Make it Matter

Today is the three year anniversary of my husband's death. So obviously I have been thinking a lot about Jim, his life, his death. When it was clear Jim was not going to live and the ventilator had stopped breathing for him, we gathered around his bed, holding him up in our hearts.  We cried and talked to him, I held his hand in mine and we all held each other. My brother was on the phone with us from Pittsburg and prayed for Jim with us. I whispered my promise, my love, my life into his ear. Jim was always a scrappy fighter and he held on for about an hour. At one point, I noticed the nurse glancing at her watch. I know she was just doing her job, but it really bothered me. Was she in a rush? Did she have somewhere to go? What in the whole world could be more important that this exact moment?

I don't why that watch, that surreptitious glance, bothered me so much and have thought about it often.  Just the other day I realized ever since that day, I have been looking at my watch.  I know I have chosen life but I have not really chosen to go on living. I've just been going through the motions, waiting for time to run out.  I have been living like I was dying, but not in the Tim McGraw sense of going skydiving and Rocky Mountain climbing. No, more like my dog staring out the window waiting for me to come home. I am waiting for the time when I am in one way or another reunited with the love of my life.

I don't want to wait anymore. I want to live. I know, because we talked about it, Jim wanted me to go on living, and living life to it's fullest. But I don't know how. My heart still aches for him. For us. For who I was when I was with him. Three years ago a part of me died with Jim.

Perhaps because I am reading Murakami, or because of the date, but I dreamt an intriguing  dream last night. Like many of my dreams, it was long, drawn out, and convoluted.  I was living is some sort of idyllic summer camp community. There was a fire or invasion or something devastating. Those of us that escaped joined a new community. But this one had very defined groups without the love, inclusion, and acceptance of our previous home.

After walking for what seemed forever, visiting each group but never becoming part of it, I came across a sparse museum of artifacts from our old community. A man there I knew handed me a folded up piece of paper with a knowing, loving look in his eye. I could tell by the deep creases in the paper that it had been folded for a long time. As I unfolded it, I immediately  recognized the handwriting. I don't remember all it said, but it ended with these words, Make it Matter.

Murakami writes, In dreams begins responsibility. I have been given this life. I've written before about my responsibility to live life to it's fullest, for me and Jim. To live big enough for both of us. It is time for me to do just that. To stop looking at my watch. Time to stop living like I am dying, but live like I am living!  The time is now to live life and make it matter!

"I want to go to heaven right now"

There is a grief so painful, so deep, that you just want to die. I've written about it before. If there is a heaven, I'd die and be with Jim there. And if there is no heaven, just blackness, well, that would be better than the darkness of my soul. I've felt it, and I'm not alone. How often we hear of spouses dying within hours of each other? And now, famously, Debbie Reynolds, grieving the sudden death of her daughter, Carrie Fisher, tells her son, "I want to be with Carrie" and hours later, she died. It's heartbreaking. And I totally get it.

When my grandniece was telling me that her beloved Elton, a yellow lab, had died and gone to heaven, she explained he wasn't tired anymore. And then she cried out in anguish, 'I want to go to heaven right now!'  I get it, Emmy.

Until you have lost someone dear, you may not understand. But once you do, you get it.  Anything, even death, seems preferable to the pain of grief. And I'd love to tell you it stops. But honestly I haven't found that to be true. What does change is your ability to function and live with the grief. In the beginning I could not imagine a day where I was not incapacitated by sadness. But time has passed and I have learned how to cope. I can sometimes get through a day without crying. And then other days I just crawl back into bed and cry for hours. But I'm choosing life. Despite my sadness I find joy in life, as well. Grief is like that. It comes in waves. Or maybe seasons.

My grandfather lived a long, healthy life. In his last year though his health declined and he asked me one day, "why am I still here?" I didn't think I was being overly wise, I just wasn't ready to let go, so I told him he clearly had something left to do... to love a child, to make someone laugh, to listen. But looking back, I think I was wise beyond my knowing. Around the same time, my friend Kurt was dying from AIDSs related complications. He taught me the reason we are here is to love and help each other.

So, I'm guessing there is something left to do, for as long as I can do it. And that is to love, laugh, listen and live. Right now.

I must be strong

And carry on

'Cause I know I don't belong

Here in heaven

I'll find my way

Through night and day

'Cause I know I just can't stay

Here in heaven

Time can bring you down

Time can bend your knees

Time can break your heart

Have you begging please, begging please

Beyond the door

There's peace I'm sure

And I know there'll be no more

Tears in heaven

~ Eric Clapton, Will Jennings

I can live, and I do

Recently, a friend of mine posted lyrics from the Harry Nilsson song, "I can't live if living is without you" and it got me thinking. My first response it, yes, damn it, you can, and you will, even when you don't want to.

