or wedding anniversaries or first date dates or...or....or. It makes no sense to me. Help me out here.

An interlude. A few days ago I received an email about discounted tickets to an Emmylou Harris concert that was taking place in a nearby city. I could not pass this up and started to try and think of which friend might be interested in going with me. But I didn't want to wait to order the tickets, and I didn't want to buy two and then try and find someone. It felt a bit defiant to just go ahead and buy one ticket—but that is exactly what I did.

Tonight was the concert. And as I was getting ready to go I started to feel a bit anxious. I had never been to this venue, I was going alone. But on the plus side I had Celeste (my GPS) to guide me and she and I had managed much greater travels together recently. And guide me she did, through some of the grittiest, seediest parts of the City. I'm going to have to have a talk with that girl!

I was the first person to sit in my row at the theater. Soon, two women came and sat down beside me. Marie and Theresa immediately became my two new best friends! How do these things happen?!?! We compared Emmylou Harris concerts we had been to, we talked about the venue, we exchanged a host of personal information. How do these things happen?!?!?

I told them about a previous concert I had gone to this City where I had been amazed that they allowed large plastic cups of beer in the hall. And how the audience throughout the concert was in constant motion. In with beer, out to pee, back in with more beer and out to pee all night long.

The lights go down and we watch the row in front of us as four people come stumbling in with cups of beer held high. And Marie starts to laugh. And Theresa starts to laugh. And I start to laugh. We are just feeding off of each other. The four finally manage to find their seats and then one has to go out again. Apparently I am laughing with great abandon and the person on my other side asks, "What are you on? I want some of that." How do these things happen?!?!?

The concert? I love Emmylou Harris. Robert loved Emmylou Harris. I believe we had/have every one of her albums. And I found the concert to be a time travel experience. Each song she sang stood for a time in our lives. A place we lived, a car we were driving, a room we listened to that song, a vista...images cascaded through my mind's eye. I laughed, I danced, I cried.

That is what this anniversary is about. It is not about celebrating Robert's death. It is about celebrating our life together.

Dreamtime once again with a visit from Rob

The night before my flight back home from Albuquerque......

In my dream Robert is going to take me to the airport in Albuquerque. But first he wants to stop back at the museum we had visited earlier to show me a picture of a horse, artwork, in one of the books we had looked at. I am upset, feeling anxious about getting to airport in time, and just wanting to go. But Rob is driving and assures me that there is plenty of time.

So we go back into the museum and I tell the ticket taker we had been there earlier today with a docent and could we just run in and look at one thing. No charge? She agrees, and notices my tag and asks about my selling jewelry. I promise to return with a business card.

We go to the books and pull down all the horse ones. Leafing through them Rob finds the image. But by now more time has passed and I just want to go. I am not interested in looking at the image.

Then (as in classic dream sequences) we are further away from the car and museum. And I just want to get back. I leave and start walking.  But the going is tough. It is like I am walking through mud sucking ground. When I look down I realize there is snow on the ground and that is pulling at each step. I wonder why it is so difficult to walk. My feet are being grabbed and held. I push on, struggling with each step, determined. Step by step back to the museum. Leaving Rob behind.

I get to the elevator that goes down to the garage, and just as I get in and the glass doors close there is Robert. Standing looking at me. He has on his black Kanga hat. And we are standing facing each other with glass separating us. The elevator starts to descend with me in it. Leaving him standing there looking at me.

While this is a defining moment—this standing face to face separated by a glass partition—the dream doesn’t exactly end there. I realize he has the car keys!!!!  And know I will meet him at the car in the garage.

My soul has been seared by pain and grief and I do not recognize myself

I'm on another trip. Flew out to Alburquerque, stopping in Houston for lunch. Rented a car, well two as the first one had to be returned because I'm not really sure why, and drove over an hour to my cousin's house where I have never been. And then from there I drove three and a half hours north to Colorado. Faithfully following the directions of the disembodied voice whom I call Celeste.

I keep asking myself how is this possible? How can I do these things? On my own? I don't know who I am any longer. The change is so dramatic to me. All the pain and grief I went through during Robert's illness and death has seared my soul to a degree that it has changed completely.

As I drive through the high desert and open landscape I marvel at the colors and vegetation. Marvel at the cliffs near and far. See shapes and images cut by the wind in the rock. People, heads, animals, and in the distance on the horizon castles and fortifications.

I am alone. And I am at peace with myself. Try the radio and find it interfered with my seeing and observing and thinking. Ah the thinking. Of course it leads to the why's and if only's but they do not last long. It is welcoming to be alone. Driving alone. In an alien landscape. I see a car or truck every 30 minutes or hour or so. No one is out there. Nothing is out here.

It is like the landscapes of Westerns from old movies. Sage and mesquite. Endless shades of gray and red rock. I think about what it would be like to ride my horse across this land. I think about what the pioneers and early settlers must have thought about such an undertaking. There are telephone poles with wires. I think of them as the telegraph wires, keeping the old Western illusion going. Untouched landscape.

I am alone. And I am at peace with myself. Slowly the terrain begins to change and pines appear and flowers grow along the road side. And I drive through meadows where there is water. See a few horses. Some cattle. Weather beaten structures. No people.

Start out on huge 4 lane road for first 56 miles, then a 2 lane road for 48 miles, then progressively smaller and narrower roads culminating with gravel and dirt roads not much more than one car wide. I am trusting Celeste, my GPS. Trusting she knows where she is taking me. Trusting I will come out on a paved road. There are occasional houses along the dirt road. But never once do I hesitate with the thought of stopping. I am alone. And I am at peace with myself.

And then I come upon a spectacular view of the Rocky Mountains in front of me! And realize I am in the Rockies. And I'm on a Rocky Mountain High!

My evolution after the death of my husband

Wedging. A procedure for preparing clay or a clay body by hand: the lump of clay is repeatedly thrown down on a work bench; between each operation the lump is turned and sometimes cut through and rejoined in a different orientation.

I am that lump of clay that is being pulled and kneaded and pounded. I have no idea who I am right now. And certainly no idea of who I will become. But if this experience (I refuse to use process) has taught me one thing, it is to not look too far ahead. Focus on the moment now, and leave the later to deal with itself.

Some recent experiences that I find inexplicable!

#1
I am at a riding clinic with my horse 150 miles from home. The woman who trailered my horse comes into the lounge at the barn hysterical. She and her husband had a fight and he has taken the truck. She texted him asking where he was, and he said just about at I-93. She interprets this as he is leaving and driving home. So she is wailing about how could he?!?! and how was she supposed to get her horse home?!?!

My inner dialog goes like this,"Hell her husband is alive. So they had a fight. What's the big deal? They can choose what they want to do. Mine is dead." And I was amazed to find that I had absolutely no compassion for her. Huh? And more to the point, here I am sitting 150 miles away from home with my horse and apparently no way to get back. And I am not hyper ventilating or worrying about how am I going to get Cici home. I am completely dispassionate. Detached. I am completely aware that this was not normal. Well not the old normal.

