THE BED'S TOO BIG/THE FRYING PAN'S TOO WIDE

But when he’s gone

Me and them lonesome blues collide

The bed’s too big

The frying pan’s too wide.

           

              -   Joni Mitchell

  

In the post I wrote a week after my husband's passing, I confessed that I wasn’t ready to say much about being a widow.  It still feels raw and new, but now that a month has passed, I feel ready to share a bit about my experience of widowhood so far.  Once again, I write to sort and process my thoughts. I appreciate your patience with my ramblings – I intend to turn to other subjects soon.

Often, when I awake, I step outside, where I spend some time in the peace of my garden.  One morning, after I had done some watering and weeding, I looked down at my grubby clothes and thought, These are my morning clothes. I quickly noted the pun.  They were, in fact, my mourning clothes.

I continue to suffer from “widow’s brain.”  One day, I stood staring into a cupboard for a long time, before pulling out a mug and making myself a cup of tea.  After carrying it to kitchen table, I discovered the cup that I had already made.  Another day, I broke a glass while putting it in the dishwasher, a simple task that had never confounded me before.  A few days ago, I bought a bag of cat food and left it in the cart when I loaded my other groceries into the car. And then there was the day when I found myself stymied by the thought of preparing food for myself.  I had to call a couple of friends to ask what I should keep on hand in order to make simple meals.

I am having dreams about getting lost on complex staircases or losing my way in the city – my psyche must be attempting to figure out the path ahead.

I am discovering that grief is physical. The night after Bill died, I slept like a rock and woke up exhausted and feeling as if I had been beaten about the head and neck with a two-by-four. Of course, there was exhaustion after the intensity and physical and emotional toll of his final few weeks, but the fatigue has lingered. The nights of good sleep ended after about a week, and now I sleep poorly more-often-than-not. It doesn’t matter how I sleep, though.  Even after a good night, I wake up tired. 

There was relief at first.  Relief that he had left his weary body behind.  Relief that his sons and I would no longer be getting up in the night to administer medications.  Relief that the limbo of the dying process was over. In truth, the life I had been living with Bill had become more memory than reality over the months before his death, as he slept more and more hours each day and had less and less energy for interaction.

So, for a while, I thought I was doing pretty well.  I had some crying jags, but not too many. I started in on the mounds of paperwork attendant to a death.  I spent time with friends and family. I told myself I was OK.

And then, maybe three weeks in, my days became a lot more challenging. Here’s the thing -- I like spending time alone. When Bill would occasionally go away for a few days, I would relish having the house to myself.  But, after two or three days, I would be ready for him to come home.  Now, as time passes, it is becoming more and more real to me that he will not be coming home.  He hasn’t gone to the store.  He hasn’t taken a short trip.  I am repeatedly startled to realize that this is my life now, that I will be moving forward without him. Again, it's not that I mind being alone; it’s that I miss him in all of his particularity. I miss the man he was and the life we shared before his illness took over. 

My tears are flowing more freely now, as I look around and find:

He’s not here to hold me.

He's not here to talk with me.

He's not here to comfort me when I'm upset.

He’s not here to read my writing drafts. (I very nearly got up from my desk to ask him to read over his obituary.)

He’s not here to tell me I am pretty, that I look nice.  (Yes, after twenty years of marriage, he said such things to me almost daily.)

He’s not here to read to the grandkids.

He’s not here to work in the garden with me. 

He’s not here to eat dinner with me. 

He’s not here to hold my hand while we watch TV.

He’s not here to take out the garbage.

He’s not here to answer my phone calls and texts when I’m out.  

He’s not here to drive me crazy.  

Are you surprised by that last one?  Look, he was a gentle, steady, generous guy, but just because he has died, doesn’t mean I have to pretend he was perfect.  He was not.  And neither am I.  So, like most marriages, ours wasn’t perfect.  My speedy Jersey ways would bump up against his midwestern deliberation. I am impatient.  (He was patient with my impatience, bless him.) He was a pack rat. Getting rid of things makes me feel lighter; it made him feel anxious. Still, through it all, whatever our challenges, we loved each other deeply and shared a long-lasting attraction, as well as values and an ever-widening family. We chose each other and were never tempted to quit one other.  