There were many days and nights when I wished I could die too, after Jim died.  I never was suicidal, I just did not want to be alive. But I didn't die 

I was, for many months, doing the zombie walk. Getting through the necessities of life but not living. 

Eventually I would surprise myself by smiling or even laughing at something. I was able to find hints, slivers of joy peeking through like sunlight through the edge of a curtain. 

Once I realized I wasn't going to die I had to think about how I wanted to live. My husband Jim lived life to the fullest. He was brave and he was vulnerable. He was strong yet soft. He had dreams and sadly, many those dreams would never be realized because his life was cut short by cancer. I honor Jim by living my life, by striving for my dreams, by showing gratitude and compassion every day. By living in the moment. By finding the joy in life. 

I'm not yet ready to say that I can find the gift in my loss. However I can say my grief and loss have made me stronger,more compassionate and yes, more joyful.

No Death, No Fear

I finally decided I was ready to read the last chapter of No death, No fear: Comforting Wisdom for Life by Thich Nhat Hanh. 

The chapter is entitled accompanying the dying. When I was reading this book a year ago, I knew I didn't have the strength to tackle that yet. As I now read the words, I cry, but am able to understand and accept the teachings. I was so glad to know that much of what my bother-in-law, Mike and I intuitively knew was aligned with a compassionate death. Mike especially sowed seeds of happiness by recounting stories of the life he shared with Jim. I fell asleep, for the first time in days, with the sounds of Mike telling stories of their adventures. Thich Nhat Hanh writes, "Those who are unconscious have a way to hear us if we are truly present and peaceful as we sit at their bedside." I believe this to be true.

The morning Jim died, I read to him a Buddhist prayer for the dead and dying:

Oh Buddhas and Bodhisattvas,...

Oh Compassionate Ones, you who possess
The wisdom of understanding,
The love of compassion,...
James is passing from this world to the next,
He is taking a great leap,
The light of this world has faded for him,
He has entered solitude with their karmic forces,
He has gone into a vast silence,
He is borne away by the great ocean of birth and death ..…

I also read him the 23rd Psalm from The Bible.

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.

In No Fear, No Death, I especially like the image of birth and death as a game of hide and seek, take my hand and wave goodbye. Death is not permanent.

My friend, Tanya, a budding Buddhist, writes in her blog,

We exist in the soil, in the light and warmth of the sun, in the animals and in each other. …and this isn’t a flowery story. This is science.
I think science would agree that our bodies are made up of elements that are non-specific to being human. ... Those elements will still be here when our bodies are gone. They will become another form, giving life to something else.
When this form is gone, our bodies will be the rich soil, and water feeding the tree, and the fruit that grows from it. We will be the energy given to the life of an animal eating from it, and to its baby who drinks it’s milk. ...
So, we will never disappear into nothingness. Which also means that we haven’t come from nothing either. We have been the sun, and the minerals, and the soil, and the plants, the insects, and each animal, and person in this way. We have existed, and still do exist as every single thing.
We have lived countless lives in infinite connections. Even in this form, we are new from day to day, and from thought to thought.
And this is rebirth.
For me, I find this much more comforting than the idea of an eternal place where my soul will be stored.

I find comfort in this as well. Tomorrow we shall meet again. I have no fear.

Solstice

For as long as I have known about Winter Solstice, it has been my most favorite holiday. Yes, it is the shortest day, and longest night of the year. But in that darkness is held the promise of light and warmth. Summer is on it's way. The days are now getting longer. I imagine the first humans wondering why the days were getting shorter and shorter. Was time running out? Would their lives be plunged into eternal darkness? Think of the joy they had when the sun once again began to retake the day. Generations since have had simple faith that even in the darkest night, there was hope that the light would return. We now know the science behind the solstices. But for me that does not diminish the faith and hope that I feel in my darkest hours. The belief I must have...that joy and warmth and light will return.

The world keeps turning, and day always follows night.

After the cold, dark, winter, spring returns with cleansing rains and blossoms.

After fire appears to devastate the landscape, seeds released by the heat, burst forth with new, verdant life.

Yes, even after death, life begins again.

At first it might just be a smile, one day without tears. And then like a false spring, the darkness returns. But just as the days after winter solstice become longer, so do the periods where life without you seems possible.

Hope and energy slowly, sometimes falteringly return. The tiny hand of a child, reaching out to hold mine. The sunlight sparking like diamonds on the sea. The kind, knowing compassion of a stranger at the grocery store when I unexpectledly burst out crying. A long drive with the top down through the lush forest. 

I still miss you, Jim, and always will. The grief never leaves, but I learn to live with it. My grief has taught me compassion, patience, and I have a strength within me I never knew was there. The darkness in my heart fades, but still is there. But like the longest,darkest night, I know the light will return.

