This is who I was, but who am I now? I wonder if all widow's ask themselves this question. I have a big family, but not many friends. Bill was it for me, my best friend, my husband, my lover. When he died I lost everything. My daughter assures my that I am not alone, but she doesn't understand. I am alone, completely and utterly alone. In a room filled with hundreds of people, I am still alone, for the man who knew what I was thinking, feeling is no longer there. The man who often knew something was bothering my long before I could put a name to it is gone. Yesterday I went to the doctor. He is such a nice man and the last one of 'our' doctors I have to see since Bill's death. There were several appointments we put off with him as there were so many other health issues going on. Of course he wanted to know what happened and in the retelling, there is the reliving. It's incredibly painful and I put forth great effort into 'not' thinking about that day, 193 days ago. I don't want to remember for when I do it once again become fresh, a ragged, open wound. How long the fresh pain lasts is anyone's guess, a day, a week, a month, who knows, but however long it lasts there is no relief. There are only tears and sadness. There is only the soul sucking sense of the unfairness of it all. I become useless, morbid, awaiting my own death with a combination of nervousness and anticipation. I cannot find a reason to look forward to the future. I once told Bill that if anything happened to him I would be right behind him. As a result he hid all the shotgun shells. I have sense found them, but my faltering faith in God prevents me from doing anything that would put us at risk for not being reunited one day. Each night I thank God for our years together, even though it is my personal opinion that we were somehow cheated out of many of them. I pray for strength, courage and faith so I can move forward in some small way. Some days I feel like he hears my prayers, some days I don't. Some days I feel brave, mostly I'm whistling in the dark, pretending it's going to be okay. In my heart I know it's not okay. Not one damn thing about this is okay and it never will be. I'm killing time, treading water, and trying to slap on a happy face while I pray, please don't ask me about Bill. Please don't, I can't take it. Every day is not horrible. Many days I am on autopilot. I get up early, have tea, get dressed and try to write, hoping for small chucks of time where I am not thinking about anything but my characters. I go to the doctors, dentist, the store and some days I even laugh. I no longer sing. I still do my nails, my make-up and dick around with my hair. I have a girly-girl image to maintain and Bill would expect that. I spend money I can't afford for five minutes of pleasure. That seems minimal, but believe me five minutes is a long time now. Time is a strange thing. Each day feels like a year to get through, yet his death feels like it happened this morning. You can't trust time in any way. When you want it to hurry, it drags on endlessly, when you want to savor it, it's gone in a heartbeat. Time is a sneaky little prick who steals from you when you aren't looking. This week I see my grief counselor. I never want to go, but always feel a bit better after. She's lovely and easy to talk to. With her I can say whatever I want and she gets it. She's a blessing, one I needed badly. I don't mean to sound greedy, but I could use a few more. I would like to be blessed with a feeling of peace now and then. Maybe if I dragged myself to church for communion it would help, but again, I'm not feeling like God's best friend right now. I don't worry about being struck my lightening, I've done that and survived. It was easier than losing Bill by far. There's always a joke going around that God doesn't give you more than you can handle and that is God must think I'm a bad-ass. I used to think it was funny when I saw that posted around. Not any more. I am not a bad-ass. I am about as far from bad-ass as you can get. I'm a heart broken woman who lost the most precious gift she was ever given and has no hope of recovering it. I am a woman who's role in life no longer exists. Who am I?
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The music died for me six months ago. We had music at his funeral, of course we did. Songs he liked, songs to uplift us, I don't remember any of them. They played quietly in the background as people I hadn't seen for months, perhaps years, filed by offering condolences, hugs, tears. I stopped listening to music after that day. The bagpipes were the last, at least voluntarily. Music played in the stores around the holidays, but I tuned it out. I let the SiriusXM expire in my car. What was the point of keeping it? I didn't want to listen, didn't want to hear. I think we all have sort of a soundtrack to our lives. Songs take us away, bringing back memories, some painful, some joyous. It was only recently that I discovered a third option. After avoiding music like a dreaded disease, last week I was in the car with my daughters. I asked if there was a way to play the songs on my phone through the radio. Of course there was, and I didn't have to hook anything up, just press the Media button. (Who else buys a brand new car and never, not once, opens the manual? I don't care what the vehicle can do, other than it gets me from A to B.) Cathy asked me what I wanted to listen to and I said my playlist. Seriously, I had no idea what was on it. I'll bet I haven't listened to it in more than two years. I sort of put it on my iphone, just in case. So the music started, each song a surprise and a treasured memory. I kept driving and cried my eyes out.
"Mom, you don't have to do this," they said. "Yeah, I kind of do." So I listened, and I learned something in the process. It's all still true. I still feel the same way that I did when these songs first touched my heart. When Juice Newton belts out, 'The Sweetest Thing I've Ever Known Is Loving You', that's still true. Loving him was the sweetest thing I ever knew. When Clint and Lisa Black sing, "When I Said I Do", which was the ringtone I had for Bill, I still mean those words, "till the end of all time." He will always be 'My Valentine,' by Martina McBride. "You're all I need my love, My Valentine". He was the 'Morning Glory', and I the 'Midnight Sun', in Barbra Streisand's Evergreen, We were 'Islands in the Stream', by Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton, 'no one in between'. 'To Make You Feel My Love', was in there. I don't remember adding it. And Jodee Messina and Tim McGraw can 'Bring on the Rain,' because it's coming anyway. I've decided there will always be tears just waiting to fall. So,the music lives on, as well as the love. It's okay if I cry, because trying to shut out those feelings is painful too. The memories songs evoke are precious, making me think of better times, slow dancing in the dark, singing in the truck. I think I'll try to hang onto them. It's a struggle sorting through the things you want to forget and those you don't. The mind is powerful, but grief, now that's something else. At times I feel as though I'm still in shock, not fully comprehending that you are not coming back. It's especially difficult in the moments between sleep and wakefulness, early morning and the dark hours of the night.
