Grief - A Place Apart June 30, 2008

In times past when a man died, his wife would dress in black for a year to mark the period of mourning.  There was an understanding that grief was a place apart from everyday life; a place where things were inherently different.  What a kindness that was.  In today’s society grief like that would be deemed excessive, almost pathological.   One is encouraged to “get back out there” or “get a hobby”, “get a job”, “volunteer”.   Just do something so that the people around you don’t have to think about their own mortality or that of someone they love.  Sometimes I think it would be better to dress in black, to have the grief seen so it doesn’t have to be spoken.  I would let the widow’s veils form a protective barrier between me and the rest of the world like a bandage on a slow healing wound.  I would take my year apart.

Forms, Forms, Forms - 6/19/08

I can not begin to tell you how much I hate filling out forms.  It seems all I've been doing since Warren died is notifying someone about it and then filling out their pile of forms.  I had one more big package to do yesterday and I looked at it and decided I didn't have a clue where to begin.  This morning I called them and made them walk me through the forms.  That done, I had to scan them all and then print out a copy for my files.  God forbid I should send something out that I don't have documented.  Then I had to go to the bank and get my signature guaranteed.  Then all the forms wouldn't fit in their postage paid envelope so I got a priority mail envelope and spent $4.60 cents to send it.   It just wears me out.

My other diversion is shredding paper.  My husband, bless his heart, was a bit of a pack rat when it came to paper.  So I've been sorting out what to keep (not much) and creating a filing system for that, and shredding the rest that had names or addresses.  If the shredder lasts through all this, I'll be very surprised.  I've taken over his office so that I can run the household from there and have all the files I need at my fingertips.

Emotionally I've discovered there are little grief time bombs all over the house.  I found corn bread in the freezer that I made for him the last time I made pinto beans and that just set me off.  Who cries over corn bread?  The other night it was the bathrobe I'd made for him for our second Christmas together.  I guess over time these things won't be as painful as they are now.  There is no way to get through this without going through this.....damn it.

A Message - 6/11/08

I’ve been a widow for three weeks today.  Funny how time keeps moving away from that moment of ultimate loss.  A part of me is still there sitting by the bed in the hospice center.  I can still hear the silence and feel the warmth of his hand.  The rest of me is left to pick up the pieces of my life and move on with the flow of time.  Yesterday I took my Mother out for dinner to celebrate her 84^th birthday.  I spend days going through papers, notifying financial institutions of his passing, filling out forms, and talking to strangers on the phone who express their condolences.  One woman even apologized for my loss, twice.  Did she have something to do with the cancer or was she just unaware that she was choosing the wrong word?  I’ve become so aware that the words people say to those grieving can ring as hollow and meaningless as a bell in the wilderness.  They mean well, but they can’t begin to plumb the depths.  Even if they themselves have suffered every kind of loss, they have not experienced your loss in your way.  How could they?  They haven’t lived with and loved as you have.  They haven’t breathed your same air.

I find myself sleeping on his side of the bed.  There is a comfort in that.   I can’t eat at the kitchen table.  It just feels too lonely there where we always ate together.  I only cook once a week which will last several days and then I’ll eat salads or graze on vegetables and hard boiled eggs.

Next week my Granddaughter will be out of school for the summer and will be here with me during the week.  I suppose I’ll have to start cooking more regularly again, living more regularly again.

On the night of June 2^nd at 1:37 in the morning, I was lying awake.  I heard a voice very loudly in my left ear.  The voice said “I’m back home now.”  It didn’t frighten me, but it did startle me.  I didn’t recognize the voice.  It seemed male.  I think it was Warren letting me know that he’d made it to the other side.  The last week of his life I talked to him a lot about going home.  The card I chose for the funeral home prayer card said “Going Home”.  I’m grateful for the message.

(The picture is Warren in 1980.)

I Believe - 6/5/08

Diamond Rio - I Believe

At Two Weeks - 6/4/08

Today is the two week anniversary of Warren's passing.  I don't know where I am, or even who I am anymore.  I seem to alternate between days  that are busy and days that just disappear.   I decided this week that I should gather up his summer clothing and donate them while the thrift stores want summer wear and people can use them.   I managed to do that, but boy did it seem like a betrayal.  I talk to him as I move about the house.  When I cry I feel him near me.

Some days I visit the cemetery.  Next time I go, I'll have to throw away the flowers that were left from the funeral.  They are dying too.  Its a very peaceful place with trees and bird song.  The grave sits close to a Children's Garden, where babies are buried.  It's a very powerful reminder that grief can come in different flavors.  Its a whole lot easier to accept a death of a loved one who was 74 than to think of losing an infant.  I've seen some of the young parents in the garden and my broken heart breaks again for them.

I know I am isolating myself right now.  I need to do this.  I need this time alone to get my bearings.  Every time I'm out all I see are couples, or young families just starting out.  I want my life back the way it was before cancer.  I want to start over and do it all again.  I want him to walk through the front door again.  I am reminded of Joan Didion's book "The Year of Magical Thinking" that  she wrote after her husband suddenly died.  She spoke of being unable to get rid of his clothes in case he came back and of how magical thinking like that seem to permeate the first year following his death.

The last several years of my blog have been chronicling his disease and how we dealt with it, I suppose you can expect for awhile that I'll be talking about how I deal with the loss of a husband and friend. 

I came across this poem on The Writer's Almanac page the other day that seems to fit where I am.  Enjoy.

Things to Do in the Belly of the Whale

by Dan Albergotti

Measure the walls. Count the ribs. Notch the long days.
Look up for blue sky through the spout. Make small fires
with the broken hulls of fishing boats. Practice smoke signals.
Call old friends, and listen for echoes of distant voices.
Organize your calendar. Dream of the beach. Look each way
for the dim glow of light. Work on your reports. Review
each of your life's ten million choices. Endure moments
of self-loathing. Find the evidence of those before you.
Destroy it. Try to be very quiet, and listen for the sound
of gears and moving water. Listen for the sound of your heart.
Be thankful that you are here, swallowed with all hope,
where you can rest and wait. Be nostalgic. Think of all
the things you did and could have done. Remember
treading water in the center of the still night sea, your toes
pointing again and again down, down into the black depths.

"Things to Do in the Belly of the Whale" by Dan Albergotti from The Boatloads.© BOA Editions, Ltd., 2008.

The End - 6/3/08

The End

We sit alone in the pre-dawn quiet.
My hand rests on your still warm hand.
I think how much my world is changing,
as the room fills up with the sound of you not breathing.