#2
Drive 300 miles to meet a friend at a trade show. She made the hotel reservations. Great, one less thing for me to deal with. After the show she drives to where she thought the place was, as well as putting the address in her GPS. We drive 15 minutes in one direction (on a highway) and are directed to take a cloverleaf and change direction and drive now for 45 minutes in the other direction.

Following the GPS instructions we finally arrive in a small town that is completely shuttered—it is almost 9:30 PM. When we pull up to the motel—lets just say in the past I would have immediately dissolved into a anxiety attack, "Oh no I could not possibly stay here!" My friend and I look at each other as she drives in. She parks, locks all the doors in the car and pulls out her phone to call and cancel the reservation and make a new one. We never get out of the car. And by midnight are tucked safely into our new motel. And I find this all—well again the new normal.

#3
Driving home after three days of trade show, I hit the wall of exhaustion. In the past I would have pushed through it, continued to drive, Rob was home waiting for me. I was going home to Rob. This time I pull off at the next service area, put my seat back to recline, lock the doors, and take a cat nap! And continue the drive home refreshed.

#4
At the barn several people have left and a new crop of people are going to be moving their horses in. I recognize that I have no control over who is coming and what life will be like with the new people and horses. I can let go and leave the details to the universe.

These are examples of the changes I am aware of in myself. I don't understand, I don't know where or how or why. I have no choice but to embrace them.

Once again my world has shifted after the death of my husband

Some thing has changed. My world has shifted. I have turned a corner. Most likely I am at the crest of the roller coaster. I will continue to hang on tight...but right now it feels pretty darn amazing. And the views....

It started when I found a few odds and ends from the Z3. Items that Robert had replaced, but kept the original parts. Can't just throw them away. So I contacted a Z3 group he used to belong to. An online group. The founder of the group, Rachel, responded to my email asking if I was talking about Robert 5 degrees. Huh?!?!!? She quickly shared, "You see when Robert introduced himself for Fixit Day 2003, he wrote: 'I love this car!! Bought it and drove home on a 5 DEGREE F. day.' Thus, Robert 5°. And you are Jamie 5°!"

What a welcome, especially as it brought back a flood of memories. Helped along with links from Rachel with photos. And comments Rob wrote to go along with the photos. Warm, funny, laughing, memories. Driving and meeting people. Exploring. Driving with the top down. Driving with the top down and heater turned on high. Driving with the top down and the A/C on cold. Driving. Laughing. Smiling.

I was fortified by this to go through more bins and boxes. Ready to make a further dent in the piles of stuff. To realize I don't have to hold on so tight. That he will always be with me. And I can start to let go. That this is my life. Mine. Alone. And say that and not be overwhelmed with grief and tears.

I even took on his computer. Had the presence of mind to recognize that a large part of my reluctance to even open it was the image he had as his background. A photo he had taken. A photo that I saw every time I sat with him and he opened his laptop. I could change it! This never had occurred to me before. There is movement. I am perceiving things differently.

Reset the background to the generic blue screen. Just like my laptop. And I began the process of going through his files and deleting what was not important to me. Any longer. Like going through the physical items he left behind. Now I'm venturing into the electronic. Even found myself thinking about using his laptop as my travel one. Thinking about it, not there yet, but thinking about it.

In a couple of weeks it will be his birthday, and then two days later the 11 month anniversary and then and then and then. At this moment I can believe I might just make it. And I also know that the roller coaster can easily change course. So I will embrace what I am experiencing at this moment. Hope.

Moving into a World of Stark Contrasts After the Death of My Husband

I have not posted in a while as I am trying to sort out my feelings. Trying to find the words. How do I describe or explain what I have been going through? The highs have been amazing. I can be "out there". But the lows mirror the highs with their intensity. Moving into a world of stark contrasts.

Traveled to a horsemanship clinic which involved having my horse trailered by a new friend, as I do not yet (notice the yet) own a truck and trailer. Stayed for 5 days and 4 nights. Horsemanship Heaven. I talked about Rob. I talked about widowhood. I did Tai Chi each morning overlooking the mountains where we used to go for a yearly Tai Chi Camp. I cried during my Tai Chi as I felt the energy of the mountains and Robert fill me. And I played with my horse and danced. And found I could be whole. And found I could be shattered.

When I came home I felt like I was walking in a fog. Sleep walking. Everything was distant and muffled. All I really wanted to do was sleep. And cry. It took three full days to come back into myself, as I now realize how far out of myself I was.

I am okay one moment. And then the next I think of something. Something we did together, something Rob loved. Something. Anything. Everything. And dissolve into tears. And the Reality hits. Each time is like the first time. That this is it. That he is never coming back. That I.....

That I am on my own. This it might not seem like such a big deal. But cliche'd as it sounds...it was always us against the world. We were supposed to grow old together.

Today has been one of those days that keeps just going on and on and on. I did a lot of different things today. Busy things to try and make the hands of the clock move. Did not work. After being on the computer, sewing, reading the paper, emptying the litter box, napping, going to the barn, making meals, more computer work, I finally went into Rob's room to see if I could go through one box. Well one lead to another and another. Clothes, books and papers. And I found these type written poems from long ago. And feel joy at his words, and despair at the loss—both at the same time.

The Impasse                                                            Jamie

Alone, the two of us.                                                She rested her elbow
The moon through dark trees.                                   on my knee, as if
The lake beyond sparkling.                                       it were the most natural
You, all drawn in, waiting.                                        thing in the world.
I unknowing, afraid, yearning.                     
                                                                                It was.
Alone, the two of us.
My lips brush the hair                                                Astonished then,
On the back of your neck.                                         in the Spring long ago,
                                                                                I am astonished still.
All is still.  

Countdown to the First Anniversary of My Husband's Death

Time keeps marching on—relentlessly. Passed nine months, and half way to ten months. I feel like I am in a Space Shuttle launch countdown sequence. Inevitable, inescapable, unavoidable, no turning back. At any moment the solid rocket boosters will fire up.

But wait a moment. Maybe they already have and that's why I am feeling so much again. Once, again and again and again and again, its the littlest things that dissolve me into grief. I thought the One Year Anniversary was The Event. But like everything else I've experienced, endured, gone through, participated (willingly or unwillingly) in I never really have the dual awareness of being in the moment and looking back. Is The Event the passage of time?

Surprise! The Space Shuttle has cleared the tower. Well that certainly accounts for the roaring in my ears and the earth rattling shaking. It accounts for feeling the g-force pinning me to my seat.

I've seen, read and hear it. The grief culture, the books, the counselors. Everything heralds the same line. First year is the hardest. The First Anniversary of His Death. A landmark. But then what?!?!