It scares me when I have those momentary lapses. There are so many things I want to hang on to and when I forget you're gone, I'm afraid I'll forget all those things about you that are so very precious to me. I want to forget 'that day', but not what happened before. Those memories are special, the peace I felt that morning, sitting across from you at the table. Our quiet conversation, the color of the sky, the singing birds. I never want to let that go, never. I wish the rest of the day would disappear. I want to forget watching the light fade from your eyes, the screaming, crying and pure panic we all felt. The sight of the girls in the hall with their arms wrapped so tightly around each other. I want to forget the paramedics, the word, 'clear' over and over as they shocked you. I want to forget the look on your face, so empty, so placid. I know it was better than fear, oh God yes, I'm grateful for that. But seeing you so still, so without fight, me so without hope, yes that can go. I want to forget the hospital. The sight of you when they called brought me in, the tubes, the blood, the nurse saying over and over, 'no pulse' as they pushed on your chest. I want to forget that you were in the same room as Dad when he had the massive stroke that took his life. I very much want to forget telling them to stop. I know I was the only one who could make that decision, but still, I wish I could un-hear so many things and that is one of them. "Not enough to sustain life" is another one. So here's my problem, honey, what I worry about. I try to hard to bury those memories, push them so deep inside I never have to think about them again, I worry about them taking the good things with them. I never, never want to forget your deep voice, or the twinkle in your blue eyes. I never want to forget your hands, the strength and tenderness in them. I never want to forget the way it felt when you wrapped those massive arms around me, or kissed my hair, or patted my ass. Or how you always, always made me tea while I was in the shower and touched me whenever I was in grabbing distance. I don't want to forget how you smell, the feel of your hair, or your soft beard. I want to remember all of that, you making me laugh even during the toughest times, like the time we went to the school for one of the kids and you never said a word, not one word. I was so mad. When she left the room, I said the principal probably thought you were deaf and mute. Okay, you said. When she comes back I don't want you to say one word. I'll do all the talking and she'll really think we're strange and let the kid off easy. I did it, but it was all I could do not to laugh. God, you were such a genius at messing with people and damn you sucked me in so many times and I ruined your jokes. You'd just give me that look that said 'Really? I almost had them." I don't want to forget that, or how happy you made me. You made life fun. I'd very much like to forget the first time I went into your room after they took your leg. You don't remember it and I'm so glad about that, but even though I knew you were going into surgery with two legs and coming out with one, I was still not prepared for seeing you in that bed. My heart was breaking. I could almost hear it. To see you laid so low was devastating, but I picked my chin up and carried on as we always did. I was so proud of you, so amazed when they said you had so much strength you didn't have to go to rehab. I could take you home. Remember they sent the lift, but you never used it. My tough guy refused to depend on anything but himself with a little help from me and the kids. I guess it was a good thing we didn't know then what was ahead. So I guess I have to figure this out, how to keep the good and 86 the bad. I pray about it, but when I start listing the things I want to keep I always cry. You know how that works out. My chest starts hurting and then I can't breathe, well you've held me through enough of those you know how messy it can be. I don't like falling asleep like that, even though I know that sometimes in the morning I sense we've been talking in my dreams. It's almost as though I can hear you laughing, but then I wake up and remember you're not really here. You know, not for nothing, it's probably a good thing you did go first, because I'm not sure you would survive this if the shoe were on the other foot. Not that I'd ever underestimate your strength, but really this is beyond endurance at times and we both know I was the really tough one. Sorry, just kidding. We both know the truth, you were my rock, the mountain behind me as I bulldozed my way though life. I don't have that strength anymore. I miss you like crazy. Stay close honey, I need to feel you around me. So far, it's been a rough week. I've purposely tried to keep to myself, in fact I haven't left the house. With Valentine's Day yesterday and my birthday coming up on Friday, I just needed some space, to grieve, to reflect, to be alone. I've been writing like crazy, using that to try and keep my mind off what was, and what should have been. It's very hard. Today was another morning I woke up crying. I know I must be dreaming of Bill, but I can never remember the dream. Most of the time I just get up. Staying in bed is pointless. It was still dark out when I made my tea. I woke Aislinn to get ready for school and sat at the table waiting for the dawn, thankful that Valentine's Day was behind me. I was going to go with my daughter, Cathy, this afternoon, but we've been having trouble with the furnace and Papa Chuck and JoJo were coming over so he could look at it. All day I had trouble with my phone. Every time I picked it up there was a big white musical note on the screen. I know I have music on my iPhone, but I never listen to it, in fact I don't listen to any music right now, so I couldn't understand why I couldn't get rid of the note and only have my home screen. I did everything I could think of. I closed all my apps, more than once. I shut the phone down, well just everything to get rid of it, but it wouldn't budge. Great, I thought, another thing that isn't working properly. My granddaughter came out and I handed it to her. Please get rid of this, I asked. She has an iPhone also and knows them inside and out. Caitie did everything she could think of and nothing worked. I guess you'll just have to listen to it, she said handing it back to me. This is what played. I wasn't familiar with this song and looked it up. It was recorded the year I was born, 1955.
