In the middle of time

I am in the middle of time—two weeks ago was Rob's Birthday and in two weeks is the Second Anniversary of his Death. Tears flow more frequently once again. I encounter memories wherever I turn. And I am seeing my gradual evolution.

Off to the feed and grain store (doesn't everyone?) and then go check out a different supermarket than the one on my usual route. Plug address into Celeste (my GPS) and I am off. Find myself marveling that I am on roads I do not believe I have ever driven on. I am on an adventure in my own backyard! In the past I would have gotten anxious about not knowing where I was, exactly. But now it does not seem to matter.

So I fly high and then hit turbulence. I am not familiar with this new supermarket and therefore don't know the isles and shelves to avoid. Ever think about what a mind (yes mind) field supermarkets become after your husband dies? Items you picked up just for him. Items he asked for. Items that were all he could eat. Numerous small explosions.

Plotting my own back roads route for my way home, I have the thought, "I can take the route home from the hospital." Home from the hospital offers up overwhelming images of that last trip almost exactly two years ago. Do all my back roads only lead from or to the hospital?

I understand that this is an emotionally charged time. And I am trying to keep an awareness of what is the same, what is different—what are memories. One change I want to acknowledge is that I have taken off my wedding band. I did not think I would ever do this. But I have a new ring to wear on my left hand now. A cigar band style ring with, of course, a horse on it. I am horse. Was going to say that I am becoming horse, but that is so passé . I am horse.

Maybe that is part of the ongoing transformation. Another difference is that I am slowly migrating back to using my maiden name. It feels right in the acknowledgement of all that has changed and the who am I this time. This middle of time space is turning into a place of experimentation. Trying different things on for size. Seeing what fits.

It is almost Rosh Hashanah. And that was when "we" went into the hospital for the last time. In 2013 Rosh Hashana fell on September 5th. I think of the first week as letting the reality sink in and the rush of visitors. Week Two was a transition week as the inevitability of the reality sank in. And Week Three was the end. We had 21 days.

One moment I am fearless flying to new heights and the next I am crashing and burning...ah welcome back Roller Coaster. But the ride is not as harrowing as in the past. It has leveled out and the drops do not last that long, and are no where as intense. The Roller Coaster is now just a reminder.

Life After Death

I never thought I would be saying this, but there is indeed life after death....life for me after the death of my husband. What better metaphor than my truck and now new horse trailer. I am going places I have never been. I am doing things I have never done. I am experiencing life as I have never before.

I am comfortable with "being only one". I do not have to check with anyone. I make my own decisions. A friend calls at 5:30 to ask if I want to go to dinner. When? and where? Another friend invites me to go camping with her. I have not camped in I can't remember how many years. But why not? There is nothing holding me back from saying yes. And yes I do go camping.

This does not mean I don't miss Rob. Or that I don't cry. It does not mean that I don't have times when everything seems totally overwhelming. It simply means that I am embracing the new path I am on. I am well aware that my journey to find "Who am I this time" is very much a work in progress. And I am open to exploring and searching and seeing what comes my way.

I am experiencing a huge paradigm shift. It is evolving and revealing itself bit by bit. Focusing moment by moment is all I can do.

What do I do with a lecture on Grief?

I was recently invited to a lecture on Images of Grief and Healing, "the ways in which art making is an instrumental tool in helping mourners heal and recalibrate one's life." It felt like something I should attend.

And therein lies my dilemma—the "should". I felt myself resisting. I was pleased my friend invited me. I am open to new things. Like to go places. But—ah there it is, the but. So now I have resistance, a should, and a but. Not a good combination. Red flags waving at me. I acknowledge them. So what is going on?

I struggle internally. Is grief something that I will carry with me all my life? Of course. But do I have to keep examining it? Exposing myself to other people's interpretations? Delve deeper into other's meaning? Keep reading books on grief, go to lectures on grief, visit art exhibits on grief.

Have I not had my own personal exploration of grief going on for longer than I care to count? Do I need an immersion course? There it is—the question I have been searching for—do I need to continue to immerse myself in grief?

My answer is no. My grief is a part of me. I feel like the fog of the last year has lifted. I am striking out on my own path. There are guide posts that Rob has left for me, but I am making this new journey my own. It is indeed time to move forward without a focus on grief. It is okay to turn down the invitation.

I am on my own on my birthday

I awoke this morning, sniffed the air and had the unpleasant thought that the temperature in the house was colder than normal. Got out of bed and ran to the thermostat which read 54 degrees. It was 5 degrees outside, so 50 degrees higher was a good thing. But not a normal thing. Furnace was off. It had shut down two nights ago and there in lies this story.

Today is my birthday. Notice the small b. Not Birthday, just birthday. Don't feel like I have to do anything about it except acknowledge it to myself. There will be no cards on the dining room table when I have breakfast. No birthday kiss. No one here to say Happy Birthday out loud.

But strangely that feels okay. I'm getting used to this being on my own thing. It is not alone, and it is not loneliness. It is being on my own. And what better day to embrace it than on my birthday.

Two nights ago the circuit breaker for the furnace had flipped. After checking the thermostat this morning, I went out to the garage and checked the circuit breaker. Yup it had blown, I reset it. And then called the oil company. The service man showed up quickly and explained to me all the things that could be wrong. I left him to figure it out while I went about my usual morning activities.

During the day I got thinking about what present I could get myself. And realized I had gotten a terrific present last weekend. Huey—my new to me 2005 Dodge Durango truck/SUV. The truck part of my truck and horse trailer dream. Manifested the truck part. Trailer next. Oh and Huey stands for humongous vehicle ; -)

On my own I researched, decided what was important, searched, winnowed down, talked to used car salespeople, selected what I thought was the perfect vehicle and went for a test drive in a town 1-1/2 hours away. I took the truck to a Dodge dealer for a safety inspection, negotiated with the selling salesperson and drove said truck home.

I brought it in for its inspection sticker locally and the dealer found a gas leak. I had to deal with that, call the guy I bought the truck from, re-negotiate with him to cover the cost and then get back to dealer to approve its repair.

Through all of these events not once did I think, I wish I could run this by Robert. And to add to my challenges, my neighbor who had been snow blowing my driveway had his wife suggest to me that I pay someone to plow it. In the middle of one of our ongoing snow storms. We've had over 60" of snow in 3 weeks. After talking with some of my other neighbors I realized I could no longer depend on the kindness of others. And embracing my "inner independent cowgirl" I tackled our snow blower.

Rob had showed me numerous times how to start and operate it. I had always resisted. There was no avoiding it any longer. Went out and bought a new gas "can". Filled it up with gas. I found I've been saying to people, "I've never done this before" quite a lot. And yet I keep going.

While I was worried about operating the snow blower, the new gas can turned out to be the challenge. There were all sorts of absurd safety features. No longer a can with top and spout. I struggled with the gas contraption, eventually figuring out how to get the little cap off, and what the spring thing on the spout was all about. Of course this involved spilling gasoline all over my hands and the floor of the garage and the snow blower. But I did manage to get some gas into the tank. Remembered Robert using the green extension cord to plug into the snow blower to start it without pulling the crank. Thank you Robert!

I cleared the driveway all on my own. Took several hours, and another storm is scheduled to start tomorrow. I have gas, I have snow blower, I have Huey. I think I am all set. Well hopefully I am. It is all exhausting being on my own, but I am slowly making my way. On my own. 

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.