Grief, Gratitude and Grace: The Journey Continues

It s that time of year, at least in the United States, where we think a lot about gratitude. There are many, many things in my life of which I am extremely grateful. I was raised in a happy, loving home. Yes, we have our dysfunctions, but who doesn't? My parents still live in my childhood home, going strong well into their 80s. My dad was a hard worker, a high school teacher, and my mom very frugal, by nature and necessity. They saved enough for each of us 4 kids to go to college. I earned my degree and worked hard to have a successful career, paired with good timing and luck of geography, in high tech. I travelled the world, bought my own house and have always had a wonderful supportive core group of friends who are like sisters. I love my extended family and have always had an optimistic joy for life. I met and married my husband Jim when i was in my late 30s. We had a happy marriage and he loved me more than life itself. In 2013 he as diagnosed with cancer and he died nine months later.

There are many, many things in my life of which I am extremely grateful. I never thought grief would be one of them.

The first 6 months after Jim died were a fog. The second 6 months were a nightmare. In this, my second year, the fog is lifting. I am waking. I have determined that grief will not kill me. And, to use on of Jim's favorite quotes, 'what doesn't kill me makes me stronger." I began to rebuild, redefine. I knew I could not go back. My life would never, ever be the same. So, I mused, what would it be? Who would I be?

Anne Lamott, writes about the grace of redefining ourselves and redefining okayness when life throws us its merciless curveballs. She considers how people find the grace of making-it-work: 

They are willing to redefine themselves, and life, and okayness. Redefinition is a nightmare — we think we’ve arrived, in our nice Pottery Barn boxes, and that this or that is true. Then something happens that totally sucks, and we are in a new box, and it is like changing into clothes that don’t fit, that we hate. Yet the essence remains. Essence is malleable, fluid. Everything we lose is Buddhist truth — one more thing that you don’t have to grab with your death grip, and protect from theft or decay. It’s gone. We can mourn it, but we don’t have to get down in the grave with it.

No, we don't have to go into the grave with it. We can decide how to respond, finally. In that first year, I felt like i didn't have a choice. But now I do. I can choose to let my grief make me bitter and angry and lonely. Or I can choose to be joyful, be part of the world around me, be grateful.

Grateful? How could I ever be grateful that Jim is dead? I am not. But he is dead. So rather than focus on the loss, I have chosen to focus on all I have gained.

First - his diagnosis. We found out Jim had cancer just days before his 53 birthday. In those first few weeks, he was close to death and we were just going through the motions. But he recovered his ability to breathe, and we were given sweet, sweet time. Never enough, but time. We lived in a cocoon for much of the next 9 months. Doctor visits, tests, treatments, recovery and cycling back though it again. Yet we also made time to fall in love again. To appreciate each other. To value the moment. The now. We saw glaciers and sunsets, we saw CT scans and x-rays. Family visited and so did home health nurses. Yes, I was grateful for those 9 months. Not everyone gets that. They gave us time to tell the other everything important that need to be said. He never told me how to run the sprinklers, but he told me how much he loved me. He died and nothing important had been left unsaid. And for that, I am grateful.

No one really gets to pick how they die. Yes, you can control some variables, but in the end, nature has its own timetable. Jim lost the ability to breathe on his own and he died two days later. I had time to call his siblings, consult with doctors and my minister. I had time to hold his hand, whisper all my love, dance one last song with him, bathe him and hold him in my arms as he left this world. And for that, I am grateful.

During the fog of those first six months, I was lucky enough to not have to work much I was able to fully 'embrace my grief." I sought therapy, I meditated, I journaled, I did yoga, I walked on beaches, I slept, a lot. I also cleaned out the garage, so I could take care of his car, I learned how to maintain the hot tub, I planted a garden and I learned how to control the sprinklers. I took little trips to leave some of Jim's ashes in places that were special to us. I cried. I cried a lot. I remember asking a colleague, a fellow widow (a term, by the way, I was to yet willing to use), "How long did it take you to stop crying every day?" I was relieved when she said it was at least a year. I would continue crying every day, often many times a day. Dr. Earl A Grollman writes, Grief is not a disorder, a disease or a sign of weakness. It is an emotional, physical and spiritual necessity, the price you pay for love. The only cure for grief is to grieve.  Yes, I still cry. A lot. But I as also putting one foot in front of the other. Showing courage in the face of fear and uncertainty. I gave myself time to explore my grief, to befriend it. To accept my grief as part of the new me, the new normal. And for that, I am grateful.

Last summer, I participated in the Deepak & Oprah 21 day meditation on Gratitude. Although I was still a bit leery as to how I could find gratitude while living with my grief, I played along and low and behold, I did. I learned that in appreciating all of life's gifts, grace does come.