Needless to say I cried my eyes out. If anyone could say they love you after death, it was Bill. When Cathy got home she showed me a picture she took at the end of the road. There floating in the cold air right in front of her car was a shiny, red, heart-shaped balloon. We live in an extremely rural area. The odds of seeing something like that are a million to one. Thanks for reminding me how much you love me, baby. I needed this so badly. I was blessed to have you in my life, and you continue to touch my heart. It means so much to know you're still around. Just like my ring says, 'Until we meet again', you are forever in my heart. My new year didn't start on January 1st, 2017. My new year started on September 7, 2016, the day after Bill died. Since then it's been one first after another. Everything in my mind is associated with that date. Each important day that comes after is an unknown, a chance to climb the hill, or wallow in the pit of despair. Sometimes, I climb. At first I thought that each milestone would bring a sense of satisfaction. I survived! I am a survivor! That didn't happen. You have no choice but to survive. It's not a conscious effort. The day will come and go whether you want it to or not. You will continue to breath whether you want to or not. You have done nothing note worthy, nothing to pat yourself on the back for. At the end of the day, as you lay in your lonely bed, you acknowledge that the day has passed, and you are still here. There have been many firsts for me in 'my' year. Our anniversary, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, the birthdays of three of our children, have all passed, quietly tip-toeing by with little fanfare. Watching White Christmas and Meet Me In St. Louis, two of my favorite holiday movie without him, a painful first. Other firsts include, buying my first new car, buying tires for that same damn car, buying new doors for the house, new bedroom furniture, and a lot of other stuff I would have discussed with Bill or he would have handled. Did I need all those things? Who the hell knows. Going through the entire NFL season without watching even one game was a first. Not having a huge Superbowl party was a first. Instead I went to the pub with my sisters-in-law, another first. I haven't been in a bar in probably 20 years and never walked in alone. Well, one time I did when I wanted to make Bill mad, but I was about 18, so it really doesn't count. Today was the first birthday party of 2017 for one of our grandchildren. She's 11 now and so beautiful, but there will be many more birthday's to follow in 2017. Never have I gone alone before, another first. This week is Valentine's Day and then my birthday. He won't be here to wait up until 12:01, so he can be the first person to wish me Happy Valentine's or Happy Birthday. I'm fairly certain this week will be a 'wallow' week. I'm angry and bitter, something that I didn't believe would happen, but apparently these grief people know what they are talking about. I also find the my bullshit tolerance is 0%. At times I feel quite mean, so I stay in my room or office and try not to subject others to my moods. I finally heard him, another first. I have been praying to hear him, or feel him around me for months. This may sound a little crazy, but I have spoken to spirits before. My father yelled at me for days after his death! I thought he'd never shut up, but Bill maintained his silence. It's funny, but on the way to the pub that night I expected to hear Bill's deep voice booming, "Oh hell no! You are not going into that bar", but there was dead silence in the car. I don't turn on the radio. I'm afraid a song will come on that will make me sad, so not a single peep out of him. Later that night when I went to bed he spoke to me, and no I wasn't drunk. Two Bud Lights and a Pepsi. I was planning to fly to South Carolina at the end of the month to spend a few days with his sisters. He said, 'I don't want you to go. This is where you belong, where you feel safe. It's too soon.' I was very near sleep and I remember whispering okay. Then a feeling of peace swept through me and I must have immediately fallen asleep. The next morning, I was trying to get it straight in my head. Did that really happen? Did I dream it? It didn't feel like a dream, it felt like he was lying beside me. Should I go or not? Then it occurred to me that for months I'd been praying to hear from him, and the first time I did, I wasn't sure I liked what he said, lol. Sort of like the old, "Does this look okay? Does it make my ass look fat?" "It looks fine and no it doesn't." "I think I'll change." You want to hear, but you want it be something you want to hear. I canceled my trip. So, for the next week or so I'm going to be keeping a very low profile. I might even be prostrate with grief, but that's okay too. I don't want to be on Facebook seeing all the romance jazz, the hearts and flowers, the sexy pics, I just want to be alone and not ruin anyone's enjoyment of the holiday. As far as my birthday, it won't bother me to skip it, in fact I think I'll just stay the same age for another year or two. I've already received a couple of lovely gifts from my sister and my niece, a tiny God necklace with six Tanzanite stones to represent my troubles and a lock of Bill's hair that she clipped sometime during the funeral and wrapped in a braided cord. I love them both and the hair is amazing, or it was until I rubbed it so long between my fingers it started to pull apart. I put it back in the beautiful heart shaped trinket box. Another niece sent me a card and this was the quote she wrote inside: "She made broken look beautiful, and strong look invincible. She walked with the universe on her shoulders and made it look like a pair of wings." Isn't that just the most beautiful thing she could have said? It so touched my heart and made me cry. I don't feel beautiful or invincible. In fact, it shocks me when people say they admire my strength. I don't see it, I really don't. I feel weak and shaken, heartbroken and lonely in a way that is impossible to describe. I hope someday I will be that person they admire so. Day 142, Pass The Wine Please It doesn’t seem possible, but the calendar doesn’t lie. I will tell you, time does not fly. It drags its feet making each empty day seem like an eternity, each lonely night a dreaded minefield of memories, tears and nightmares.
I stay up late, only venturing to my room when I am staggering with exhaustion and holding onto the wall for support. And I have to say that my favorite channel, TCM, has had the most abysmal programming for January in history. One of the last gifts Bill bought me was a two year subscription to their movie guide. February seems to look a little more promising and of course tomorrow is Debbie Reynolds day, so that will help. I just love her, always have, but I’m a little jealous that she was able to check out so quickly after she lost her beloved daughter, Carrie Fisher. Of course, poor Debbie never had a decent marriage, so maybe she deserved a break for all the crap she put up with in this life. I had my second visit with my grief counselor. She’s really a lovely person and easy to talk to. I could go more often, but don’t seem to have the energy. I also wanted to wait until after January 14th for my next appointment. That was the day of the fireman’s banquet. They invited my family as they planned to honor Bill’s service. I was beside myself, terrified of having a complete and total meltdown in front of everyone. In fact I didn’t want to go, not at all, not ever. Unfortunately, I could not bring myself to disrespect Bill in that way, nor did I want to insult those who sought to remember him. I spent the morning crying, hoping to get it out of my system, had a