Last Christmas, instead of exchanging gifts, we each wrote a letter to the other.  I keep re-reading his.  He closed it with these words:  “You are the pole against which I lean and I love you dearly.”  And, of course, he was the pole against which I leaned. To mix metaphors a bit, I feel untethered, like I might just float away.  Or to employ yet another metaphor, I have lost my tap root.  Of course, I am fortunate that I have family and friends to tether and root me, to keep me from floating away.  Still, I miss my main tether, my tap root, and expect I always will.

                                    Photo by Allison Saeng for Unsplash

(I cannot close this post without expressing my gratitude for the kindness I have experienced. The friends who have spent time with me.  The friends and family who have called and sent notes and cards.  The friend who helped me to clear out an entire room. The one who carted off medical supplies when I could not think through where to donate them and the one who took away a pile of rags that I didn't want to toss in the garbage -- she even found somewhere to donate those. My daughters and a son-in-law, who moved furniture for me.  Bill's sons and a son-in-law who have kept the lawn mowed. The dear fellow whom I occasionally hire to help with the garden, who refused to let me pay him for the work he did soon after Bill died. The manager of Bill's dentist's office, who, when I called to report Bill's death, told me she had seen his obituary and had written off the balance on his account.  I am sure there is more that I am forgetting.  Recounting all of this moves me to tears.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

  

WIDOW FOR A WEEK

It is one week since my husband of twenty years died.  I am not in my right mind.  When I stumbled into the funeral place a few days ago to finalize the paperwork for his cremation, I kept making mistakes. The woman I was working with called it “widow’s brain.”

 

I looked at her blankly.  Am I really a widow?  

 

I suppose I am. But I’m not ready to claim the appellation. Bill's passing doesn’t feel real. I keep expecting to see him reading in his chair.  He was always reading.  Besides, I picture a widow as an old lady, wearing a black veil. Sure, maybe the first part of that description fits, but I am not wearing a veil, either real or figurative. 

 

In truth, I don’t know much about being a widow yet, so other than reporting that I am exhausted and heartbroken, I am not ready to write about it. If widowhood were a garment, it would be lying lightly across my back; I am hesitating to pull it over my shoulders.  

 

I will, therefore, save the discussion of widowhood for a future post, and will today report on the experience of accompanying Bill during his final weeks and days.** This will not be eloquent, because, you know, widow’s brain.

 

The back story: 

 

Bill was diagnosed with stage IV lung cancer in October of 2022.  We were told there was no cure, but treatment could buy him time.  He tolerated chemo pretty well, apart from fatigue, and eventually enjoyed a few months of remission, during which chemo was paused, and we enjoyed relative normalcy. Last November, a scan showed that the cancer was active again. Two different kinds of chemo were unsuccessful, and maybe four months ago, his fatigue and weakness began to increase dramatically, and a month ago, he took an even more rapid downturn.  

 

He started home hospice on May 17, and his sons and my daughters rallied around us.  The girls came over to support me whenever they were able leave their very young children. They brought food and called me every day.  

 

Those who followed Bill’s Caring Bridge site know that his out-of-state son, Andrew, flew in with his son, Joe, just days before Joe’s wedding. They brought love and attention and memories while Bill was still able to sit up and interact with them.  He was surprised and delighted by their visit.

 

Bill’s local sons, Doug and Marty, saw us through. They took turns spending the night with us, until the final few days, when they both stayed with us. They were kindness and patience itself with their father, and they kept me afloat until Bill’s passing on June 5.  

 

Some random observations: 

Bill’s final days were peaceful.  He faced his death with grace and acceptance.  He expressed gratitude for family and friends and the extra time his treatment brought him.  

