I come from a very spiritual family. At the risk of sounding like a crazy, driven insane by grief widow, I will tell you that I have and do talk to dead people. I have on occasion had spirited and at times quite loud conversations with people who have passed. Most of these are cordial and often helpful if you don't count my father who harped at me for days after his death because I was unable to prevent something he didn't want to happen. I mean the man was shouting at me day and night until finally, standing in my kitchen I yelled right back, OUT LOUD, that if he hadn't been such a stubborn and secretive man I might have been able to help him. I informed him in no uncertain terms that none of this was my fault and that if he didn't stop yelling at me I was going to get really, really mad. Needless to say he hasn't spoken to me sense, but he always could hold a grudge. My mother died in my home and her spirit was quite present for a long while. She rang doorbells, made battery operated puppies that are only supposed to bark when petted bark, turned lights off and on and frequently freaked me out by sitting on the side of my bed. My two year old granddaughter had extensive conversations with her to the point that when I would ask who she was talking to she would say, "Gramma Myrna" and I would say "Tell her I said hi." She also saved our lives. One night in the middle of the night our box fan that was on the floor fell over with a crash. I got up, checked it out and set it back up. As soon as I got back in bed it fell over again. It was about one in the morning and everyone was asleep. I got up and fixed it but I found it strange and said, "Mom, if that's you, do it again." She did. Figuring something was very wrong I began checking the house. In our youngest son's bedroom I found that his lamp had fallen over on his desk and the shade was smoldering. It was also laying on a stack of school papers. Believe me, I could go on and on, but I won't. I'm no Theresa Caputo, but suffice it to say that I was surprised and slightly hurt when I did not even feel Bill's presence after he died. I expected to, we were so close, and others did, but not me. I felt completely abandoned. For the first three weeks I wanted to die, and frankly I almost did. I do believe you can sort of will yourself to die. I wasn't eating, barely sleeping and sicker than hell. My daughter called an ambulance when my blood pressure dropped to 70/50 and I couldn't get out of bed. I expected him to come and get me, but again, no Bill. I started to get better, much to my dismay. It was my sister Linda who pointed out the power of prayer. She came often, listening to me weep, crying with me. "He's hear", she assured me. "I can feel him". "I can't," I sobbed. "I pray every night for him and I ask God not to let him see me like this. It would hurt him to see me in such pain." "Well stop praying for that," she insisted. I think she may have rolled her eyes, but I can't prove it. That night when I went to bed I prayed for Bill as always. I prayed he was happy in heaven, seeing his parents, teasing my mom and talking about muscle cars with his buddies that went before him. I thanked God for our years together even though I felt they'd been cut short and asked for the strength to get through this. Then I began talking to Bill. "What's with the Endless Love stuff?" I asked. (Our daughter had been walking around singing that song for days off and on and when I asked her what she was doing she said her father was in her head telling her to sing it and frankly he was driving her crazy.) "Listen," I said. "If you want me to believe it's you, you have to let me pick the song. I mean that's a nice song, but it's not exactly our style." He didn't answer and I lay there for a long time trying to think of a song we both loved that no one else would ever think of. It couldn't be something we played or from our wedding or anything like that. It couldn't be 'When I Said I Do', my ringtone for him, or his ringtone for me. It had to be something just between him and me. Finally I decided. "I want the song from Hope Floats," I whispered. "Show me that song." I fell asleep. The next afternoon I was looking on Amazon for some new pictures for our bedroom. I want to make some changes. He was sick for a long time and it needs a new look, a new feel. I was leaning toward literary quotes by Emily Bronte and Jane Austin. I mean there's no man sleeping in there now, so why not. This is what popped up on my page. So then I had to go get the video. So be careful what you pray for. God is listening and he might be taking you very seriously.