I have wondered for the longest time if I will be transported through a portal at the First Year Anniversary. I mean will I wake up the day after and find life. Find everything changed? I now see at the First Year Anniversary I will be in free fall. Zero Gravity.

Dreaming to action. Letting go of pieces of the past.

I had a dream last night. Involved lots of people and activity and I only remember the end. I am handcuffed (watching too many cop shows perhaps) with another person. Actually our arms are wrapped around ourselves. Striking image. Stifling. Stuck. And the reason for the handcuffs and wrapping had to do with something we had done. Past tense. Not doing, but had done.

I wondered what it meant. Literally? I am handcuffed to the past. I am holding onto the past. Am wrapped up in the past. Thoughts and words continued to flood in. That the past is tying me down. Tying me up. Tying me to what was no longer.

But what do I do with this dream? And now these thoughts? What part of the past is dragging me down? What part of the past can I let go?

I let the thoughts go and proceed with my day. Early in the afternoon I decide to tackle "a box". Acknowledging my "one box in a day" rule. There are a stack of them in the closet and I have not been able to open the door of the closet since I put the boxes in there last Fall. But today I can, and take one out. It is filled with printed samples of our work. Robert and my marketing company's efforts. Brochures, direct mail (when the printed piece mattered), ads, letterheads, annual reports.

Look at them and realize this is the past. It is not what I do now. It is the foundation of what I do, but the pieces have no current value other than to acknowledge they represent what we did. For years. For clients and businesses that no longer exist.

Interestingly our town has just switched recycling methods and on Friday a huge wheeled container was left at the curb. "One stream" recycling. I threw the print samples from that "one box" into the new container. And I felt a bit lighter.

That was not too hard, so I wonder about doing another "box". More of the same. I ask myself if I am willing to keep going until what? I hit the wall, hit a trigger, hit a particular memory? And the answer is yes. Thought of the dream fragment and feel that this is a part of our past that I am finally ready to let go. And I work my way through nine boxes. Filling the new recycling container more than half way.

And I am still standing. And I have nine empty boxes.

Rebirthing after the death of my husband

A friend and fellow widow and blogger Whispers of Wisdom says, "I lost two people that day – my wonderful husband and friend, Roy, as well as the 'me' who I knew at that time..."

I have to agree. And find rebirthing to be excruciating. I am consciously participating in its unfolding. That is part of the pain. The awareness. The consciousness. The involvement. It is not going easily or quietly or calmly. It is agony. Filled with bottomless voids, and oh so many memories. Memories of the past and of what could have been. But will not be. And I struggle to make new memories.

This is my own very personal journey. It is about my being on my own. It is a matter of Who Will I Be This Time? And I have to say that this latest passage, or opportunity for personal growth, or acknowledgement of what the Universe has in store for me SUCKS.

I am in the birth canal, being squeezed, crushed, suffocated. It is dark. Unknown. Am I ever going to get out? How long will this take? First time around took 9 months. And from my current perspective no wonder babies come out of the womb screaming their lungs out. Again, how long will the pain continue? Will it ever end?

Will I wake up one day and exclaim, "Ah I am! I am!"? Or more likely will I stumble along in shock and denial, and slowly, every so slowly embrace the concept of what has happened? Concept of what has happened?!?!? Talk about using language to create distance. Slowly embrace the reality of death. Death of Robert. Death of my husband. Death of my soul mate. Death of my best friend. Death of....me. And with this accept that it is time for me to become one. Me. Alone.

I came into this world alone once before. Seems I am repeating myself. Maybe I did not get it right the first time?

The difficulty of simple household chores when your husband is dead and gone

I find it embarrassing to admit, but then again what is the purpose of this blog but to share intimate details of life after the death of my husband. I have been having a hard time "getting around" to changing the sheets on the bed. Okay Robert always did it. That is reason one. But really? Don't think that is the only reason. But....it seems like an insurmountable task.

I think about, I plan, I plot, I scheme. I wonder what the problem is. I dither away time. I say I will do it later, in a little while, tomorrow, tonight, in the afternoon, in the evening, after lunch, before dinner. And notice that now is not one of the time thoughts.

Even went so far as to take the fresh sheets and mattress pad out of the linen closet and put them on the bed. Thought went something along the lines of if I see the clean sheets maybe I'll do something about them.

But all this accomplished was to create a new sleeping place for the cats. They love new clean sheets. Do you think I could embrace their enthusiasm? Nope. So now the clean crisp sheets serve as their place to curl up on the bed. Not only have I not changed the sheets, but my cats have abandoned sleeping on me for sleeping on the folded clean sheets.

Along with changing the sheets I have been thinking it is time to change the comforter as well. Put away the Marimekko Comforter I bought and bring out one of the summer weight quilts we have. Is that the issue? Putting on the bed a quilt I slept under with Rob?

Sometimes I think I am expending way more energy avoiding changing the sheets than it would take for me to actually do the chore! What is the problem? Why am I unable to accomplish this simple weekly chore? I am even telling friends about my inability to deal with this. Is this to embarrass myself into action?

Cats to the rescue! They took matters into their own paws last night. They resolved my dilemma. Maybe they were tired of my dithering, my inability to accomplish a simple task.
Maybe they were tired of my telling people they were sleeping on the clean sheets and not me. Maybe they were just helping me move on.

One of them threw up in the bed (a very rare occasion), so at 1 AM I am stripping the bed and putting on the clean sheets. And reaching up to the top shelf in the closet for the summer quilt. And I found out that was indeed part of my reluctance. Rob bought this quilt.

Turned out to be more of an intellectual problem, than actual one. Especially since the new sheets smelled and felt wonderful, and the lighter quilt was greatly appreciated now that it is summer. Looking at the bed from the bedroom doorway it is a visual reminder that I am slowly accepting change.

Good things can happen

Yesterday there were torrential rains. This morning wake up to clean crisp air. So fresh. The birds are singing their hearts out. The sky is so blue. Temperature in the mid to upper 60s. White puffy clouds. If I didn't know better I'd swear it was a Fall Day. My kind of weather.

I have a dentist appointment at 1:00, and plan to do more client work this morning. Then take the afternoon off, as it is Friday, and go play with my horses. As I'm scrambling eggs for breakfast my riding buddy calls. Hmmm, wonder if she is ready to make weekend plans. "Are you doing anything? Want to go out for a trail ride?"

Of course I have plans. But I throw them out the window. I'm going to play Hooky!  Quickly finish my breakfast and am in the car driving away from the house in under 15 minutes! Oh what a morning! Oh what a friend! Oh what a perfect trail ride!




 "There is something about the outside of a horse that is good for the inside of a man." (lets make that this horse and this woman) .

Writing and Editing

I spent the day writing and editing copy. Clients' copy. Moving back and forth across genres, between clients. Totally engrossed in the jobs. After hours of work I looked up from my computer screen. Looked up from the words I was so carefully crafting. And it hit me. Hard. I was alone. Totally and utterly. And my heart.....