Oprah: When you have the awareness of how perfectly you fit into creation, how abundant your life is from the level of being, grace changes your perception. Gratitude is like a secret key that shifts your awareness.....Grace is the knowledge that we belong, that we are understood, and that we are a meaningful part of something big, deep and powerful... Be present in gratitude and grace automatically responds, taking us beyond the confines of our own familiar experiences. The little things, the little moments, well, they aren’t little, says Jon Kabat-Zinn, and he couldn’t be more correct because when we are present in gratitude, we awaken the bigness of even the smallest things in life. You see things differently, hear things anew, everything matters and that’s what we’re all seeking. Indeed, that is grace. Let’s listen to the signals of grace within and all around us. ...
Deepak says, "We are responsible for our own life story and the responsibility grows when you decide to take charge of your story, not blaming, projecting or depending on someone else. giving away the responsibility gives away your control over the one thing that should and must belong to you alone. By taking control, you also claim rights to the joy and bliss of your story... In grace, the heart sings. Light is infused into every experience. ...Everything you want to achieve already exists in your own being, waiting for the hidden key to be turned. The path isn’t arduous. The practice of gratitude is a spiritual path of the heart. One experience of joy leads to the next. In time, the heart has space for nothing but love and light."

And for this, I am grateful.

I am grateful for learning how to use the sprinklers, for the love of a wonderful husband, that I loved him so much, I grieve for him daily. I am grateful for the understanding, patient, and compassionate support of friends, family and strangers. I am grateful for long walks on the beach, long drives in the S2000 and the soft fur on my dog's ears. I am grateful that I am present in my gratitude. My heart has space for love and light.  And for this, I am grateful.

Stillness

On the day Jim died, my Aunt Gladys, who had been widowed almost 10 years came and sat by my side. Through tears I asked her how she did it. How she kept going. How she kept breathing. She said to 'keep busy.' I knew right away that wasn't for me, but I accepted the wisdom her experience and her own grief journey had taught her.

In that first year, I fully gave myself to the grieving process. I cried. I cried a lot. I read and wrote. I walked on the beach, I took time off from work. I gave permission to do only what I could and not try to live to other people's expectations of me. I proudly showed off my new tattoo to my disapproving mother. I didn't care. It really was all about me.

As I approached the year anniversary. my grief counselor had warned me that people around me would start expecting me to move on with my life.  What I was unprepared for were my own expectations of myself. Somehow, I think I believed I needed to 'get on with it.' I started busying myself with projects. So much had been put on the back-burner since Jim's diagnosis, there was much to catch up on and repair. I found myself staying up later and later in front of NCIS marathons, just to avoid going to bed... quiet, alone, not wanting to face my tears.

Kiran Sidhu Aldridge writes about the 'dirty little secret' of the grieving. That the world is divided into two parts: there are the grievers and then there are those oblivious to the black hole left in one’s life when someone significant dies. I was trying to fill that hole with activity. Don't get me wrong, I was glad to be traveling a bit, visiting with friends, taking in a ball game. But deep down, that hole was still there. Reminding my of my new found companion, grief.

And so sometimes, I need to just stop. I need to say no. I need to sit in stillness and in silence. I just need to be. Be with my grief, be with my memories, be with joy, be with peace. Today's meditation was on the contentment we can find when we are still. When our core beliefs come from our true selves, when we believe that we are loving, lovable, worthy, safe and whole, there is power and opportunity for life that springs forth. And, as Deepak Chopra says,  If our beliefs are compromised and not having the effect we hoped for, then we need to return to the stillness of our true self to rectify the belief.

Yes, I miss Jim. I always will. That black hole will never be filled.  Like Sidhu Aldridge, I have chosen to examine the open wound of my grief and almost befriend it. It has visited and cast its shadow over my life. I can only live with it. I am open to what it has to teach me, that when those we love die, they leave holes in our lives that can never be filled. This doesn't mean I do not feel joy or love.  Indeed I do, and when I think about my life, I am content. I am indeed blessed. I loved and was loved enough to grieve deeply.

Yes, sometimes I just need to stop. In the stillness of silence, I am pure contentment.

You're So Lucky

I returned to work two months after my husband, Jim, died. I am a teacher and returned in April, and then had two months of school then two months off for summer break. I returned to what was arguably the second hardest year in my teaching career. After that I decided I needed a break, and am currently on a 'gap year', trying out retirement at the age of 56.

People say to me how lucky I am that I can take a year off work. Lucky, really??