mini crisis when I could not find my black stockings to wear with my skirt, and flipped when one of my heels seemed too big. Apparently, when you lose weight, your feet get smaller too? Who knew? In the end it went much better than I’d anticipated. There were a couple of people there Bill worked with who did not know of his passing and they were so very kind, reminding me of how loved he was and that he always made everyone laugh with his country boy sense of humor. He had a way of cutting to the chase and making the absurdities of life laughable. The department presented me with a desk clock that has Bill’s picture when he was Chief and a lovely little plaque attached with a memorial saying honoring him as Past Chief and a Lifetime Member. The food was good, I had a Bud Light and a half, decided I could easily get plastered and that a DUI was not in my best interest. Also, no one likes a miserable, snot-nosed drunk, so I stopped and switched to coffee. Bill would have been proud of me. On a side note, the casino sent me a card in the mail this week giving me a free electric wine bottle opener. I had no idea they made them or why anyone would need one, but I called and reserved mine anyway. My sister suggests White Zinfandel by Barringer or Muscato by Cupcake. They are both on my list of possible sleep aids or I may use them to help me write really sexy shit, enough to get me off the ‘sweet authors’ list. We’ll see. Getting back to the whole grief thing, I know I said earlier that I was not angry with God and at the time I believed it. I’m grateful he took Bill quickly. I’m grateful he did not know what hit him and that we did not have to watch him suffer for days or weeks on life-support, although he did his share of suffering, horrible suffering with the Gangrene and loss of his leg and independence. That sucked, and he didn’t deserve that, at all! Anyway, if wasn’t until a couple of weeks ago that I realized I was rushing through my prayers each night. Really rushing, like when you run into someone you don’t really want to talk to, but are forced by good manners to blah, blah, blah… “Sorry, gotta run.” I used to talk to God at great length and in great detail. I mentioned the names of every one of my kids, grand-kids, family, friends I was worried about etc. I thanked him for every little thing in my life, every blessing, each day of happiness. I prayed for his protection for my loved ones and asked for his blessing and guidance when making difficult decisions. It was a Marathon. I would fall asleep, wake up, not remember where I was and start over. Now it’s a Sprint. It goes sort of like this, and very fast. “Thanks for my kids, grandkids, sons and daughters in law, sisters, brothers, nieces and nephews, friends. Thanks for the years I had with Bill, even though you cut them short. Please give me strength, courage and faith to carry on. Thanks for the roof over our heads, food, clothing, heat. Thanks for all our blessings. Please help all those who are sick, suffering, homeless, hopeless, fearful, depressed or mentally ill, alone and feeling like no one hears their prayers. Amen.” Then there is The Lord’s Prayer, which is supposed to be the be all and end all, covering every possible thing that could happen. Amen, Jesus, The End. This is anger. Maybe not in the “God, how could you! How dare you! Irate way I felt in 1991 when Bill got sick and nearly died during his heart surgery, but it’s anger nonetheless. I’m not saying what I’m thinking, “You really pissed me off”, “How could you take my best friend, the reason I got up every morning?” or “What the fuck am I supposed to do now?” I hear his answer, of course, “What part of ‘till death do you part’ didn’t you understand?” “Well, I guess I didn’t understand how it applied to me and Bill. I don’t understand how or why you would rip apart a couple that was still so crazy in love after all these years. A couple who fought through the tough times and came out the other side still mad for each other; A couple that sort of set the standard for what love is supposed to look like? A couple who couldn’t bear to be apart for a few hours, let alone 142 days!” So yes, I am angry and disgustingly jealous of couples I see walking together, holding hands, kissing. I also want to walk up and slap the ones who are arguing in public, humiliating themselves and embarrassing the ones around them. I want to walk up to them and say, “You’re a couple of morons! Don’t you know what you have, how blessed you are?” I know plenty of men I would generously classify as ‘worthless wastes of space’. Why are they still here and yet Bill is gone? Bill! A man who would give his life for another, a man who once rushed into a burning building with nothing but a handkerchief over his mouth because someone told him there was a person inside. Bill, a man who ran to the fire barn in his socks to answer a call, a man who’s beard and eyebrows I thawed out with a hairdryer after fighting a barn fire all night in -20 weather. Bill, a man who drove a thousand miles to help my sister move when she couldn’t find anyone else and couldn’t afford to hire anyone. Where is the justice in this? So yeah, I think it’s safe to surmise that anger has finally arrived. I’m definitely going to need that wine! Some of you will totally get this; others will think I’m off my rocker. Most mornings I sit at the table and watch the daybreak. It’s not sunrise here in the northeast. There is no brilliant burst of color as the sun breaks over the horizon. Instead, it’s a gradual lightening of the sky from black to gray. Occasionally there are streaks of pale blue and pink, but that’s not the norm. This morning I thought about normal and what it means. People use the expression ‘a new normal’ and that’s not really right. There is nothing remotely normal about life now. I wanted to find a way, an analogy, to explain the way it feels to someone who has not been in my shoes and decided the closest I could come is coffee. Yeah, I know, but it works for me. Coffee is an intrinsic part of our lives whether we realize it or not. Most people don’t give it much thought, unless they happen to wake up and find they are out of it. We think we are a big deal when we drink our first cup, usually as a teenager It’s a milestone, a signal to others we’re grown up, becoming worldly. Our friends invite us to ‘meet for coffee’, ‘grab a coffee’. Sometimes our first date as an adult involves meeting someone for ‘coffee’ as a noncommittal way to sort of size each other up. Bill actually proposed to me in a cheesy diner shaped like a silver train car as we drank coffee from heavy, chipped mugs. It’s one of my best memories. The aroma of coffee lures us from under our warm covers on a cold winter day. We depend on it, take it for granted. It’s readily available. Make a pot, pop in a k-cup or run by the drive through at a Dunkin or Starbucks. No big deal. Coffee wakes us up. It makes things seem normal. We reach for it at work when we’re feeling tired or pressured. It helps us get through the day. At the end of a meal we savor it, or sometimes it is the meal when there’s no time in our busy lives to grab something else. Inevitably, during times of great distress or tragedy, someone will put a cup in our hands. We hold it, letting the warmth seep into our hands, the steam rises. We may not drink it, but it’s a comfort nonetheless, a small piece of normal. Coffee is usually the first thing you offer a guest in your home. I used to brew pot after pot while hordes of firemen sat around our kitchen table discussing every topic under the sun. We gather around the table and drink it when times are good, and bad, but we don’t really think about it, or appreciate it. Now suppose tomorrow morning you wake up and there is