What I would usually do at this point would be to print out my edited copy and hand it to Robert for his creative input. We met editing copy 45 years ago, and until eight months ago we were still at it.

But no longer. I think of him as I'm writing and editing. Remember that he liked to edit on a printed page. Physical pen to paper. Remember he liked to work on one client a day. Remember his handwriting and notations. Remember discussing his edits and mine. Too much remembering right now. Too many tears.

I hear a crow clacking outside my window. And remember..."Nevermore."

Memorial Day and the 8th month anniversary.

Driving to the visit the horses this morning I pass banners and flags and chairs set up along the roadway. Oh right, I remember—Memorial Day. The official designation is to honor the men and women who have died while in the military service.

What about the "war" on cancer? Our personal "battle" ? What about how military language permeates the medical jargon—hell it permeates everyday language. We were "winning", then "losing", the "coast was clear", then "all hell broke loose."

We were "engaged" in "fights", "skirmishes", "winning", "losing", "assaults", and "infiltrations". Encountered "full mobilization" efforts, "targeted" approaches, "broad spectrum" treatments, and all sorts of "weapons" to "attack" the cancer cells. Did I mention "SNAFUs" ? Or "Cluster F**ks" ?

Today is also the 8th month anniversary. Before anyone asks of what I will put it out there, of Robert's death. Excuse the sarcasm, but who is counting? I am once again facing and dealing with time. Time is supposed to heal, time is supposed to make the longing go away, time is supposed to ease the pain. Am I supposed to forget as well?

For all who have lived through these long protracted battles, I dedicate Memorial Day to our spouses, our loved ones, who finally succumbed. But not without a fight. A national holiday to honor their true fighting spirit. And a way for us to always remember.

Would have been our 43rd wedding anniversary

Woke up this morning (Friday), the morning of what would have been our 43rd wedding anniversary, from a very strange and vivid dream.

In the dream I am at a fashion shoot. I am sitting in a lounge chair off to the side observing. Comfortable. Waiting. There are young models posing for different photographers. I watch one young girl/woman who uses the same technique for each photographer. I think she was going to hit the wall when all her shots are reviewed and the editor see the same poses again and again (too many America's Next Top Model episodes?)

The shoot starts in a studio, but as in dreams, it is then on a beach. There are white curtains, billowing in the wind.The models are in bathing suits and every one of them is wearing the same shoe. I see it with amazing detail—platform, sandals with lots of straps (gladiator style) in an sort of olive green. And in my dream I hear the word alligator. Okay alligator platform gladiator sandals. Do not understand the meaning of this. Just recording my dream.

My husband comes in. He is THE photographer. He bends down to kiss me. Just the barest brush of lips. I don't have words for the feelings that well up. I so yearn for a deep passionate kiss. I tell him how the touch of his skin, the touch of his arms makes me ache for him.

And then I am no longer on the beach with him. I only have that brief moment with him.  I am trying to get back. And I am running. It is a large city, and in one of those dream aerial views I see the beach and the white billowing curtains way off in the distance. And I am running. Running through crowds of people. Running on the street with cars. Running Running Running.

I'm dressed in a beautiful black horizontally pleated bathing suit (too many Project Runways episodes?) with flat straps and those alligator platform gladiator sandals are in my hand. Not good running shoes.

The city feels European. England? No France? Or Italy? Wide boulevards. Round-abouts. Narrow lanes. Crowded with people. Crowded with tourists. But all the roads lead straight to the beach. No, all the roads lead straight to my husband.

The traffic is intense and I decide to cut through the neighborhoods. Away from the crowds and traffic. Up a steep hill. A familiar dream sequence of mine is going up hills on all fours, using my hands to grab the cobblestones to pull me up. Move faster and faster. All this running is effortless. I can go on forever.

My shortcut is taking me off course. I am loosing time. My dream says this is Rio de Janeiro. And I continue to run. Through narrow streets. Passing children playing. Women hanging out laundry. Teenage boys malingering. Running Running Running.

I cut across the hill and head back down into the city. And find myself in an affluent shopping district with cobble stoned streets, ornate store fronts....and weathered bronze sculptures. Of soldiers and jeeps. World War II vintage. Apparently I am back in Europe. And bronze dog heads that commemorate the "unleashing of the dogs of war" by the Allies. The heads are suspended in mid air, they come out of the walls of the buildings, they are everywhere when you look up.

And my phone rings. It is my husband's assistant who tells me the shot is wrapping up and where I am? I try and explain that I have been trying to get back. That I've been running running  running. And she hangs up. And I am left alone.



Yearn, verb: have an intense feeling of longing for something or someone, typically one that has lost or been separated from.

A thought occurs to me that I am searching this world for Rob. Running and looking everywhere.  

And another thought, this one I'll hold on to tightly. He came back to give me a kiss on our anniversary.

Love letters from the past, or present, or future

Last week I got thinking about all the boxes and bins that I have been avoiding. I set up a specific goal for myself—the only way I could even contemplate beginning to deal with them. One box per day. Not everyday. But only one box. No more. I know I can easily get caught up in, "Oh this wasn't so hard so lets do another and another and another" and before too long I would be destroyed.

I grab a cardboard box off the shelf in the garage. Wonder what is in here?

Letters I wrote to Rob (O Bob) after he went off to College. Leaving me behind. Our first date was July 5, 1968. We spent the summer together. A lot of the memories from my previous post are of that summer. 

Letters written in 1968. I am 17. Stream of consciousness letters from the late sixties. Love letters. Some are handwritten and others are typed. I choose to read the typed ones as I feel trying to decipher my handwriting would for certain set me up for defeat. Emotional defeat.

Not that my typing was really any better! These were typed on an old (even then) Royal manual typewriter. You may remember the kind with a fabric ribbon. No erasing, no white out, no spell checker, no auto correct. Creative spelling (though I seem to do some spelling corrections in parenthesis), keyboard short cuts. Typed on all sorts of paper. Thankfully I numbered the pages.....here is a special one: misspellings in place. I could have written the poem to Rob yesterday, 10 months ago, 5 years ago, tomorrow.

September 22, 1968

Hear you have just left and I am already riting to you. I remembered what I wanted to tell you. I was thinking about our first date on Saturday nite after our discussin and I remember my feelings. Under ordinary circumstances I wood have said you may not believe this but since you are determined to believe me ( you may be sorry ) I can't say that. Well what I wanted to say was that I was very excited about your asking me out but I was worried that the date might end up a flop. I generally don't takl mush (much) on a first date and I was afraid, since I thought of you as quite (quiet) that we wood not be able to talk to each other. Strained ( thru a sifter ) silence wood rain. I even expressed my fears to my mother. I was greatly influenced in my fears by Barbara. I thought if she could not talk to you what hope had I. Boy was I wrong!