 

I was warned by people in my caregiver support group that some friends and family members might disappear, unable to tolerate closeness to illness and death.  No one abandoned us.  Friends called and came by, brought us food, sat with me, walked with me.  One friend even cancelled a kayaking trip in order to be near at hand. Bill’s two brothers flew in from Indiana a week before he passed. His two sisters sent him lovely voice messages. So many people surrounded us with love. (After Bill died, Doug told me that Bill, while still alert, had given him the phone numbers of my closest friends, and asked him to make sure that they would surround me with love. I was sure my friends wouldn’t need any prompting, and I was right. I was deeply touched by Bill’s concern for my well-being, even as he was leaving this life.)

 

Bill’s closing days were marked by both tears and laughter.  The sadness needs no explanation, but I didn’t expect the laughter.  Here are some examples:

 

Soon after Bill went on hospice, my daughter Mara asked him what – if he were able to come back to comfort us – he would appear as. I imagine she thought he might say a bird.  Instead, my Indianapolis-500-loving husband thought for a minute and said,  “A race car.”  

 

One day, while I was upstairs with Bill, a neighbor came over with her six-year-old daughter to bring us some flowers.  Bill’s son Marty answered the door, and the child looked at him, then said to her mother, “Is that her new husband?”

 

Two days before he died, when Bill was no longer speaking and not reacting to touch, my daughter Anne stood crying at his bedside, saying her farewells.  Tears were interrupted by laughter when she told Bill that Mara wanted to apologize to him for being a shithead teenager when he and I were first married. We laughed and Bill smiled.  I think that was his last obvious reaction to any words.

 

Being with Bill during his final days, I experienced both the sacred and the mundane.  I sat with him.  I lay in the hospital bed with him and whispered in his ear.  I played music for him.  His sons also talked to him and played music for him.  We tended to him. We accompanied him as far as we could.

 

There was sadness and overwhelm and punchiness from sleep deprivation.  And there was this:  Laundry had to be done.  Bills still had to be paid. The cat box wasn’t going to clean itself.  The garden had to be watered.  

Some things that happened while Bill was on hospice:  Our 2014 Prius refused to start.  A spider bit me, causing my ankle to swell up like a balloon. One of our cats puked. Twice.  And although my ankle hurt and $4500 for the car repair was momentarily startling, I had more pressing things worry about. I think it's called perspective.

 

The world does not stop for illness or hospice or death. I suppose it will ever be so. 

 

I am sad and I am grateful.  I am grateful for Bill. I am grateful that he chose me to make a life with. I am grateful that he didn’t suffer.  I am grateful for those who surrounded us, and are surrounding me, with love. 

Finally, words of wisdom from my 3-year-old granddaughter Frankie.  When her mother, my Anne, explained to Frankie and her sister that Bill was dying and would not be coming back, Frankie announced, "I'm going to be really sad and I'm going to be really mad."

And that sums up my feelings exactly.

Flowers by Frankie

** If you are wondering at my sitting down to write so soon, writing is how I process my experiences and emotions.  It is solace and catharsis. I can write and cry at the same time.

 

 

 

 

BREATHE IN; BREATHE OUT

We breathe.  In and out.  Most of the time we do this unconsciously.  I, for one, don't often stop to think about what a miracle this is -- what a marvel of design or invention or accident.   

 

But today I have been thinking about this and the other miracles that keep us alive. Blood circulates through no effort on our part.  Our nervous systems pass messages throughout our bodies.  Again, no volition is involved.

 

We stand up and ambulate.  We open our eyes and see.  We hear.  We taste. We smell.  Most of us take these wonders for granted--at least, that is, until one of these systems goes awry. What if we were to appreciate these miracles before they fail us?

 

What else do we take for granted much of the time?  How about:

 

Water--most especially hot, running water

Shelter

Grocery stores with food on the shelves.  

Love, all kinds of love. 

 

Gentle readers, if our bodies are working, if we have water and shelter and food and people who love us, we are so very fortunate.  Can we spend some time appreciating this?  