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Bill has two brothers and four sisters. One sister in particular was very close to him. Ruth called him every day, sometimes more than once. They talked each morning and she took his death very hard. I guess we all did but Bill's relationship with his younger siblings was not the usual one. You see Bill's father died young, (43) and left his mother a widow with seven children. Bill was the oldest boy and only 21 when he lost his dad, so there were five children younger than him. There is only one sister younger than Ruth. Ruth continued to call me each day after Bill's death and occasionally made the drive up here to see me. Yesterday Cathy and I realized we had not heard from her in a couple of days and wondered if all was well. It was not. We called and Ruth was an emotional wreck and had not been out of her room for two days. My heart broke for her and while Cathy had her on the phone I went in a tossed on jeans, a tee shirt and my hoodie. I wanted to do something, take her something of Bill's that might comfort her. Cathy and I chose his favorite hoodie, a gray thermal one he wore all the time as the blood thinners made him always cold. I took it from the closet, holding it close and smelling it as I cried. Then I put it in a bag and climbed into the orange beast to make the 20 mile drive. Ruth didn't answer the door so I finally let myself in. I found her in the bedroom her eyes swollen and red. It actually helped me to step outside my own grief. I wrapped the hoodie around her and we cried together. I shared something with her I'll post about tomorrow after I have a little more time to process it. We talked for a long time and she felt a bit better and asked if I felt like taking a ride to the casino. She wanted to do something to zone out and I certainly could relate to that, so off we went. I was so bad! We stayed way to long. I spent too much money. I didn't eat all day, smoked like a chimney and even had to buy more smokes and motrin while I was there. I grabbed a bag of Bugles, not realizing that they were Bill's choice of snack, not mine. We were there hours and hours and by the time we left it was dark. Not that I'm afraid of the dark, but I was driving the orange beast and had a long way to go. I was tired, shaky and the poor valet boy acted like he didn't think I could climb into the beast, let alone drive it. I dropped Ruth off at home and she said what everyone around here says, "Watch out for the deer." I patted the steering wheel and told her I'd win if it came to a fight. So I'm driving home and it hit me. For the first time in my life I was accountable to absolutely no one. No husband, no babies, no one blowing up my phone which had died while at the casino. I could literally go anywhere, do anything. I briefly wondered if Bill's ashes were swirling in his urn as he couldn't turn over in his grave. Imagine me, all alone on the dark, deer-laden back roads, no streetlights, no cell phone and driving the orange beast that I can barely see out of in daylight. I have to say I was shocked, at the sense of freedom that came over me, by my appallingly bad behavior and judgement and by how ballsy I felt. It was sort of cool. But the pendulum swings both ways. This morning I sat at the table watching the birds. Once again I was utterly and completely alone, my soul deprived of it's mate. Had Bill still been with me I'd have been in big trouble for last night, actually if Bill was still here none of it would have happened in the first place. It's been thirty-eight days or it will be in eleven minutes. I count the seconds, minutes, hours, noting that I have survived. I wasn't sure I would. I'm still not. A million times I've prayed to go to sleep and wake up in his arms. Heaven or Hell, it didn't much matter to me. I know that sounds unchristian of me and I can't imagine a man like Bill not being welcomed in Heaven, but I swear if I thought he was in hell I would think of something really bad to do and not repent. I am waiting now for lightening to strike. It wouldn't be the first time. No really, I've been struck before. As a kid I was standing on a neighbors stone porch behind the stadium. I was watching the storm and holding onto an iron railing. The noise was horrific and the impact knocked my off the porch. I landed on the patch of grass between the street and the sidewalk, disoriented but pretty much unscathed considering it had to be maybe thirty or forty feet through the air. Ironically, I love storms. I love the wind and the charged ions in the air. I love the dark, swirling clouds, the majesty of nature. I love the rain, but don't like it driving into my face. I want to be able to see. Bill's death was something like that. A force of nature was in play and I could do nothing but watch heartbroken, helpless and horrified as the storm played out. I don't like helpless, not at all and it's not a feeling I'm used to. I thought I was tough, a