Do you remember ( wow what a remembering letter ) ( and You don't like to remember ) the poem I showed you that I wrote about me?? Well after the summer I wrote a kind of sequel in a way to it. Its just that I have changed and grown since I first met you  ( since you found me ) ( or some thing like that).

Well anyway......

     You got me thinking —

     I've discovered new ideas

     You got me interested —

     I've become more aware

     You got me involved —

     I've experienced new feelings

     I am no longer shallow

     I have grown in depth.

     Thanks to you.

Never know where the mind fields are after the death of your husband

I am sitting at JFK. It has been a very long day that started in South Carolina. It is very late at night. Flight home—I made it while in the frugal mode—is not direct. I am slowly learning that there are all sorts of triggers just lurking out of sight. Out of mind. Just waiting for me to step on them. Just waiting to jump out at me. Just waiting waiting waiting.....for me.

I did not think JFK would be different from any other airport I have travel through in the recent months. Hey look they all have three letters: BOS, SFO, CLT, RIC, SBA, ETC.  My famous battle cry, "How hard can it be?!?!" showed me just how hard it can be.

Waiting for the plane to arrive and passengers to deplane. Waiting for the plane to be cleaned and prepped. Waiting for the boarding to begin. The gate area is filled. An awful lot of people traveling. Couples, families, friends.  And I am sitting alone, waiting.

And then it hits me. I am sitting at JFK. That means I am sitting in New York. We grew up in New York. We went to school in New York. We met in New York. I am flooded with memories. And tears are streaming down my face.

The memories are of long ago. Images I have not thought of in years. Lying on the grass in Central Park waiting for that magic time of lining up for free tickets for Shakespeare in the Park. Or a concert with Dylan or Judy Collins or Joni Mitchell. Feeling young. And in love. Walking side by side holding hands. And now feeling so bereft. And tears are streaming down my face.

And then, well I need an aside to explain this next occurrence. There is a movie with Annette Bening and Ed Harris called "The Face of Love". It is about Nikki, a widow of five years who sees a man who looks exactly like her beloved husband. She stalks this man, and meets, and has an affair with him. Never telling him she loves him because of whom he looks like. I saw it with a friend, armed with bowls of popcorn and fresh boxes of Kleenex. Together we wept and laughed at the story.

Why this aside? These memories are of Robert when he was young and had a full rich reddish brown beard. And as I am sitting alone I see a couple standing off to the side. They are in their mid-twenties. And he has a full beard. And for one insane moment I wonder if I could walk up to him and just put my hand on his beard. Sigh. My cupped palm just barely caressing his beard. I recognize I am channeling Annette Bening/Nikki and let the desire stay where it is, in my mind and do not act on the impulse. Sigh.

The tears are continuing to stream down my face. I apparently have my bubble walls up as no one makes eye contact or says anything to me. And boarding begins. With my tear streaked face I walk down the aisle to my seat. This is a three by three seat plane and the overhead compartments look so high and out of reach. I look at my roll on and look up at the compartment and mutter to myself "This is just not going to happen." 

A man seated in front of me jumps up, grabs my bag and effortlessly tosses into the overhead compartment, and sits down. He does not say one word. And when we land? He again leaps up, and gets my bag down before he gets his and his family's. Moral? There are hidden advantages to having a tear streaked face?

Shedding and letting go

I have been feeling like a snake shedding it's skin. Letting go of who and what is not working for me. Not holding on to the past so tightly. Being conscious and aware. And with this new consciousness and awareness making choices.

I am thinking now. I am allowing people and activities and things drop away. The cliche "life is short" has hit home hard. You just never know when life or more precisely death is going to rear up and bite you in the ass. Or perhaps it is the going through the fires of hell that burns off the outer layers that have accumulated without thought.

I see myself now coming out of the fog and looking around. Awaking from the nightmare. Making decisions about how I want to move forward. And whom I want to be with me. And what I want to be doing. Will this last?

Be kind to yourself is a mantra that appears again and again in the grief literature. Do I really need to make excuses for others? That question is the old skin, asking permission. Old skin is looking at the situation from their point of view. Old skin is trying to understand why they do not reach out. Old skin: Why they do not say Robert's name aloud. Old skin: Why they do not want to truly know how I am feeling. Old skin: Why they think with the passage of time all is better.

I do not need to worry about others feeling uncomfortable or not knowing what to say. I will express myself to those who are open and listen and can express their love and compassion. Those are the ones I will keep in my life.

Grief as Time Rolls On.

Time rolls on. Life seems to change. It seems to stay the same. It is confusing. Where am I? How did I get here?

I lie in bed at night and hear a creak in the house and think, ah Rob's getting ready to come to bed. The wind blows, there is another settling of the house, and I remember.

Went to a book reading. Book was anthology of poems written by widows. How appropriate. The room was filled to overflowing. Widows of all ages. Heavily weighted toward my age group. The grief was palpable. The words flowed over me. Resonating. Tearing at my heart. A woman two seats over sobbed. I gave her my packet of Kleenex.

Went to Open Studios in neighboring town. Pottery, painting, prints, photography, fiber. I reconnected with a part of my past. Identified myself as a print maker. Struck up a conversation with a potter. Conversation wide ranging. She asked me where I grew up. She grew up in a neighboring town. Mentioned two favorite places from her childhood. And one was Jan's.

I am standing in a room filled with art. A room filled with people. I have no connection to anyone. And I find myself talking to one person who remembers Jan's. It was an ice cream pallor. It was where Robert and I had our first date.

Time rolls on. Life seems to change. It seems to stay the same. Where am I? How did I get here?

Venting my pain can be so satisfying

Venting is oh so satisfying. To get it out of my system and feel cleansed, refreshed ready to face the next challenge. I know who is reading my blog. I really do. It is those who love me. And those who need to read it. Those who connect with my pain and grief. Those who have or are experiencing the pain and grief.

A friend wrote to me in response, "You are creating a light for others who will follow in your steps. A light in their darkness as they stumble forward." Let us stumble forward together then.

Today I had lunch with my new widow friends. My GPS got me lost, and I was going to be late. I cried in frustration. I cried in sorrow. I drove and cried. And thought of just going home, but something keep me going. I knew I could arrive with a tear streaked face and would find loving embraces.

The conversation was about pain and grief. It was right out there in the open, right on the table. We talked about anniversaries coming up: of our spouse's death, of our birthdays, of their birthdays, of our wedding anniversaries. We said the numbers of months out loud. We spoke our husband's names as natural as can be.

And we struggled to think about what these dates were going to be like. And what we would do for them. Celebrate? Observe? Mourn? Alone? With friends and family?

We talked of holidays and the ache of getting through them without the one who has been by our side for so long. And we talked of traveling, alone. To places new and places familiar.

There was laughter and tears. Compassion and understanding. We were there for each other. Widows. And to think at one time I was so appalled to be called one.