no coffee. There’s no coffee because it no longer exists. Period! You can’t run to the store to buy some. There are no coffee shops. It’s just gone, forever. Never again will you smell that aroma, although you remember it oh so well. You’ll never hold that warm cup in your hands; never close your eyes before taking that first sip. You’ll never softly blow across the top to cool it and never sigh in satisfaction as your mouth holds it for a second before swallowing. You won’t sink back into your chair and relax with this simple, normal act. It will not be there to comfort you, reminding you that some things never change. Nor will it be there to pick you up when you’re dragging and think you can’t get through another minute of the day. It will not sooth your frazzled nerves as you add just the right amount of sugar and the perfect portion of cream making it the warm, golden color you love. You will not stare into it while you make small talk, as though it holds the secrets of the universe. You will not pull over at a truck stop, where they have the best coffee in the world, and take a break from your travels. Coffee no longer exists. (You’re horrified, I know you are. Don’t try to deny it.) Would you be sad? Angry? Feel cheated? Would you be like, ‘what the fuck’? This is bullshit! “I want my damn coffee, and I want it now!” Now multiply that feeling by a million. That is sort of what it feels like to be a widow. I’ve been told there are no words to describe the pain and it’s true. Of course, being who I am, I have to at least attempt it. We take our loved ones for granted. I think it’s human nature. They are such a part of our lives we often overlook all the things they do for us, all the tiny kindnesses that make life ‘normal’, a touch, a kiss, a whispered, I love you. Then suddenly, without warning, they no longer exist. We remember every detail, right down to their scent. We smell their clothes still hanging in the closet, their pillow. We open their aftershave and sniff or spray their deodorant into the air. We touch the things they touched daily, trying to keep the connection. I still have the last cigarette Bill smoked sitting in an ashtray in my office. It was minutes before he died and I pity the one who ever foolishly throws it away. It was the last thing his lips touched, and yes, in case you’re wondering, I have put my lips on it. He swore he’d smoke until the day he died and he did. For some this would be a problem, for me it’s not. He went out on his terms, his way, quick and after having smoked a cigarette. It’s the way he would have wanted it. I’m seeing a grief counselor now. I don’t know how much she can help me, but I’m open-minded. There are things no one can help me with. They can’t help me stop missing him. They can’t help me feel ‘normal’. There is no normal. Everything is different. Stupid things annoy me. Yesterday I cleaned out the fridge and threw out a container of spaghetti sauce with big links of hot sausage still in it. That would never happen if Bill were alive. At the casino the other day I bought a sausage with peppers and onions. It was fabulous and I felt guilty for eating it, even though I grabbed it on the way out from a cart as I hadn’t eaten since…well I actually don’t remember. We don’t really cook here anymore. I can’t bring myself to make chili or other things Bill loved and most of what we eat is already prepared or sandwiches. Breakfast is a six pack of peanut butter crackers, three for me and three for Max, my black lab. Our daughter had surgery the other day. It was tough not having Bill with me. Just his presence was always reassuring. Nothing bad could happen as long as he was with me. I find myself nervous when I’m out alone, but I force myself to go anyway. I used to talk to everyone, now I avoid looking at people and go about my business. I hope this is not part of the ‘new normal’. Talking on the phone is difficult. Invariably whoever took the time to call wants to know ‘how I am’. This is a double edged sword. Do they really want to know? Am I supposed to say fine? Should I tell the truth, that I am a shattered, broken woman who has no idea who she is anymore? I’ve never been alone, not for any of my life. I’m scared and waiting for the next horrendous wave of grief to swallow me whole. One part of me is thankful that they took the time to call, thought about me today. Another part of me wants to say, thanks for reminding me that my life sucks and that I’m so full of sorrow I can hardly breathe. One of the reasons I agreed to see the counselor is that I’m no comfort to anyone. I have family who are grieving terribly. Children and grandchildren who need me to be able to console them and I can’t. I can’t even comfort myself. I hope she can help me with that. So, if you’ve read this uplifting post, (not!) I will say a few positive things. I don’t cry every day anymore, at least not all day long. I laugh. This is a huge deal! I am able to talk about him and the things we did that brought us joy. There is always a certain amount of sadness associated with this, but in the end it helps to remember the good times, and there were many. I sleep. Not great, but at this point any sleep is a good thing. Last night I watched the last five minutes of the Seahawks and Lions game. It’s the first part of any game I’ve watched all season, which is a big deal considering we have NFL Sunday ticket. We were big football fans and usually have a Superbowl party. I won’t do that, but there’s a chance I may quietly watch the game, maybe. Many people have reached out to me, family, friends, authors, fans and even some who have never read my books. I want you all to know that I appreciate it and love you for it, even though I’m sure I seem like an ungrateful bitch wallowing in self-pity. My counselor says this is one time I don’t have to ‘suck it up’ or put on my ‘big girl panties’. That was good to hear. Hugs, Stevie It’s over. Christmas has been survived. I actually think the hoopla and pre-Christmas stress was worse than the day itself. The kids and grandkids helped keep my mind of losing you, at least for a little while. We have a new grandson, he’s adorable and a wedding to look forward to, so that’s different. All the kids asked what I wanted for Christmas weeks ago. What could I say? I asked for a set of rain guards for my car windows and a pair of opera glasses. Your binoculars are too heavy and awkward for me to hold for long. You’ll be amused to know I didn’t get either, lol. Not that I care. They are nothing I can’t buy for myself. Here’s what I really wanted: I want to hear your voice, “Come here, Girly Girl”. I want to feel your arms around me, gathering me close. I want to rest my head on your chest and listen to your heart ticking away like a clock, assuring me your valve is working. I want to touch your soft beard. I want to smell you, the same cologne you’ve used since the early seventies. So many times I wanted to be absorbed into your body, like osmosis. I wanted to melt into you, literally, until there was one person instead of two. I wanted to be inside you where I would be safe and protected always. You always understood when I said that to you; Never looked at me as though I was a nut, just held me closer. I want to be in the cellarway of my mother’s house, standing on the second step so we are face to face. I want to feel your hand cupping the back of my head as you kiss me senseless. I want to see the humor and satisfaction in your eyes when I come up for air. I think you were proud you could reduce me to a puddle of goo. I want to see the smile in your eyes and hear you snort when you are trying not to laugh at me for doing something stupid. I want to hear you laugh out loud when my jeans fall off because I refuse to get