 

I have been living with a lot of fear and anxiety about current events.  I think I need to stop for a moment and breathe.  

 

Can we all stop and breathe.  In and out. 

Let's.

And then let's do whatever we can to repair this broken world. 

 

 

                                    Photo by Saad Chaudhry on Unsplash

THE LOVES OF MY LIFE

 

Yesterday, Valentine’s Day, I woke up thinking about the concept of “the love of one’s life.” The idea that each of us has one true love that is truer than all the others. 

 

After a very small amount of thought, I rejected the idea.

 

Yes, I can say without hesitation that my husband is the love of my life.  I have loved other men.  I have lived with other men.  But he is the romantic love of my life.  

 

The key word here is romantic.  Many of us can name the romantic love of our lives.  But does the concept have to end with romance?  

 

I think not.  

 

The other day, a friend told me about a podcast she had listened to, where someone had stated that the love of your life doesn’t have to be a romantic partner.  It can be a friend or even a pet.

 

I like this notion.  But does there have to be only one?

 

Again, I think not.

 

So, I want to write today about the non-romantic loves of my life. (I will stick here with sentient beings and leave out such things as writing and gardening.)

 

My daughters and grandchildren may be the greatest loves of my life.  For nearly 40 years, whenever I have heard the Beatles' song “In My Life,” I have thought of my daughters, and for nearly two-and-a half years now, the song has also brought to mind my grandchildren, who have joined this cohort of beloveds.

 

But this blog post is not for them or for my husband or my wider family, all of whom, I hope, know of my love for them. It is, instead, a love letter to my friends.

 

Yesterday, I recieved a double bunch of tulips in the mail (I don’t know how this is done---magic?) from two dear friends back east.  They were thinking of me as I approach a minor surgery next week.  Although the day of the flowers’ arrival was likely a coincidence, I chose to think of them as a Valentine.    

 

Yesterday, I also received a Valentine card from a friend of nearly 40 years, and messages of affection from others.  

 

How could they and my other close friends not be included among the loves of my life?  

 

These are the people who have seen me through—beginning with the one I met in the third grade and continuing straight through to the one I met last year.  These are the people who have comforted me and allowed me to comfort them.  These are the people to whom I have told secrets, who have listened to my news, helped me to solve problems, held me when I was devastated, laughed and cried with me.  

 

And here is the really amazing part—they have trusted me with their secrets, their joys and sorrows, their deepest selves.  And, get this, they have loved me at my most unlovable.  I said in the last paragraph that they had seen me through. But they have also seen through me. And they have not turned away.

 

As I think about the loves of my life, I am picturing myself at the center of a braid, with strands of different colors for family, lovers, and friends.  Some strands have the thickness of years; some are newer and thinner, but are no less a part of the whole that carries me through my life.  There are frayed patches where friends or romantic partners have dropped away or loved ones have died. There are also a few gaps where there has been a loss, followed by a reconnection. But neither the gaps nor the frayed bits have affected the strength of a braid that has been so many years in the making.  (And I like to think that those who have passed hover yet around its twists and turns.)

 

The older I get, the more I understand that I would be nowhere without those lives braided around mine. And even as I treasure time alone, I know such time would be intolerable without the embrace of the loves of my life. 

May we all cherish the people who have chosen to entwine their lives with ours, for who would we be without them?

 

 

 

 

 

OH, CHRISTMAS TREE

I used to love Christmas. 

Of course, I loved it as a child, but I kept my sense of wonder well into my twenties, and it came back with a vengeance after my daughters were born.  I took such pleasure in their pleasure and excitement during their early years.  I confess, however, that my interest in the holiday was much diminished after they grew up and away. What would be the point of decorating a tree without little ones to enjoy it? I didn’t have it in me to do much more each year than buy a small potted tree or decorate a large house plant.  