I started saving 5-10% of my income the day I started working. I have worked hard for almost  40 years to be able to have the choices I have today.  When Jim and I were married, we made a concerted effort to pay off our house and live debt free. No, we didn't take a lot of fancy vacations or buy luxury cars, but we did enjoy life. In fact when we were both in high tech, we lived 'richer' than either of us had ever dreamed possible. We created our own home theater and our back yard is my retreat. We love the beach, the forest, family and found our joy in simplicity.

We planned to retire young, travel more and slow down. And then came the news that would forever change us, BC and AD - Before Cancer and After Diagnosis. Jim always believed he would defy the odds and live 20 years or more. He used to tease that I should document everything I do just in case i got hit by a bus. Despite his optimism, he began to take care of business in ernest. Before his disability payments kicked in, he started selling off car parts and stereo equipment. He was so worried that his disease would deplete our hard earned savings that he even considered selling his car...his other love. Fortunately, the payments came through and he could stop worrying, a little.

After he died, I was informed that his company life insurance policy would be paid. I would gladly give it all back to have Jim, but I know it was his plan that if either of us died, the survivor would not have to work. That first year back to school, I had to work...not for money but for sanity.  But the next year, I called upon Jim's wisdom and took a break.

So, I have saved all my life and my husband died...lucky? No. Not at all.  

Dream Sequence

For the last few nights I've been trying to dream about Jim. A few times in my life I've been able to kind of direct my dreams but it hasn't been successful in bringing Jim to my dreams. I'm just missing him and want to see him so I was hoping for a good dream, but it just hasn't manifested. So this morning I decided rather than wait for a dream I was going to do a sort of guided visualization. Here is what I saw. 

It started with Dharma in her window yelping with delight. She has a different bark for strangers than she does with people she recognizes, and I knew she recognized who was at the door. I opened the door to see Jim standing there. I fell into his arms, knowing it wasn't real, but going with it, knowing how much I needed to feel his arms encircle me. 

I hugged him and held him and held him and held him. Finally, we came inside and we sat down on the couch, our arms around each other. I wanted to sit where I could see him and feel him I just didn't want that moment to go away. There was so much to say, to ask, but all I could do was tell him how much I loved him and how much I missed him. Jim said he was always there, he was always with me, but that he couldn't stay physically here. He wanted me to know that he was always looking out for me. In life and now he would do what he could to  keep me safe. He reassured me he would always be there watching out for me.

He helped me see that he was always with me, in my heart, in my spirit, in the very air around me. Somehow I knew it was time for him to go and I just squeezed my eyes shut, not wanting to watch him go, to lose him all over again. All of a sudden light just shattered into 1 million pieces in front of my eyelids and I knew that he was gone, but that his light and the light of his love and the light of the spirit's love is around me always.

This is Country Music

I was a lifelong Foghead, from the first day KFOG played We Built this City. I listened to classic rock but not hard rock. Sometimes classical. That was about it.  When I married my husband at the age of 37 I was pretty set in my ways. I wasn't very good at compromise. Fortunately Jim had more experience in that department.

He grew up listening to bands like AC/DC but by the time I met him he mostly listened to Country. Luckily we had our own cars, so in his car, the radio presets were country and hard rock, mine were set to KFOG, NPR and KNBR for baseball. I really didn't need the other three buttons. Once in a while we'd switch cars, and I'd usually leave the radio where it was...until some song came on to make me cry.  I distinctly remember the first time. The song was The Little Girl by John Michael Montgomery.

She said, I know that man there on that cross

I don't know His name, but I know He got off
Cause He was there in my old house
And held me close to His side
As I hid there behind our couch 
The night that my parents died.

After I changed the station, I called Jim, and all I yelled into the phone was,  "I hate your country music" and hung up. It became kind of a running joke with us, dubbed 'a country music moment.' I learned to appreciate some country music and when we got married, "our song" was Mary Chapin Carpenter's Shut up and Kiss Me.  My tolerance built up over the years and as KFOG changed their format and became too predictable and commercial, Jim became less tolerant and finally changed the station that piped throughout our home system. Now every morning as we got ready for work, we listened to Gary and Julie on KRTY. When our son got married, we chose Keith Urban's, Memories of Us, as 'our song.'  When Jim got sick, I began to pay more attention to the lyrics and more and more, the songs spoke to me and Memories of Us took on a new significance.

I'm gonna be here for you from now on
This you know somehow
You've been stretched to the limits but it's alright now
And I'm gonna make you a promise
If there's life after this
I'm gonna be there to meet you with a warm, wet kiss

I'm counting on that warm wet kiss.