rid of my ‘fat’ clothes. I love them and won’t get rid of them until they are rags, which isn’t far off, but you get it. “You might want to think about getting a belt,” you say as you pull them up for me because my hands are full. “Too bad you bought new panties,” you sigh. I want to feel you kiss my hand, the back and then the palm before you cup it to your cheek and tell me I mean more to you than anything in the world. I want to feel you reach back and pat my ass before going to sleep as though to reassure yourself that I’m there. I want to slip my hand under your pillow in the night, knowing I won’t disturb you, but the weight of your body tells me you’re next to me. Most of all I want to take the memories and pictures in my mind and print them out like photographs so I’ll never forget what it felt like, how loved I was, how much I loved you. I look at the forty plus years of ornaments we’ve collected and the gold angel wings we put on the tree last year in memory of our parents. I never imagined we’d need a set for you before the next Christmas came around. I hope I never have to put another pair of wings on the tree. The kids can do that when I’m gone. We didn’t decorate much this year, just the bare necessities for the grandkids not to notice. No manger, no village, no wreath on the door. We didn’t even light the big tree outside that now looks more like a squash than a tree when the lights are on because we never got around to fixing them before you left in such a hurry. I sort of feel like it’s pretty un-Christian like of me, not doing all those things and not going to church Christmas Eve. I just couldn’t honey, I was too emotional. I know I should have been celebrating Christ’s birth and all that means regarding us being together again in Heaven, but I’ll just have to pray for forgiveness. It’s not like I haven’t done worse things, like the skinny dipping incident after Carolyn’s wedding. Lord knows I prayed about that for weeks. So, I’m pretty sure you already know all these things, like how much I love and miss you, and how lonely I am without you, but I also figure there’s not much you can do about it. I’m kind of on my own with this one baby, not something I’m used to for sure. I guess I’ll either survive without you or I won’t. There are no other options that I can see. Some days I feel like I’m going to be okay, others, like today, my heart hurts so much I think I’m on my way even as I type. In any case I won’t know any more than you did. I try to think if there is anything we’d have done differently had we known that morning would be our last. I don’t think there is. Even now it sometimes seems as though I dreamt it and it’s not really true. Oh how I wish that were so. I have to assume you’re gloriously happy in heaven and seriously, I don’t resent you for that at all. After everything you suffered there isn’t a man who deserves it more than you do honey. I just wish there had been more I could have done for you down here. Holding you while you shook in agony nearly killed us both. There I was trying to get my arms around you to stop you from shaking and there you were patting my hand trying to comfort me. What a pair, huh? I’m glad you were not in that kind of pain ‘that’ day. I’m glad it was quick and I don’t have to remember seeing fear or uncertainty in your eyes. I get up early now. Funny huh considering you were always sunlight and I was moonlight? I used to hate it when you would throw open the curtains and tell me to “Wake up, it’s gonna be a golden day.” I know I threatened you with assorted forms of torture as I pulled the covers over my head. Now I get up to watch the day break. I can’t really call it sunrise. There is no glorious burst of color over the horizon here in the northeast, at least not often. No, it’s sort of a gradual lightening from black to gray. I sit in your chair. I can’t stand to see it empty. I wait for the birds to become visible in the dim light as they come to the feeders. The other day Caitie was up with me as we quietly waited for daybreak. “Grampa had the best chair in the house,” she said. “He could see down the road through the huge picture window and see the birds as they make their way from the pine trees to the feeders. And he could see you, Gramma.” It never occurred to me that I was part of your view as you were part of mine. We did a good job with her, Bill. She has heart and empathy. Her words are eloquent in a way she doesn’t even realize. So, it’s on to the New Year. I don’t expect anything different, any miracles. I think we had ours, for finding you, loving you was surely more than I deserved. From 16 to 61 you took care of me in every possible way. I’m not doing a very good job of that without you, but maybe I’ll get better. I think you taught me everything I need to know about love, about life, I guess my heart needs to heal a little before I can put all that good ‘country boy’ knowledge to use. I love and miss you, my love, more than words can say. Merry Christmas. Your Girly Girl P.S. B came this morning with a gift he and Dawn forgot to bring yesterday. A small pair of binoculars. It’s not hard to believe it’s been 100 days since Bill died. I feel it every day, remember it nearly every moment of my existence. He’s gone. I think my heart has accepted it. I know this because of the constant pain in my chest. I always thought ‘a broken heart’ was a metaphor. It’s not. There is physical pain, an aching pressure that never goes away. At times it’s difficult to speak, swallow, and breathe.
I avoid the phone. I know this sounds terrible. People are calling to ask how I am and I should answer, but I have no answers, at least not ones they want to hear or one that I’m comfortable talking about. I am Humpty Dumpty, all the king’s horses and all the king’s men… It’s funny really, Bill could fix anything. Give him some Elmer’s glue and he was on it. Once he broke our toilet with a snake while trying to unclog it. I’m sure one of the kids flushed something down it. I heard some magnificent swearing coming from the bathroom and went in to find a gaping hole in the front curve of the bowl and Bill holding a piece about 6-8 inches in diameter. “Holy crap, how did that happen?” I cried. “We can’t afford a new toilet.” “Don’t panic. I can fix this,” he promised. And he did fix it, with Elmer’s glue after taking it off and drying it good. Then he glued it and put one of those big clamp-on lights shining directly on it until it dried. “It’ll never hold,” I scoffed. It did hold, in fact I don’t think we ever replaced it and eventually we moved. The kids thought their daddy could fix anything and because of that I had a hard time explaining death. When Jeremy stuck a spoon into an electric outlet and shocked himself good, turning the spoon and part of his fingers black I told them how dangerous it was and how he could have been killed. He didn’t believe me. “My daddy can fix anything.” When B.J. cut the 220 dryer cord in half with a pair of pliers, blowing every breaker in the house I was terrified, sure I’d find him dead after hearing him scream from the back room. He was all right. Thank God he chose a pair of rubber gripped pliers or he would have been killed. I had the death conversation with him again. His reply, “Don’t worry mom, my daddy can fix anything.” I don’t think they began to understand the permanency of death until we lost a puppy. This stray had a death wish of his own. He was cute as a button and constantly getting into trouble. He got tangled in a fishing pole and hooked snooping around the shed. Another day I was carrying groceries into the house and a bag ripped. A glass jar of baby food went crashing to the stone steps and before I could set the bag down, the puppy was on it, licking the food and glass