 

Indeed, the most “Christmassy” I have felt for the past few years has been while visiting granddaughters on my husband’s side, and enjoying their excitement.  But, now, those girls are 10 and 14 -- nearly past the age of wonder, and my Christmas doldrums might have snuck back in, had it not been for the arrival during the past two years of four grandchildren on my side.

 

I am happy to report that the delight of my toddler granddaughters, aged one-and-a-half (twins) and two, has revived my own latent excitement over the season. 

 

Although the girls aren’t old enough yet to be anticipating presents, 

they talk excitedly (in their fashion) about Santa Claus and reindeer. And they are entirely engrossed in shifting ornaments on and off their trees.  (My grandson, aged two months, will join in the merriment next year, I am sure.)

 

So, of course, we had to have a tree this year.  A few days ago, my husband and and I and the two-year-old brought home a four-foot-tall fir—just the right height for two senior citizens to fit in our car and carry into our living room.  Yesterday, I put lights on the tree.  (I will wait for the granddaughters to help me add some ornaments.)  

 

Which brings me to today, when, after being awakened by stormy weather at 5 a.m. I lay in bed, listening to rain and branches land on the roof, and telling myself I would fall back asleep any minute. Sometime after six, I gave up on this notion and got out of bed.  Downstairs into the darkened living room I went and turned on the tree lights.  

 

Sitting there in the dark, I was immediately transported to a Christmas long ago.  Was I eight or 18?  I don’t know.  Maybe it was the amalgamated memory of several Christmases.  In any event, there I was in the early evening gazing at my family’s tree, mesmerized by the colored lights and tinsel.  (Yes, those were the days of tinsel, and the perennial argument over whether to place it stand-by-strand or throw it on in bunches.)

                                                          (With my bother Jim - can you see the tinsel?)

In memory, I am sitting in front of that tree, with its large and clunky lights, for hours.  Perhaps it was ten minutes that are stretched by recollection.  I do know that I felt peace staring at those lights, and sitting in my living room this morning, I wondered what had become of the girl and young woman who had taken such delight in a tree.  

 

Could I bring her back?  

 

Surrounded by toddlers, I think maybe I can.

 

And you?  What will it take for you to bring back childish delight in the season?  I know some of you have never lost the gift of wonder.  

 

May it be so for all of us.

 

May we see the world through the eyes of a child, and may we know peace, love, and wonder this year.

SHOWER THE PEOPLE

Shower the people you love with love

Show them the way you feel

Things are gonna work out fine

If you only will.

        -  James Taylor**

Last week, I spoke on the phone with an old friend who lives about as far from me as it’s possible to get without falling into an ocean.  We don't talk very often, but she is dear to me.  When we signed off, she said, "I love you."  "Me, too, you," I replied.  Today, I had lunch with another friend, who, talking about the difficulty of finding time for friends amidst the fullness of our lives, said, "I only see you about every six months and I love you."  “And I, you,” I responded.

Simple words, yet often left unsaid.

Which brings me to the James Taylor song quoted above.  This song absolutely shreds me every time I listen to it.  His soulful voice admonishing us to “shower the people you love with love” yanks my heart right out of my chest.

Yesterday, I spoke with a family member who told me he has been risking vulnerability by telling friends and family what they mean to him.  Why, I wonder, is it risky to tell people that we care, that we love them, that they are an important part of our lives?  Why should this make us feel vulnerable?

Why do we hold back?  Is it because we believe the important people in our lives will always be there?  Here is a cautionary tale.  I had a friend with whom I shared a love of writing.  We would meet for lunch from time-to-time and talk about our kids.  We would exchange drafts of writing projects.  There came a few months during which we didn’t have any contact.  We were both busy. He was in a new relationship.  I kept thinking that I needed to call him, that I would call him.  

And then, quite suddenly, he died.  I never got to have lunch with him again or to tell him that his friendship was important to me. 

Dear reader, if there is someone you are thinking about calling, please do it.  Don’t wait. 