After Jim died, music was a solace, and at times a curse. I found new meaning in lyrics. Songs made me cry - well, everything made me cry. For a while I had to turn off the music altogether.When Linda and I first went to Lima Family to plan my husband's memorial service, our adviser said they have canned, quiet organ music to play as people come into the service. That sounded benign and easy. Then my brother, Rev.Dave, suggested I find one song to play during the service, then one more to start and one to end. Thus started a musical research project. Mary and I spent hours on YouTube and MetroLyrics looking for songs. We cried, we laughed and finally I narrowed down the list, ending up with an hour plus of music I thought would make Jim happy. With iTunes and YouTube, compiling the playlist was pretty easy. Even songs not on the playlist took on new meaning, a song about a break up because a song about death. KRTY became the soundtrack for my Journey Out of the Valley.

Best start putting first things first.
Cause when your hourglass runs out of sand
You can't flip over and start again
Take every breathe God gives you for what it's worth
Don't Blink ~ Kenny Chesney

When Jim lost the ability to breathe, I told him to breathe with me, that I would be his breath. In the months after his death, I kept reminding myself to center my soul with my breath and try to stay present. In those early days, when grief was a raw, fresh wound, I could barely catch my breath. I really didn't know how to go on.

I want to know,

How do I breathe without you?

If you ever go,

How do I ever, ever survive?

How do I, how do I, oh how do I live?

Without you,

There'd be no sun in my sky,

There would be no love in my life,

There'd be no world left for me.

And I,

Baby I don't know what I would do,

I'd be lost if I lost you,

If you ever leave,

Baby you would take away everything real in my life,

~Trisha Yearwood How do I Live?

Drink a Beer by Luke Bryan hit the top 10 charts in the month Jim died. His sister Pat and niece Kelsey suggested we play the song when I brought some of Jim's ashes home to Iowa. Standing at his parents' grave side, we passed around bottles of Jim's standby, MGD, wept and sang along.

Funny how the good ones go
Too soon, but the good Lord knows
The reasons why, I guess
Sometimes the greater plan
Is kinda hard to understand
Right now it don't make sense
I can't make it all make sense
So I'm gonna sit right here
On the edge of this pier
Watch the sunset disappear
And drink a beer

One of those songs that isn't about death but had significance is Home by Blake Shelton.  In it he sings plaintively about wanting to go home. It makes me so sad every time I hear it, because those are the last words Jim was able to say to me. He wanted to go home.  It just breaks my heart every time I think about it.  In the larger sense, he did go home.  And I try to find comfort in this. But the song still reduces me to tears. Every. single. time.

Let me go home
I'm just too far
From where you are
I wanna come home
And I feel just like
I'm living someone else's life
It's like I just stepped outside
When everything was going right
And I know just why you could not
Come along with me
That this was not your dream
But you always believed in me

The grieving process is not a straight line. You move in and out of a whole spectrum of feelings.  Some of them took me into pretty dark places.  Songs like Whiskey Lullaby and Better Dig Two were some of those.  But then, even though it sort of made me feel guilty, I wanna feel better. Guilty because I felt my grief was my connection to Jim and I did not want to ever lose that connection. But still, I knew I needed to LIVE!

There's a bottle on the shelf, talkin' to me
Sayin', "Come over here, you can have a drink"
We can make it through this lonely night together

But that's a road I don't wanna go back down
And I hate myself for what I'm thinkin' now
Hey, it's just one night, it's not like it's forever
I just want to feel better

All these pictures running through my head
From the way he loved to the way he left
Not a single day goes by, I don't miss him

I just want to feel good, feel alright
Feel anything but what I feel tonight
I just want to move on with my life
And put the pieces back together
I just want to feel better

I know there's gonna come a day
When he's still gone and it's okay
~Maggie Rose

Another song that can inspire me, of course, is Live Like You Were Dying, by Tim McGraw

He said I was in my early 40's,
With a lot of life before me,
And a moment came that stopped me on a dime.
I spent most of the next days, lookin' at the x-rays,
Talkin' 'bout the options and talkin' 'bout sweet time.
Asked him when it sank in, that this might really be the real end.
How's it hit ya, when you get that kind of news.
Man what ya do.
And he says,

I went sky divin',
I went rocky mountain climbin',
I went 2.7 seconds on a bull name Fumanchu.
And I loved deeper,
And I spoke sweeter,
And I gave forgiveness I've been denying,
And he said someday I hope you get the chance,
To live like you were dyin'.

I could go on and on but it's late and I need some sleep. I have continued to add to my Out of the Valley playlist as I continue on my journey. So just one more,  and it is so Jim... he did just say Bring it on and he was such a scrappy fighter til the very end.  

Doctor said he ain't got long
He just smiled said bring it on
If you think I'm scared
You got me all wrong
A little cancer can't break me
My heart's right and I believe
We all hit our knees
Started prayin'
Naw he never gave up
Said the Good Lord's waitin'

An' that's One Hell of an Amen
That's the only way to go
Fightin' the good fight
Til the Good Lord calls you home
So be well my friend
Til' I see you again
Yeah this is our last goodbye
But it's a Hell of an Amen

~Brantley Gilbert

Stages, phases, tasks, storms and waves

In the 70's as a sociology major, I studied the research of Dr. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross who had worked with people receiving news of their own impending death. She determined they went through stages, which, she wrote, often overlap, occur together and some reactions are missed altogether. The stages included shock, denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and finally acceptance.