Life in a bubble with pain and grief

A rant. Blogging—who the hell am I writing to? Blogs are posted online and then what? You think your friends are reading them. As a way of keeping in touch with you and understanding what you are going through. But my friends are not reading my blog. I don't know who the hell is reading my blog.

I do know that I get these wonderful compassionate insightful comments from people I don't have a clue who they are. Just that something I wrote touched them to such an extent that they feel a need, a desire to reach out and touch me back. They get my pain. They connect with my pain. I guess that is the point. They are a gift to me from this blog.

But my friends? They don't want to think about the pain. So I walk around like I am in a bubble. In the bubble I have my pain and my grief. And I interact with regular people, normal people, people who have not lost a spouse, husband, wife. People who are not widows/widower. That's what normal people are. I say things, they say things back to me. There is an interaction—but the pain and grief inside the bubble is untouched.

These "others" I talk to—but they don't get it. They just see—I guess they just see what they want. Maybe the bubble is like a mirror. It reflects back what they want to see. They don't want to see inside. They don't want to see my pain. To them I am on a girls night out. They forget while they go home to their respective husbands, I go home to an empty house.

It is a really strange, bizarre, isolating existence. And if one more person tries to relate to me by saying they understand because their mother/father/sister/brother died, and then add their cat/dog/bird/gerbil died.....Hey, I'm an animal person and I keep hearing about dead pets. Does everyone get this? Do people say these insane things to other widows? It is mind blowing.

You think your friends are there, and they are not. They want to just keep moving forward. They don't want to hear that you are still grieving. They want to explain it away or they just don't want to go anywhere near the pain, the grief. And because I am still in pain and grieving, they don't keep in touch.

I have established what I call my Do Not Call List. This is for people who want to fix me. Or tell me I'm fine. Or have just the book that will cure me. Friends who don't want to take the time to listen to my pain at a particular month anniversary.  Friends who believe I should be over it by now. They are.

I now see there is a universal Do Not Call List. And I've been put on it by a lot of people who I thought were my friends. Maybe the grief is too terrifying. Or losing a spouse is too terrifying. Widowhood—you do not want to go there. They don't want to think about it. And if they relate to me too much and if they empathize with me too much it means they have to think about the unthinkable. Thinking about what if their husband/wife died.

So I am left here in my bubble. In my bubble I can appear "normal" to some people. Does this mean I put my old friends on my Do Not Call List? And just stay with my new widow friends?!?! It is a really bizarre consideration. I find that I can open my soul to people I've known for such a short time because we share the pain and grief. And I can't open my soul to people I've known for a long time because they don't want to share that pain and grief. I find I am now searching for connections and compassion and understanding, and that distraction is no longer enough.

The reality of grief, and accepting the reality

Reality - I have been hitting it hard. And thinking about it in those terms - the reality of the situation.

Reality - I think that is part of the reason I have been able to incorporate some of Rob's things into MY life. It is not a matter of worrying what he would think. Or of having to worry that if I used something it better be perfect when I return it.

Reality - that I can't come home from the barn and tell him what wonderful things Cici and I did today.

Reality - no one to share at the level we always shared.

Reality - he is not here.

Reality - he is not coming back.

Reality - he is not here and won't be here again.

Reality - not ever.

Reality - sucks.

I am trying to keep moving. The temptation to crawl into bed and stay there is overwhelming. But fortunately I have Cici calling me. And admit that if I skip a day and do not go out to see her I pay a price. To myself. I have to get out. I have to keep moving. I have to keep living. Apparently.

So I'll tell you what I so yearn to tell Rob. I am playing with Cici at liberty and we are walking and trotting together. I am walking next to her, she doesn't have a halter or anything on and she just sticks with me. When I up my energy she trots with me. We are really connected this morning and I thought…hmm I wonder if I can get her to stay in sync with me and canter.And she does! First time I have tried this. And she is right with me. My heart is so open. I am a little girl playing horse. I am flying. My beautiful palomino mare is right with me. And when I come back down to earth I am crying. Sobbing.

California showed me I can be out there. But the rubber band stretched too far, and I am pulled back in the other direction—to grief. It is worse, okay different, than the roller coaster. Two sides of the same coin that somehow someway someday I will be able to integrate into one. But for now I swing between the two.

I can find myself at times in the ocean of grief

"You are traveling through another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind. A journey into a wondrous land of imagination. Next stop, the Twilight Zone!"

I am on a flight back home from California. Experiencing a bit of turbulence and the pilot has everyone, including the flight attendants strapping in. The head attendant announces that if anyone has a medical emergency to hit the call attendant light 4 or 5 times. What they won't answer the first 1 to 4 times?!?!? Perfect absurdity for me to start writing about my adventure.

Trip starts at 5:30am when my friends come to pick me up for drive to airport. Looking back I realize what an amazing piece of luck it is that I flew into San Francisco as opposed to Los Angeles. No memories with Robert of flying into SF. And throughout the trip I realized it was the little things that tipped the scale. Of course it’s the little things! It is always the little things. Duh!!!

I am on my own. I am doing this. I am flying all the way across the country by myself. I am staying with virtual friends again. I am leaving all that is familiar behind. Venturing into the unknown. I am willingly, knowingly, consciously stepping into another dimension. And I am fine. Now tell me how that is possible!?!?

When the plane lands in SF I receive a text message that my connecting flight is boarding in 8 minutes. I do an O.J. Simpson (remember the commercial?) out of the plane, over people and luggage in the aisle. I then board a shuttle bus to a totally different terminal. The shuttle bus takes me a scenic tour of the entire airport. I believe we lap the airport twice.

My heart is pounding. But it is a normal "am I going to make my plane?" kind of heart pounding. Not what has become the usual unexplained heart palpitations. Interesting to even be able to note the difference. And, of course, when I get to the gate, the plane has not even arrived. Delayed. My heart rate returns to normal. Huh? How is that possible?

I am whole. Complete. This adventure is mine. It is about me. I look around. I meet my virtual friends—who in a Twilight Zone instant—become physical flesh and blood friends. Clamber into their monster (hey I'm an Easterner) pickup for a 2-hour drive to their home in Paso Robles. Talk about stepping into the abyss, or maybe a new plateau.

Going to Polly and Jim's in Paso Robles is another blessing. No memories there. Only memories that are part of me. They are my friends. I have talked for hours on the phone with Polly. When I got to the Santa Barbara airport, they are the only people waiting. And as I am going down the escalator I yell "Polly" and she yells "Jamie". I know her voice. And it warms my soul.

We drive through country that is totally alien, new, different, unrecognizable to me. I have clearly spent way too much time in New England. Open land, hills, lots and lots of hills, rolling hills, big huge hills. There are views. Wide open sky. Roads. Hills. I look out the window, of the pickup, in wonder at the landscape. And realize once again I am whole. Complete. How is this possible?

I spend a magical week with Polly & Jim. Do have moments of grief. And lose it completely one night. But each time I return to….myself.