force to be reckoned with. Now I realize it's easy to be tough when you have a 6'2", 200+ plus man who has your back no matter what. I'm having a hard time making even the most mundane decisions without him which is odd considering I thought I ran the show around here. I guess I didn't. I guess in his own quiet, loving way he led me in the right direction. Bill had a wise old saying for every situation. My country boy had a way of putting things in perspective with a sentence or two. My mind continually asks him what should I do? Today this is his answer: "If you want to run with the big dogs, you have to learn to pee in the tall grass." I don't want to run with the big dogs and I'm to short to pee in the tall grass. I'll get a wet ass and I have enough problems. I can almost feel the warmth of his smile. All right, I'll try and pee in the tall grass, but I'm not going to like it. Not one bit! I'm not unfamiliar with loss or grief. At seventeen I lost my Grandfather who was the only father I had until I was much older. Why do they say you've lost someone, as though they are just missing and you have a chance of finding them a couple of blocks over? They aren't lost, they are gone. They cannot be recovered or located. There is no lost and found to plow through like you did as a child looking for a mitten. I find that a strange expression but I know right now I'm strange. I don't know who I am anymore. I don't see the same woman when I look in the mirror. Staring at my reflection I search for her. Perhaps she's lost as well, never to be recovered? Bill died on a beautiful morning sitting across the table from me. One moment he was there, the next he was gone. I felt it, like something torn from my soul and I knew immediately. We did all the things we were supposed to. We called 911 and started CPR, but I knew he wasn't coming back. His blue eyes were vacant, not a spark of recognition or life. The chanting began. Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me. Please don't leave me. I was only certain of one thing. If he could come back to me, he would. He loved me more than anything and he told me everyday. Bits and pieces of those hours stand out and others are blurred and vague. The image of our granddaughter standing in the hall with her best friend, Laura, their arms wrapped around each other as they watched in silent horror will be forever imprinted in my mind. I remember running out to the porch when the EMT's arrived and screaming over and over for them to hurry. It seemed as though the more I begged the slower they moved. Later Aislinn, my granddaughter, told me I had almost no voice, my cries had no volume. I find that really odd but I remember that as a child I would have nightmares and wake with silent screams. I drove myself to the hospital, plowing out across the lawn and through the ditch to get to the road. There were cars and emergency vehicles everywhere. I don't remember the drive, only that I pulled up in front of the Emergency Room doors and left my car there running with the door open. Bill was in Trauma Room One, the same room my dad was in when he had a massive stroke three years ago. They would not let me in but I could see Bill was surrounded with people trying to save his life. Family was all over the place, our kids and grand-kids, brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews, close friends arrived, it was chaos. They took us to a conference room across the hall. We waited. Finally the doctor came to me and asked if I wanted to come in. There was not enough heart activity to sustain life. Inside they let me stand next to him while they pumped his chest. She stopped every few seconds. No pulse. No pulse. No pulse. Each time she pushed blood came from his nose and mouth. I kissed his forehead. It felt cool. I looked in his eyes. He wasn't there. I stopped chanting. I turned to the doctor, saw the sympathy in his eyes and asked, What is the outcome of this? He shook his head. Then stop, I sobbed, and call a priest. They all backed away. I whispered in Bill's ear. I love you. I love the life we made together. I have no regrets but for losing you. I kissed his forehead, his cheek, his huge hand, his wedding ring as a quiet nurse wiped the blood away. Father Hearn came. He was very kind. He'd been called away from premarital counseling with a young couple. I asked him to wish that couple all the happiness Bill and I had for so many years. I drove away from the hospital and went directly to my mother's grave. Getting out of the car I knelt and asked her to welcome Bill and show him around if she could. Sort of take him under her wing. She loved him so and he loved her. I know I drove home, but I don't remember anything else from that day. In fact I don't remember anything else until we went to make the arrangements for his funeral. I guess that's a blessing. |
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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