Later people mis-attributed this stage theory to any loss such as the loss of a parent or spouse, even the loss of a job or the end of vacation (I think far past the point  where the extension has jumped the shark). In his introduction to the re-release of Kubler-Ross', On Death and Dying,  Dr. Alan Kellehar writes, that it is only by overlooking this principle aim of Dr. Kübler-Ross’s book – that of the privileging the voice of the dying – that a whole industry of mythmaking has resulted. On Death and Dying was never a study of bereavement.  It was research and observation of individuals' reactions to the experience of dying Yes, those people grieve, but it is not the same as the grief of those of us who survive the loss of a loved one, and our experiences may not, and likely will not, match those she found in her studies.

Other researchers said no, its not just a series of steps the griever goes through, it's more of a curve.I don't agree with this picture.  I think it is far less linear than stages imply. The curve implies once you are done with shock, you move to numbness, then denial, then later depression, finding hope and finally loss adjustment.

  To me it's more of a squiggly line. I may move from loneliness to depression, then back to numbness and jump over to helping others, and so on again and again.

Others have shown a spiral, where your life entered a kind of tornado, and your new life comes out the other side. I've felt like grief comes in waves. Sometimes a tsunami like surge, other times just a gentle lapping at my ankles. But just like the ocean, you should never turn your back on it.

If you Google "stages of grief" you get over 23 million results. The number of stages range anywhere from 5-20

We all grieve in different ways and there is no one right way. Dr. Alan Wolfelt is an author, educator and grief counselor. His model includes needs, tasks that need to be addressed before reconciling with our new reality can happen. They don't happen in order, and you may need to come back to them again and again. He writes of the mourner's six 'reconciliation needs' which include:

1. The need to acknowledge the reality of the death 
2. The need to embrace the pain of the loss
3. The need to remember the person who died
4. The need to develop a new self identity
5. The need to search or meaning
6. The need for ongoing support from others

This model, for now, make sense to me. 

• Acknowledging the reality - In the beginning, my mind would play and replay the events leading to Jim's death. I was pretty sure I had 'acknowledging the reality' down. I never ever thought that Jim was not dead. I knew at a cellular level he was gone. In the groggy, floaty space of morning I never thought he was next to me. Yet, I sometimes had to remind myself, 'it is always going to be like this, he is never coming home.' And I still look at my phone to see if there is a message.
• Embracing the pain - Although I was raised in a family that did its best not to express emotion, I have been pretty effective in breaking that mold. In fact, even as I child I was teased for being the sensitive one. I discovered it is not a weakness to be sensitive and I am glad I can show my feelings. When I am sad, I cry, I give myself to loss, just as I gave myself to love.
• Remembering - Photos, mementos, even the Car, give testimony to a different form of a continued relationship with my husband. I cherish memories of our life together. Some people may try to avoid talking about him, or want me to put away things that remind me of Jim. They are afraid to bring up his name or his death for fear it will make me sad. As if I am not already. I remember many years ago I was out of the country when a childhood friend died in a motorcycle accident. I was afraid to mention it to his mother when I got back. Silly me, as if she could ever NOT think about it, not remember. When I did share my condolences, my shared memories were a comfort to her. 
• A new self identity - You confront your changed identity every time you do something that used to be done by the person who died. This can be very hard work and can leave you feeling very drained. This is the need that I struggle with the most. I still, in my heart, for now, feel that Jim is my husband and I am still married. I've read several books on grieving but it took me months before I could read one called Widow to Widow. I was not ready to call myself a widow. I am still married, just married to a dead man. Later, I could check the box for widow but when the form only had two choices I was so mad. It was a government form, so I couldn't say married, yet I certainly wasn't single. Who am I going to be? Yeah, this need is not met yet. This task is 'in progress' as they say.
• Search for Meaning - It is natural, when someone dies, to question the meaning of life...why are we here? why did this happen? what is the point? For me this is a life long task, one not necessarily linked to my grief. But really, when I am mindful, I think it is pretty simple.  We are here to love our selves and to love each other. To be happy and to help others be happy.

• Need for Ongoing Support - I am so very fortunate in this area. Despite my childhood's attempts to squelch all talk, or acknowledgement of anything emotional, my support system is amazing. Wolfelt says To be truly helpful, the people in your support system must appreciate the impact this death has had on you. They must understand that in order to heal, you must be allowed—even encouraged—to mourn long after the death. And they must encourage you to see mourning not as an enemy to be vanquished but as a necessity to be experienced as a result of having loved. I am blessed to have love and support from near and far.

