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.
Monday, May 26, 2014
Sunday, May 25, 2014
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.
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.
Monday, May 19, 2014
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.
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.
Friday, May 16, 2014
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?
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?
Thursday, May 1, 2014
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.
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.
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