I Miss Hugs the Most

I still count the weeks. Ten to be exact. I still walk to the far side of the bed. My side. I still use My bathroom sink. His coffee mugs sit unused. My shopping cart is half full. Half of me is missing. I’ve reached the point of accepting the reality thrust upon me so unexpectedly. Now I’m trying to focus on living this new version of myself. The widow. The party of one.

I’m six days away from what would have been our 44^th anniversary. Instead it’s another gut wrenching post-Kahuna milestone to conquer. Daughter and Niece will join me for a Girls Night - a dinner dance at a favorite winery. Everybody is trying so hard to insulate me from the pain. It’s their pain too. So we shall eat, drink and dance. But I miss him…

I miss his hugs. He gave the best hugs. Quick goodbye hugs as he left for work. Celebratory hugs of happiness. Passionate hugs of lovers. Casual come-from-behind hugs in the kitchen as I made dinner. Long, arms-encircling-me, “I’m here to make sure nothing bad happens to you,” embraces. He was nine inches taller, allowing my head to rest in the middle of his chest, his heart softly beating a calm, reassuring rhythm. We hugged often, in private and public. I never wanted them to end.

Safe in his arms- and taller with heels!

In my post-Kahuna life, hugs are frequent - delivered on an almost daily basis from my extraordinary village. (Hug) “I wish I could do more,” is a sentiment shared often. (Hug) “I can’t imagine what you’re going through.” (Hug) “You are so strong, I don’t know what I would do if this happened to me.” (Hug) “You’ll get through this.”  I welcome each and every comforting embrace, and feel immensely fortunate to have the support of my wonderful “framily”. But no one can replace Kahuna hugs. I miss his hugs.

I miss our dancing. As baby boomers, our choreography was influenced by our parents and older siblings. Glenn Miller’s Big Band meets American Bandstand. If a song had a beat and you could swing dance to it, we were out there. My hand in his, my other arm on his shoulder, we would set out on a swing dance-fest, complete with our signature spins and turns. It wasn’t perfect by any stretch of the imagination, but it was our “routine” – and we got lost in each other in those precious moments.

I have danced twice since That Day. The songs that beckoned me to grab Daughter, then Niece, to the dance floor were from the George and Paula playlist. I felt compelled to channel my inner Kahuna, and led my new dance partners in a few familiar swing spins. I’m sure they felt slightly awkward as I took their hands and proceeded to “step, step, rock step, turn and spin” them to the music. We smiled, then I cried – another ugly cry – missing my life/dance partner in that moment. I miss dancing.

I miss…our conversations – both spoken and silent. Our ESP-like intuition of each other’s thoughts at any given moment. His room filling presence. His “sweet-talk” to Charlie the Golden, complete with Charlie’s replies. His sensitivity (“Quick, change the channel!”) to commercials featuring abandoned or abused animals. His misspellings in crosswords I’d have to fix. His ADD-induced messiness. I miss everything.

But I miss his hugs the most.

Hello Darkness, My New Friend

Today marks the two month anniversary of George‘s passing. I can’t wrap my head around how life has changed in such a short time. As I watch the Grands grow, I mourn their grandpa’s absence from their young lives. The baby grabs George’s rings, worn around my neck, at every opportunity as if she’s holding his hand in her chubby baby fingers. My almost three-year-old energizer bunny has begun to refer to “Gigi’s house,” omitting Grandpa from the description. As sad as that makes me, I am equally delighted when he spots any and every picture of Grandpa and joyfully recognizes him. And Max still asks questions. “Do you miss Grandpa?” is his recurring query to me. He asked his mom the other day, “If you wish upon a star, will your wish come true?” When she asked what he’d wish for, he replied, “I’d wish Grandpa didn’t die.” Oh, Max. How I long for your wish to come true…

Hello darkness, my old friend. That line from a Simon and Garfunkel song has been in my head since the 60’s. Come to think of it, so has George! I’ve sung those words for years but this week they’ve taken on a whole new meaning. The darkness is real, not just lyrics to a song. I am in the throes of the nastiest stage of grief I’ve encountered so far. Depression has wrapped a heavy cloak around me, and I’m fighting not to stay in bed all day, holding the one piece of clothing that still carries the musky scent of my Big Kahuna. “They” say grief has no time limit, yet I really wish it had a “use by” date that gave me hope for emerging from this black hole. For now I live under a shroud of emptiness and can’t find a way out.