while I hollered my head off. Finally one day Bill stopped on his way back from a call with the firetruck. I don’t remember what he wanted to tell me or pick up but he pulled the truck in the yard and came inside. Of course all the kids wanted to get close to it and did. The puppy did too, crawling under the truck and laying down behind a tire. When Bill went out he counted heads and waved the kids back. He never knew the puppy was under the truck and when he pushed in the clutch to start the truck he rolled back and over the puppy. The poor thing died instantly. Bill felt horrible and of course the kids, neighbor kids and I were all screaming. “There,” I said,crying my eyes out, “that’s dead and daddy can’t fix it. Do you understand now that some things can’t be fixed?” It was a hard lesson. I’ve never forgotten it and I’m pretty sure the kids haven’t either. Bill went and got a shovel and buried the dog out back. The kids had a suitable funeral and made a marker. In a way I felt bad for them. They suddenly realized their father was not invincible. He was not a superhero who could turn the world backwards like Superman to avoid disasters. On the other hand I was relieved that now when I said not to do something dangerous I had a chance they would listen to me, at least until they were teenagers and knew everything, not to mention being immortal. Despite that early lesson as time passed and they grew into adults with children of their own, they always turned to their father for advice and help. I was the finance person. If they called for money he would always say, “Ask your mother.” Anything else was his department. He could diagnose car problems over the phone from thousands of mile away. “Take the phone outside and let me listen to the motor,” he’d say. Just by the sound he often knew what the problem was. He talked my brother-in-law, not a mechanic by any means, through changing his own brakes, step by step from three thousand miles away. When the internet became a big deal I wanted him to start a business. I figured there were so many people who needed to learn to make small repairs to their vehicles and he had a wealth of information and the patience of a saint. (Most of the time) How many times have you wished you knew a mechanic you could call for advice? He would have made a fortune, but he wasn’t interested. He wasn’t particularly fond of talking on the phone and he said between working his regular job and taking care of me, the kids, his family, he didn’t have time. He was probably right. I guess where I’m going with this is that some things cannot be fixed, even by the most patient person with the best glue in the world. My heart is one of these things. Shortly before she died a little over a week ago, (another heartbreaker), I talked for the last time with my dear friend, Jan Pereira. I told her that I was sort of checking off milestones. Get through our anniversary. Get through Thanksgiving. Get through Christmas, etc. So far it wasn’t working. Yes I might make it through the day or event, but as soon as it was over I was right back where I started. Here’s what she said to me: “You’ll never get through it. It doesn’t go away; it’s forever so stop trying so hard. Most people survive it, some don’t, but most do and you will too. The grief will never leave you, it’s part of you now. You can’t escape it; only keep yourself busy if you can. In time you may go a day without crying, but you will never stop missing him so badly you want to die.” Jan was dying, soon. She’d been dying since the day I met her. Right up front she said, “I love your books. Hurry up and write another, I don’t have a lot of time.” We bonded instantly. My mother died of what was killing Jan. Her husband died and I was living in fear of losing Bill. We had a lot in common and she was such a ‘real’ person, I could tell her anything. I listened to her fears, regrets and let her talk to me about her coming death. My regrets were that when my mother was dying, we didn’t talk about it, not really. We both knew how limited her time was, yet I was in my bed crying and she in hers. We didn’t want to make it worse on each other. Jan helped me heal from that. She was in the same place my mother had been. She didn’t want to burden her children and make it worse for them, so she talked to me. By taking with and listening to Jan I was finally able to forgive myself for keeping all my pain to myself. I was able to let it go. Jan was a remarkable person who always made me laugh. Often we would laugh and cry at the same time. She flew in to visit us for a weekend and I tried to come up with interesting places to take her. “No,” she said. “I came to see you, to spend time with you. I don’t care about any of that other stuff. Show me your office. Tell me how you think up all these stories. I want to get inside your head.” So we ate takeout, talked and talked and watched Frozen with my granddaughter. I was so sorry to see her leave when the weekend was over and regret how long it took me to repay the visit. I never made it to her house until shortly before she died. I’m so glad I went. At our last conversation I asked her to find Bill when she got to heaven and tell him to come and see me. “I will if I can,” she replied. “I want you to come to me too,” I said, hugging her gently. “Tell me how I’ll know it’s you.” “You’ll feel a breeze across your cheek, as though I’ve kissed you,” she promised. God, how much can hearts take? I remember rushing to finish, The O’Malley Brides with her nipping at my heels, lol. It turned out she lived through 10 more books, but she never stopped using her approaching death to hurry me along. Once she asked me why authors used such awful names now. “Why don’t they use normal names so women can pretend to be the character?” she asked. “If I don’t like the name, I just change it in my head to something I do like. Then I call them what I like as I read along.” “What names do you like, Jan?” I asked her. “Want me to write a book and name the characters Jan and Kenny?” “God no,” she laughed. “At least not until after I’m dead. I like Cheryl,” she answered. “Okay, I’m going to write a book and name the heroine, Cheryl.” And I did. Near the end she wanted me to send her something new I’d written. I hadn’t been writing much. The story about Maeve and Sean O’Malley, Kiss Me O’Malley, had sort of been on hold. It’s hard writing romance when you’ve drowning in grief. She asked me to send her what I’d written. She didn’t care if it wasn’t finished, so I did. When we went to visit her she’d had trouble downloading it and my daughter Cathy managed to get it on her Nook. She said she was going to read it, but she never did. The pain meds worked to keep her as free from pain as possible, but they also made her groggy and she couldn’t read. That last visit I told her I wanted to write a book about us, two women who met by chance on the internet and became the very best of friends. I wanted to know if she had any objections. I have hundreds of emails and messages and someday I hoped to put them into a book. In typical Jan fashion she replied, “What do I care, I’ll be dead.” Then she laughed. Lord, she was so brutally, refreshingly honest about everything. That is a rare quality in anyone. I’m truly missing her. She told me that eventually she’d see me in heaven. She and Kenny and Bill and I will be great friends and stay in a beach house. I looked at us and sort of snorted. “Don't worry, we’ll be 30, and hot,” she promised me. “We can cause lots of trouble.” It’s one of the rare things I’m looking forward to. Bill always said, “If you want to run with the big dogs, you gotta learn to pee in the tall grass.” If you’re not an analytical person, let me explain. Do you want to be brave, admired, respected? If