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.
Tuesday, September 23, 2014
Tuesday, September 16, 2014
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.
Thursday, September 4, 2014
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!
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!
Saturday, August 30, 2014
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.
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.
Thursday, August 7, 2014
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.
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.
Saturday, August 2, 2014
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.
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.
Saturday, July 12, 2014
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.
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.
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