Wolfelt tells us what I know to be true, you never 'get over' grief. You don't recover. The intense pangs of grief have subsided, but occasionally sneak up on me still. I will forever hold in my heart my memories of Jim, and I am able to make plans for the future. My journey will never end.  But I do believe, in time, we do (and I will) reconcile with my grief.

I just want to hear your voice.

When Jim died, I never expected to find him in my bed when I woke in the morning.  I did not experience denial, at least in the 'stages of grief' way I'd expected. I did not think he was coming home. When I woke up that first morning after the day he died, and indeed every morning ever since, I just knew he was gone, dead, at least in the physical world.  I knew it in my soul, in my heart, in my very cells.  

As life started to begin around me and our family and friends went back to their routines and jobs, I tried to regain my footing.  It was extremely difficult to leave the house. Every time I drove away, tears would fill my eyes. I felt I was driving away from the place we'd been closest, and the last place he'd really been alive. And every time I came home to only my dog, I'd cry at the emptiness of our, my, home. I would curl up on his spot on the couch, where he'd spent hours during his illness. I felt close to him there. I slept on his side of the bed, on his pillow.  

I tried to imagine him in the bed next to me, but it was no good. I knew he was never going to lie next to me again in this lifetime. So it came as some surprise to me when I first left for a night away and got to where I was going, that I checked my phone, expecting a text from Jim to be there on the screen. When I'm away from home and something makes me think of Jim, I want to text and tell him.  When I am home and walk by my phone on the kitchen counter, I always stop to check to see if he's sent me a text. I know this is impossible, yet I still continue to habitually check. What is it about the phone? In every other way I know he's gone, but I still expect him to call.

When I go away for the weekend with girlfriends and we arrive at our destination, they call or text to let their husbands know they've arrived safely. And I just stare at my blank screen, no one to text to tell him I'm okay. When I get in the car to head home, I grab my phone to text Jim that I'm on my way home, like I did almost every day for 17 years.  And I stare at my phone...what was I thinking?

In the first two years of our marriage, I was traveling 70-90% of the time. A few years later he was gone 2-3 nights a week for work.  It got much better when he decided to work for Slalom and he hoped to wind down his career over the following five years or so. But no matter who was away or for how long, or how far, we would check in with a call or text at least two or three times a day.  Perhaps that's what it is about the phone.  It was always our connection whenever we were physically apart. So at some level I may be hoping that we can connect again. And so I check my phone. And stare, unbelieving, but knowing.

I'd like to say that this has gotten better over time.  Maybe someday.  Until that time....

Second verse, not quite the same as the first, and a lot less worse.

Last year about this time I was coming up on what I called my season of firsts: September ... our wedding anniversary ...October ... my birthday...In November it would be hard to feel thankful when all I wanted to do was be with Jim  ...Christmas … I could not even imagine it...New Year’s...So hard to look ahead with so much left behind ...Finally February 19th would bring the first anniversary of Jim’s death. With the help of time, friends & family, a grief counselor and xanax (in no particular order), I got through it. Of course.  

Our last Christmas, Monterey 2013

As the anniversary of my husband's death neared, Kristina, my grief counselor, and I discussed my fears and my plans for getting through it.  While Jim and I were living through what would be his last month, everything was moving and changing so fast. But in retrospect I could remember and re-live again, and  again, the horrible details of that month. It was like some Kafka-esque slow motion replay of the anguish, suffering and roller coaster ride of the last month  of Jim's life. February 19th came and despite my expectations, of course I survived...What else could I do. Life wants to live. And so, that morning, as I  have every other, I told myself, "if you don't get up now, you never will". And do you know what?  I cannot fully explain it but something magical did happen, after that sad day passed, I did feel lighter! As if a load had lifted off my shoulders. I had lived in such dread of that day, and I survived!

I am still amazed that I have gotten through this past year, and am now in my Season of Seconds.  Our anniversary fell over Labor Day weekend and I knew I was just going to hibernate and be sad. But I also did a lot of meditating and reflecting. Much of my grief work has been focused on mindfulness.  And so, as I approach my birthday and Thanksgiving, it is my intent and my goal to be in the present, to be grateful for the moment I am in now. I have also given myself permission to fully immerse myself in grief, if need be, on days that are specific to Jim - his birthday, our anniversary, and the day of his death. Those are days when being present means being present with my grief, my loss, my loneliness. But days like my birthday, Thanksgiving and Christmas are all intended to be celebrations filled with happy memories, laughter and love. I know it won’t be easy, but with intention and attention, I have a better chance or not just surviving these milestones, but thriving.