so, you need to venture forth, take a chance, tough it out. Bill was like a German Shepard, big, strong, brave and fiercely loyal. He would defend his pack, (me, the kids, his family or anyone else lucky enough to be loved by him) with his life. He wasn’t afraid to take chances, but he was oh so smart in assessing the risks. Most people would see him as uneducated. He only went as far as his senior year in school before dropping out to help support his family, and truthfully because he wasn’t particularly fond of being told what to do and how to do it. He had a natural ability to fix or repair literally anything he took apart, including nearly any vehicle, motors, transmissions, washers, dryers, any electrical appliance, the list goes on. Once when I lost the only key to my VW Rabbit he installed an ordinary light switch, yes like the one you use to flip on a light in your house. When I wanted to start the car, I flipped the switch. I’m sure the insurance company would have frowned on this, but the odds of someone actually wanting to steal that car where about nil. While ‘uneducated’ he was one of the wisest men I know. He didn’t spend hours wondering about the mysteries of the universe. He didn’t plan each move to the tenth degree; he just did it what needed to be done and expected others to do the same. Bill was full of euphemisms and/or colloquialisms, some handed down from generations of other wise men and some that were uniquely his. Often they could be used in multiple circumstances. If I was sitting on his lap and nibbling his neck and he said, “Careful, you’re about to activate the launch sequence,” I was like, “yay, race you to the bedroom.” On the other hand he could say these same words in the middle of an argument and I would either back off or take a step into ‘the tall grass’, depending on my mood or how absolutely, positively sure I was right. I was never particularly fond of ‘the tall grass’ and I’m still not. While he was the leader of the pack, I’m more like the little Terrier, yapping encouragement from the sidelines. There are scary things in the tall grass, things that bite or slither across your paws. There could be holes out there, too big for me to get out of. Sharp sticks could poke me or I could get lost, not able to see my way. No, I’d much rather ‘do my business’ on a neatly manicured lawn, but the choice has been taken from me. I’m trying very hard to trust that he taught me all I needed to know. People constantly say that I’m brave or strong. They are so full of shit. *sorry, I love you all*. I’m completely terrified. I’m not brave, I think bravery is a choice and I didn’t make it. All this was thrust on me and I’m having a really hard time trying to understand that this is ‘God’s plan’ for me. I also worry about bushels of stupid shit. I believe in reincarnation. I can’t say why, (well I could but that would be a long post) I just do and I’ve often said that this life wasn’t Bill’s and my first rodeo. How could such love come from one lifetime? In any case it has occurred to me that he could be reincarnated before I get to heaven. Wouldn’t that just suck? Theoretically he could have come back very soon after his death, which could be the reason I don’t feel him around me. If that was the case, I have to die within the next five years or so to put us in the same age range. Or what if I came back as his kid sister or something? Ewww! I know that if I met him in another life, I would want him. See, these are the workings of a sick, grief-stricken mind. Last week I went to Lowes to get new doors. We had discussed this before his death and it was on our to-do list before winter. Events being what they were, I didn’t think about it until we got about 4 foot of snow dumped on us. I’m having a hard time making decisions, which is so crazy because I made lots of them while Bill was alive. The front door we had was beautiful with a large arch of beveled glass. It never bothered me that someone could ‘sort of’ see in, but it began to bother me after his death. I chose a new front door with a very small, narrow amount of beveled glass in a pretty pattern with brushed nickel metal running through it. For the back door I got stuck with a very basic nine light. I’m not crazy about it, but there weren’t many options for a short woman who needs to see where her dog is. I couldn’t fathom having to climb on a stool to look out one of those little windows at the top of a door. I bought the doors, not cheap by the way, but I did it. As soon as I got outside I began to cry. Did I do the right thing? Would he approve? Really? If he were alive he would have given me his opinion, but told me to get what I wanted in the end. Why now is it so important to get a door he would have liked? I know he would have liked it. The opening is narrow and he was a crazy man about my safety. Even if someone broke the glass they would have a very hard time getting their arm through the opening to get to the deadbolt, unless they were like 10 or something, and I figure at that age even I could take them down. Still, all that considered, I cried and wondered if I was going the right thing. I’m telling you grief will make you bat-shit crazy. On the way home I realized that this door was brushed nickel and all my handles and locks were brass to match the other door. Then it occurred to me that if I used the same locks and hardware one of the thousand keys that Caitlin lost over the last ten years could mysteriously show up and let some stranger into the house. So, it’s back to Lowes for new locks and deadbolts. Ugh! Cha-ching! Okay, all set, crying stopped, convinced myself Bill would approve of my choices and in fact be proud of me for being so smart and replacing the locks. Just for today, I was peeing in the tall grass. I pull into the driveway where Jeremy and Mike have the old door already out and immediately notice that my pretty outside lights are shiny, gold brass. Crap! Crap! Crap! I could have jumped up and down in frustration. More tears. At times I feel like someone has a Voodoo Doll of me. “Poke her, make her think of Bill and cry. Okay, stop, give her a break. Poke her again.” Grief is a rollercoaster run amuck. Someone can ask how I am, and I can say,-I’m fine. At other times a sympathetic glance will set me off and I’m shot for the rest of the day. I’m terrible about returning phone calls because I never know if I can carry on a sane, rational conversation. I can’t believe it’s been ninety days since Bill’s death. I figured it out, see bat-shit crazy, and I’ve taken roughly 2,592,000 breaths since he took his last. How is that possible when most of the time I feel like I can’t breathe? I’ll never be a German Shepard, never like peeing in the tall grass. I suppose with time I could be a Collie or something, maybe a Border collie, they’re pretty feisty. We had eight acres up here and are down to six after selling a couple off a few years ago. I’ve never walked our land. There are ticks, and bugs, broken trees and critters in those woods. I enjoy the wildlife, the turkey and deer, but through the window. We’ve had sightings of bear and big cats the last few years. In the Spring I may step into the tall grass with the big dog next door if he’s well enough to go with me. I'm pretty sure his wife can run with the big dogs and will likely go with us. I’d kind of like to see where I live. For now, I’ll only venture forth if forced. |
This page is now my blog/journal about Widowhood. I'm not qualified to give advice. I'm new at this. I don't want to be qualified. I don't want to be a widow, but no one asked me. These are my thoughts, fears and feelings. Please don't equate them as anything but that. Archives
October 2022
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