I’ve been forcing my sadness back to the cheap seats for weeks, filling the void with one distraction after another. Since That Day I’ve had a lot to keep me insulated from this feeling of utter loneliness. The Celebration of Life. Closing George’s law practice. Erasing his name from our financial existence, and all that comes with taking over that part of our life he had always managed. They are welcome diversions, and I’m proud to say this old gal still has it when it comes to learning something new!

Grand fun!

Slimy fun

Other distractions are pure joy. Play dates and sleepovers with my precious Grands. Lunch and dinner with members of my amazing village, where every meal includes a side order of tears. Talking always helps, and the conversations become a lovely moment of normalcy in my otherwise abnormal existence.



I really felt as if I was getting my emotions under control. Until...

The first Father-less Father’s Day got the depression train on the tracks. Tearful moments with Son and Daughter. My attempt to add a Dad-worthy note to the cards I gave Son and SIL that evoked too many memories and caused additional sadness.

The following day the Depression Express was rolling, and I was on board. I retreated to my Kahuna size bed at the untimely hour of 5:30 pm, feeling the weight of my sadness and looking for comfort in unconsciousness. I fought the urge to sleep, and made a bargain with myself to stay awake by watching a favorite old rom-com, When Harry Met Sally. I’ve watched that movie hundreds of times - who doesn’t love the famous Katz’s Deli scene. This viewing, though, took an unexpected turn with the “interviews” within the movie. As the octogenarian couples shared their wonderful long marriage stories, I felt cheated. How dare they have so much time with their “one true loves” when I lost mine too soon? I turned off the TV to retreat to the inner sanctum of slumber.

Charlie, my alarm clock

By morning I forced myself out of bed to feed and water Charlie. Determined to get the day started on the right “foot”, I buckled Charlie’s leash and set out for a long morning walk. The weather was perfect, and the much needed exercise felt great. Later as I undressed to shower, that damn unwelcome visitor reappeared. As I stood in “our” closet, the sight of George’s clothes was the unexpected trigger. Without warning I felt the now familiar rush of grief-induced emotion that rose, for the first time, to primal screams - with my head buried in his still-neatly arranged suits.

I retreated to the shower and under the steamy stream of water, screamed again and cried even more. I called out George’s name and begged him to come back. I sobbed - an ugly, snot-nose cry - and told him I can’t face life without him. I felt utterly helpless. When I started hyperventilating, I realized there was nobody to rescue me if I passed out in the shower, and a little shred of common sense (and the fear of someone other than my Kahuna seeing me naked!) took hold. I let the shower spray comfort me and dilute my stream of tears, as the involuntary post-cry gulps reminiscent of childhood put the finishing touches on my worst meltdown to date.

The bed beckoned me as I dried myself, but I pushed through, got dressed, and took Charlie for a ride. I canceled a lunch date with my dear friend, and opted to let my OCD love of vacuuming be my companion. No speaking required. I was alone with my thoughts, and now have the cleanest car interior since it rolled off the showroom floor!

Articles on the subject offer clinical descriptions of the depression stage of grief, along with advice for coping with it…

• “See it as a visitor, perhaps an unwelcome one, but one who is visiting whether you like it or not.”
• “Make a place for your guest. Invite your depression to pull up a chair with you in front of the fire, and sit with it, without looking for a way to escape.”
• “Give yourself permission to “feel your feelings”. Don’t let anyone tell you how you should feel or that you should “get over it” or “move on”.
• “As you grow stronger, it may return from time to time, but that is how grief works.”

The last suggestion for coping seemed right up my “over-poster” alley...“Create a special and unique post for Facebook to let your online community how much you love and miss that person.” Bingo!

I know what feeds my grief induced depression. Longing for something I’ll never have again. Wishing I could turn back time. Feeling so alone, and missing the love that filled my heart for so many years. My unwelcome “visitor” has settled in for a while, and I’m feeling its presence – like that house guest who just won’t leave. Hello darkness, my new friend. Please don't get too comfortable.

If I Had Known

Facebook does a wonderful job with its “On this day” memory joggers posted daily on my feed. Reminders of happy times and the beautiful life I had with my best friend by my side. But since That Day, they recall a time when I lived in blissful ignorance. When a day was just another rotation of the earth, and the expectation of more “On this day’s” was not questioned. Now the memories trigger a new response – what would I have said/done if I had known it would be the last time my Kahuna and I would share that experience?

I thought we had more time. The best the oncologist could offer, with aggressive treatment, was two years. We had Christmas, New Years, Valentine’s Day and both our birthdays to silently contemplate the unspoken question – would they be our last? I could see it in his eyes when those thoughts crossed his mind. And I tried so hard not to let my worst fear override my hope. We bought tickets to The Eagles concert next September. Planned fishing trips in the Sierras this summer. Then complications to chemo took him suddenly, and the unspoken thoughts from which we so carefully protected each other were answered. There would be no new memories to be made. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye.