It's not difficult for me to tell some people how I feel. I almost never leave either of my daughters without saying "I love you."  This comes as naturally as breathing.  It was not so with my parents, who, like many in their generation, did not make these declarations of love.  Toward the end of her life, I would tell my mother that I loved her.  She seemed surprised, then pleased.  She was ultimately able to tell me that she loved me.  It felt important to share these words before she left this life. 

I find it easy to tell some friends what they mean to me, and with others. I hesitate.  Will I make them uncomfortable?  Is this their way of relating?  With these friends, I can call.  I can check in. There are ways of showing love without words.

So, let’s do it.  Let’s let our love shine.  

And let me say to my friends and family, right here and now, in writing, I love you.  Thank you for seeing me through.  Thank you for accompanying me on this journey.  You mean the world to me.

Photo by Nick Fewings on Unsplash

**  This is not the first time I have quoted James Taylor in a blog post. I come back to him again and again.  He seems to be providing the soundtrack for my life.  For those who don't know the song, here he is singing Shower the People. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GfJWqjoekow

HOW DO I LOVE THEE? LET ME COUNT THE WAYS: Some Thoughts Inspired by a New Granddaughter **

I have a new granddaughter.  Her name is Daisy. She is not my first grandchild – we have five on my husband’s side and I adore them all.  But Daisy is the first child born to one of my two daughters.  She is the first grandchild who was still a tiny baby the first time I held her.  And this is the first time I have looked for signs of my family in a grandchild. 

 

I’m not going to bore you with a long description of my love-at-first-sight reaction to this baby.  (I will save that for conversations with other grandmothers.)  Although, I must say, I didn’t know I would feel exactly the same love for this baby that I felt when I first held each of my daughters.  A fierce love. An I’ll-do-anything-to-protect-you love. When I first held Daisy, and every time I hold her, my heart--like the Grinch’s heart--grows to three times its size. 

 

I was 38 when Daisy’s mom--my Mara--was born.  When she was a teenager, Mara would sometimes state wistfully that she wished she had younger parents.  I would patiently explain that if I had had a baby ten years earlier, that baby would not have been her.  There would have been no Mara, or there would have been a different Mara.  

 

Each baby is the product of a cosmic lottery.  If my mother and father hadn’t gone to the same youth hostel on a particular weekend, they would not have met, and I would never have come into being.   And even given their meeting, a very particular sperm, out of millions of sperm, had to join with a very particular egg for a baby of theirs to have turned out to be me. And so it goes, back through time -- If each of my ancestors had not created the very embryos they created at the very moment they created them, neither my parents nor I would have have entered this life. 

 

And so it appears that the odds of any particular being winning the lottery and entering the world are vanishingly small.  If, for instance, the ruptured ovarian cyst that nearly sent me into sepsis at age 24 had killed me or rendered me sterile, the daughters I call Anne and Mara would not exist.  And if I had met a different man, I might have had children, but not my Anne and Mara.

 

And if Mara hadn’t reconnected with a college boyfriend, married him, and gotten pregnant just when she did, there would be no Daisy--not this Daisy anyway.  What a chain of chance it took for this baby to be born, for this Daisy to join the chain. 

 

Of course, I would have loved a baby conceived five minutes later, but now that this baby is manifest, it is she I love--she, who in all of her particularity, has won my heart. 

 

I am so grateful that she is here, so grateful to have lived long enough to be a grandmother to both Daisy and the bonus grandchildren brought into my life by my husband. For them, and for children everywhere who have run the generational gauntlet to arrive in this world, I offer a version of the Buddhist Loving Kindness meditation:

 

       May you have an open heart.

       May you be free from suffering.

       May you be happy.

       May you be at peace.

 

May it be so.

**Yes, I stole the title for this post from Elizabeth Barrett Browning, and, yes, she wrote her sonnet for her true love, Robert, but, honestly, I believe it is equally, perhaps better-suited to a parent’s or grandparent’s love.  

 

How Do I Love Thee? (Sonnet 43)

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.