With Polly I meet a Z, a zebra. Scott, a real life cowboy (remember I am an tender foot) who raises and trains horses and bucking bulls! Wander through Paso Robles, eat at a wonderful local place, stop in at a Western Art Gallery, shop our way through the Boot Barn so I can find the perfect riding cowboy boots. Visit an amazing Dressage Equestrian Center. Go on the ultimate beach trail ride at Montana de Oro State Park in Osos.

On the trail ride, as the horses are climbing out of the eucalyptus forest and through the flanks of the hills, we get our first sight of the ocean and Morro Rock. I am overcome with memories and tears. Rob and I had been to Morro Rock, walked through the town. I cry on horseback overlooking the ocean. Why did it take his death to get me here?

The week is over and I travel down the coast to Santa Barbara. Staying now with Kathleen who was a classmate of Rob's. The memories of Rob are so much more present. And Kathleen lost her husband more than 2-1/2 years ago and reached out—widow to widow—to me when she heard he had died.

We sit on her balcony overlooking the ocean and talk and cry together. She suggests we drive into Santa Barbara and do a little shopping. What a delightful idea. But driving through the town overwhelms me with memories. I recognize street names, buildings, shops. Rob loved to walk here and we had wandered in and out of the shops together. I am crying again and Kathleen just turns the car around and drives us home.

I am learning that I can be whole. Can be me. But right now that means where the focus and emphasis is about me. Not about us. The "us" is in my heart, but no longer on this physical plain. Now I'm heading home with both relief and anxiety. So what else is new?

Five month anniversary and it is not getting any easier

It is five months since Rob's death. How is that possible? I swear it is getting harder. Maybe initially the shock is such that disbelief was my byword. Then numbness. Oh I assure you grieving is taking place all along. The roller coaster is powering on. But with the passage of time the realization, the real undeniable, unequivocal, indisputable, unmistakable, incontrovertible realization ever so slowly seeps its way into my consciousness. It now goes two ways—He is never coming back and Where is he???

I had lunch with a group of women friends. We used to see each other once a week at tai chi class but that ended quite a while ago. We do stay in touch. They catered the "Celebration" I had for Rob after he died. We have always done food together—cooking, eating, sharing recipes.  

We met for lunch. Six of us. One hugged me and asked how I was doing. Damn, I was truthful. "A bit rocky as today is the fifth month anniversary". And someone else cheerfully asked what anniversary? "The fifth month anniversary since Rob died". 

That went over like a lead balloon. There was stunned silence. One of those pregnant pauses. And then they went back to chatting about what they had been doing since the last time we all got together.

I never felt so alone as I sat there and the conversation just washed over me. Guess my recent experiences with the Bereavement Group where that kind of comment is met with hugs and "I knows" and  "its my 4th or 8th month anniversary" made me forget what the "real" world is like.

It is with groups of people who are not involved with grieving where I run into trouble. One on one there is time for compassion and understanding. But in a group setting it seems to get lost. Or maybe it is hearing about what each of these women did, were doing, planned to do with their husbands that isolated me. There was no way to make a connection, no way to share an experience, and no way to think that someday Rob and I would do that.

Newton's Third Law of Grieving

Newton's Third Law—for every action there is an opposite and equal reaction. I felt whole and complete, and I suppose in control. That was then. Now I feel fractured, scattered, shattered. And that there is any hope of control is an illusion.

The feeling of being okay is now replaced with emptiness and longing. Where I was able to stand on my own two feet, I succumbed to a cold and crawled into bed. My feeling competent has been swapped out with an inability to focus.

I am caught in suspended animation. That moment of zero gravity. Free floating, no direction, no choice. Everywhere I look I see evidence of my past life with Rob. And who I was and where I was going. I can not see beyond.

I recognize I have been running and running and running. Apparently I finally caught up with myself. Catching a cold was my unconscious forcing me to stop. This cold is the one I could not have had with Rob during his chemo. There was no way I could get sick. So I didn't. But now that it is just me here....the cold stopped me dead in my tracks. Words are so interesting aren't they?

My answer to How are you? is Fine except when I'm crying. And I seem to be doing a lot of that again. Imagery fills my head, of peeling layers of the onion, of spirals, of dropping a pebble in a pond and the concentric rings that emanate, of my faithful roller coaster or ferris wheel or carousel. 

Each time I am here I think it is the first and only time. Or if I do acknowledge I might have been here before then this time it is deeper or darker. And then I go back and reread my posts. And surprise! I have been here before.

A reprieve from grieving the death of my husband

I took a trip—four whole days away. A big deal—flying, renting a car and driving two hours by myself to meet up with "virtual" friends. I have lots of "virtual" friends, people I've met online or only know from the phone. People I had never met in person. And here I was planning on sharing a hotel room with two of them.

In the days leading up to the weekend I alternated between abject terror—how could I do this?!?! And feeling that I would be fine. And I promised myself that if on the morning of the flight, if completely overwhelmed I would just stay home.

And then I found myself at the airport. Navigating the signage to find my flight and gate. And I felt okay. Even having my bag pulled out and inspected did not upset me. It just served as an interesting distraction.

Something had changed. I don't know what, a shift of some sort. I was doing fine. Oh I cried in the car during those two hours of driving. Passed through an area Robert and I had driven, and I got to wondering why we had not done more exploring. A moment of regrets.

When I was planning this adventure I kept thinking this "was the first time". The first time I was flying alone, the first time renting a car alone, the first time checking into a hotel alone. All alone. I had taken the first time to mean ever, not just the first time since his death.

But as I was driving I remembered doing all of these things numerous times in the past. It was like my memory only went back two and a half years, to the hospital room after Rob's original surgery, waiting for him to wake up. That is my image. With amnesia for any life of my own before that moment. And now the memories are coming back. Filling the blank spaces in me.

I checked into the hotel with a reservation made by someone I did not know and who was not even going to be there. Much to the confusion of the person at the desk. My friends arrived and it was like we had known each other forever.

We laughed, talked, went to dinner, to bed, and to the horse event. What amazes me was that I was able to be and stay in the moment. Be with my friends. Enjoy myself. Experience what was going on around me. And never feel alone. Or abandoned.

And with this awareness of being whole, I now felt guilty. How could I be enjoying myself? How could I manage to travel on my own? How could I laugh? How could I feel okay? Was this a betrayal of Robert?

I was in uncharted territory. Yes I cried several times during the four days. But it was never that overwhelming grief. That did not hit until I was back in familiar territory. Back home. Stopping at the supermarket and seeing the handicap parking space I used to pull into for Rob.

So yes the grief is still there. I am still trying to make sense of what happened to me on this trip.  Guess I got a few days off from grieving.

So exhausted from losing my mind...where did I put it?

I need to print a shipping label so I get up from my desk and put label stock in the printer. Back to my computer and I fill out the USPS label form. I get involved with other things on my computer. And then remember I have to pack up the item for shipping.