Looking back now from my new widow’s perch, I ask myself what I would have done differently if I had known the innocent moments and annual milestones in our past year were going to be the last with my Kahuna…

If I had known:

• I wouldn’t have been cranky the day before he died. He was struggling with the newest chemo regimen, and I was concerned. I drove my weak Kahuna to doctor appointments to see if they could adjust medications or prescribe something new to help him. I was worried. Tired. I had become chauffer, caregiver, housekeeper, dietician and office assistant (he was still working, even in his weakened condition). By late afternoon, my fear and fatigue surfaced in a snippy retort to one of his innocent questions. When I snapped, he apologized to me for being so needy, and I felt horrible. If I had known he would be gone in a matter of hours, I would have dropped everything and been less selfish.

• I would have recorded him as he shared “stories.” They were his trademark, and he had a tale to spin on any number of topics and life experiences. If I had heard them once, I had heard them ten thousand times, yet he retold every story with the exuberance and expression as if it had just happened! I had even developed my own sign language when he was losing the attention of his audience – a gentle squeeze of his leg, if it was in range.  Or a simple sweep of my hand across my neck if the leg move wasn’t an option! He knew the gesture was his signal to begin wrapping up the story, which could take another fifteen minutes! If I had known I was hearing his tales for the last time, I would have begged him to continue. Now I find myself looking for old videos that capture some of his funny comments and George-isms.

• I would have paid him more compliments. I was the queen of corrections and learned over the years how my nitpicky attention to detail deflated him. “It’s Alz-heimers, not Alt-heimers.” Why did I let little things like that bother me? I don’t think I told him often enough what an amazing man he was. If I had known, I would have channeled my inner Mr. Rogers and told him every day how much I loved him, “just the way he was.” Because I really did!

• I would not have passed up an opportunity to share a kiss or a hug even in those moments that seemed irrelevant. I would have considered every expression of desire a huge compliment, instead of the occasional annoyance; “Honey, not here. Not now. I’m making dinner.” Oh how I miss his touch now.

• I would have been more patient with his Adult Attention Deficit Disorder idiosyncrasies. Lists are essential to adults with ADD, and my Kahuna made it clear that any honey-do task or shopping trip with more than two items required a written back-up. Shopping lists in particular were interesting. If my list included, “Large can of Hunts kidney beans,” I could expect two of the three to four descriptors to be met – and have the large can of Hunts garbanzo beans in the pantry to prove it! If I had known, I would have thanked him for doing the shopping - and made hummus!

• I would have done fewer eye rolls when he was watching his old “classic” TV shows, and sat down with him - and laughed at the decades old jokes. It was actually this incident that triggered my earlier, snappy moment on his last day home. “Come sit down and watch TV with me.” he said. “I can’t. I still have to finish the laundry, get dinner started and return calls.” It haunts me now. If I had known, I would have sat with him the rest of the night.

Last anniversary. Last trip to Hawaii. Last winery visit. Last lunch date. Last Thanksgiving. Last hug. Last kiss. Last dance. Last. Last. Last. As I look back on the ordinary and extraordinary days we shared, it’s still hard to wrap my head around the finality they all represented as Paula and George. Before That Day, every day was beautiful, even in its uneventfulness. If I had known, I would have soaked in every last detail. His face smiling with his love for the Lovely Paula Marie. His hand holding mine. His laugh. The playful banter with others. Instead, I rely on saved iPhone videos and Facebook memories to keep his voice wrapped around me. I want to hold on to it forever.

Last Father's Day

Last Anniversary

Last Dodgers Game

Last NYC Christmas

I am bracing for the upcoming “firsts” without George. Father’s Day. Our anniversary –it would have been our 44th on July 6. Holidays. Birthdays. The list goes on, and I’m sure each will bring with it the memories of my happy Kahuna and his LPM – along with the tears that dwell behind the façade masking my broken heart. If only I had known.

Lonely Paula Marie

It’s another Day After. Yesterday more than 250 FOG’s (Friends of George) gathered at a beautiful venue to say goodbye to my remarkable husband. It was stunning to see SO MANY PEOPLE sharing memories, and paying tribute to the man who loved life - and adored his Lovely Paula Marie.

I had promised myself I would stay present and feel all the feels of the day. I turned down every offer, from concerned loved ones, for anxiety and mood altering substances - worried the numbing effect might somehow dull my emotions. It was the right choice for me, and I took great comfort in the hundreds of hugs I shared. I also amazed myself with my composure. I wore waterproof mascara, preparing for a day of copious tears. Instead I found myself comforting others, many of whom I had not seen since they received the news of George’s untimely death.

Planning a celebration for my Big Kahuna had been a top priority for weeks. I knew the turnout would be large, so finding the right venue was important. With the help of our dear friends, Las Posas Country Club fit the bill to a tee (see what I did there?).

Party planning is in my DNA, and this was the most important party I would ever host. It had to be perfect for George. I had abundantly talented and generous friends who offered their assistance and creative abilities to assure his sendoff was everything I wanted it to be. Keep in mind, George would have been happy with some tri-tips on the barbecue and a few people in our backyard! I’m sure he got a kick out of watching me obsess over every detail of this shindig, and was surely happy to be released from his usual, pre-party honey-do list!

It hit me a few days before the Celebration - all of this “fun” planning and preparation was for what would be one of the saddest days of my life…

This final goodbye suddenly felt real. My emotions surfaced and I knew I couldn’t micromanage this event as I had all the huge, overproduced parties of my past. Thankfully all it took was a few text messages to Paula’s Posse, who picked up and ran with the final planning and preparation. But not before I created one of my well known event schedules! There’s just so much a Type A like me can relinquish!

My decision to hand-off control was brilliant. I arrived at the venue early to see what the soon-to-be arriving guests were about to experience - a beautiful memorial display that represented all facets of my extraordinary husband’s “larger than” life. The spectacular room with a magnificent view.
Tables decorated and gorgeous Dodger Blue hydrangeas and peppered with photographs of George throughout his life. With my head clear and my emotions in check, I positioned myself to welcome people as they arrived. Hugs were long, heartfelt and emotional. My husband had made an impact on each and every person in that room and they wanted me to know how much he meant to them. I soaked up the love and condolences with gratitude. It turns out I didn’t need any mood altering medications - the embraces and shared stories were all it took to help me get through this day.

And the speakers! Their tributes were gifts. Daughter. Niece. Nephew. Students, past and present, who George mentored during his 29 year stint as the attorney coach for our local high school’s Mock Trial team. And George’s best friend who willfully disobeyed my 5 to 7 minutes speech rule with a 20 minute tribute that people are still talking about! Add to that the music provided by our special, and exceedingly talented friends. I felt such peace as I watched the ceremony unfold, and felt the love and adoration for the most humble and selfless man I have ever known. So humble in fact, I’m sure he was embarrassed and a bit uncomfortable to be receiving so much love and affection and attention.

His Dodger Blue urn alongside his LA Dodgers baseball cap, George was present next to the podium. But the real presence came in the form of the Kahuna sign that appeared while Daughter was sharing her love story to her dad. Behind the podium and alongside two walls of the massive room were glass windows, with a spectacular view of the nearby mountains. A large sliding door was open to allow guests access to the outdoor deck. As daughter shared one of George’s more memorable stories, in flew a bird! It made one high-speed low pass across the room before landing just steps from the podium and daughter. She stopped mid story to say, “Hi, Dad,” at which point our feathered friend made another quick flyby before exiting the room. Never comfortable as the center of attention, George must have decided to redirect everyone’s eyes for a moment. Thankfully no “presents” were dropped during the flyover and we all had a collective chuckle at the spectacle!

As the ceremony wrapped up I shared this video tribute I lovingly created for the man with whom I shared my life for nearly 50 years. Everyone was then invited to dance, as our friends played some of George’s favorite music. Once again Team Kahuna went into action gathering the flowers, notes and memorabilia while I re-hugged the departing guests. Not ready to be alone, I invited the family back to the house for one last gathering around our fire pit. It was the perfect ending to remember my man.

Now it’s the day after. These “after” days can be some of the hardest. The day after his diagnosis, just before Christmas. The day after he left us so suddenly. Both of those After Days left little time for introspection. Today is different. There is no cancer to fight. No funeral to plan. Today I face the reality I have been fiercely avoiding. Today I begin my life alone.

As I lay in bed this morning - on my side of my Kahuna size bed - I looked at the emptiness I have lain next to the past six weeks. I slowly repositioned the pillows I have been using to simulate his presence next to me. I put my head on his pillow and lay, for the first time, on “his side”. I spoke to him. I cried. And I let it sink in. It’s time to move ahead. George is always with me, yet I have to start looking forward, and live this new life.

I have no idea what “forward” will look like…stay tuned as I discover the new LPM – Lonely Paula Marie.