I take several sheets out of the printer, box up the item and look for the printed label. It is printed on regular paper....because I apparently printed something else before I printed the label, and that webpage printout is now on label stock.

How could this happen? I specifically remember thinking, "I'll put the label stock in and print out the label before I do anything else." And in the time it takes to turn around and sit down at my desk I forget about the label?

I have a COD package coming. Write the check for it and put it by the door so "I won't forget". And then I walk out of the house and go meet a friend for lunch. When I get back there is a note on the door from FedEx about the attempted delivery.

I'm getting dressed and as I am putting on my socks—why this triggers the memory I have not idea—I remember that I had agreed to do something for a friend. That is all I remember—do something. I rack my brain and come up with she was supposed to email me something. Something! Don't know what we talked about or what she emailing. But feel I have let her down. What had I promised to do?

I make lists. And then promptly lose them. Or they get buried under other pieces of paper. Under other lists. It is like finding a treasure map when I unearth them. Ahh, this is what I was supposed to do!

Someone placed an order on Sunday and wanted to know when he would receive it. I told him by the end of the week. He offered to pay extra for express shipping. I promised I'd call when the item was in and then we could discuss shipping options. I mailed the package on Thursday, with no memory of our conversation. Until now.

A friend just called. After I hung up I got thinking about what I could work on and wandered back into my office. Sat down at my desk and imagine my surprise to find this post...waiting for me unfinished!

Grief is a brain altering event. A buddy said it is just like a concussion. She should know she had one. 

I Do Not Need Fixing. I'm Just Grieving the Death of My Husband.

I had to see my primary care physician because I now have a new one. My doctor of over thirty years left to set up a concierge practice two years ago. His replacement lasted little more than a year and now I am on Doc #3.

All I needed was for my prescription to be rewritten. My prescription for those life saving little yellow pills. My safety net. But protocol demands I meet the new Doc #3 before she will write said prescription.

I painted her a picture of my current situation. An abridged version, my husband's two year battle with cancer and his death four months ago. I was crying in the examine room while waiting for her and thought it might be helpful to explain my tear stained face.

She listened. And then her defining question was "Do you have family to support you?" "No, well I have a brother in Ohio."  She looks at me with great concern, "Are you seeing a therapist regularly?" "Not a therapist, I meet with the Rabbi every other week."

Have to admit I do not  understand the question about family and the assumption that family is what you need. Or that they can help. I do have family, it is just that they are not supportive or understanding or compassionate. For those things I turn to my friends....my cats, my horses.

I meditate, work on being in the moment, feeling what is going on with me. I do Tai Chi, I gather support from my friends, I joined a Bereavement Group. Apparently not enough for Doc #3.

She gives me her prescription: Weekly therapy sessions and the little yellow pill. There was no, "you might want to consider" or "a suggestion"— it was a prescription to see a therapist.
She said based on what she had heard a therapist would help me get through the grief faster. What it is now a race? There is a time table? I need to be fixed fast? Is a psycho-therapist like a physical-therapist? Have to get there in a timely manner or else.

The top of my head blew off! My anger was over the top. And I flashed back on what I had just been reading before she came into the room in Living Beautifully, with uncertainly and change by Pema Chodron:

   "First, come into the present. Flash on what's happening with you right now. Be fully aware of your body, its energetic quality. Be aware of your thoughts and emotions.
   "Next, feel your heart, literally placing your hand on your chest is you find that helpful. this is a way of accepting yourself just as you are in that moment, a way of saying, 'This is my experience right now, and its okay.'
   "Then go into the next moment without any agenda."

Oh I was in the present. And flashed on what was happening to me. I was totally aware of my heart pounding, my breath up around my ears, and the anger ready to spew out. I turned away from her and paused. This was a defining moment for me. I was aware. I thought of what I had just read. I thought about the consequences of my actions. I was making a fully conscious decision. This was not reactive. I was taking care of myself.

I told her I was outraged by her comments. "You Do NOT Know Me!"  That she did not know what I had gone through and what I was going through. She had no idea how I had dealt with the last two years or how I was dealing with them now. All she had to go on was my request for the little yellow pill. And now she was TELLING me to see a therapist. Not "it is a suggestion" but a prescription.

Doc #3 was taken aback. She thanked me to telling her how I was feeling. Was I being stroked? And she admitted she did not know me. Progress. The therapist was offered as a suggestion. Better. And she wrote the script. Probably to get me out of her office. Looking for Doc #4.

Overwhelming grief and an unexpected life preserver

Every time I think there is some hope for a break in the grief, I run into a wall. Today is the fourth month anniversary. And the grief feels as overwhelming as the first moment. I want to just walk around screaming his name. And Where are you? And How could you have left me? And How do I live without you? And I miss you so much.

My cats and horses help me. I joined a Bereavement Group and find talking with other women, okay other widows, helps. But it is the between times that get me. When I stop doing and lift up my head.

Oh I can keep busy—I can visit friends, go to events, clean the house, do the laundry, go see the horses, work on the taxes, take some photos, ship out some items, work on my websites, write someone's copy, pay the monthly bills—all not working for me right now. I don't even want to call anyone. Don't feel like talking. So I find myself here. Writing. Thinking. Feeling. Grieving. Grieving. Grieving.

I've been reading about staying with my feelings, going into my pain. Accepting. Acknowledging. Being in the moment. Problem is I feel like I am drowning. That the abyss will swallow me. And I suppose it is a testament to my life force that I don't want to be swallowed. That there is still a fight left in me. I just don't know how to survive without Rob.

I found this poem, again. Rob believed that he had experienced a life/death choice during his surgery. And wrote this poem from his experience. I always read it thinking of cancer and illness and death. Now I feel he wrote it as a life line to me.

Ever/Bardo

By Robert Greenebaum

Have you ever dropped out of time

Have you ever been where

There are no directions

Where there is no bottom

But you are not falling

Where there is no volition

No will

No lies

Where the idea of hope

Is not yet emergent

Where even blankness

Has withered away

Maybe you have been there—or maybe not

It is not a place one chooses to go

It just happens

Maybe in an instant

If this has ever happened to you

Perhaps you might be interested in this:

Try it on for size; see if it fits; learn it

Word by word

Each word is a vessel into which you

Can pour your own meaning

Yet it is a vessel

A vessel hewn from within the bardo

If you use it, be patient, be diligent,

Be stubborn, and never give up

For a billion, billion lifetimes:

I

May there now arise in this very moment

Pervasive ease of well-being

II

Throughout the entire mind

And body with no breaks,

Holes, or lapses.

III

May the entire mind and body

Be wiped completely clean

Of any and all ill-ness

And all dis-ease

IV

May there now arise in this very moment

Pervasive ease of well-being

If you take up the mantra

Never lay it down

I pass it on to you from within the bardo

May you receive its beneficial effects