Grateful? Thankful? Depressed

This weekend celebrates the transformation of Casa de Hultman into a "faux fall" spectacular. As a native SoCal girl it’s my way of anointing every room with the symbols of my favorite season - while the A/C combats the hot Santa Ana winds, and backyard citrus trees bear the ripening bounty of oranges, avocados, and tangerines on their perpetually green boughs. Throughout the house, orange, gold and auburn replace the cool summer hues. Pumpkins abound, and happy jack-o’-lanterns await their October addition to the rites of autumn. By November, bountiful cornucopias will take their place on the mantle.

NYC 2016. Central Park in Fall. Nothing like it!

Our 2016 NYC trip, and "real" fall color. Breathtaking!

Do I want to decorate this year? I have asked myself that question over the past few weeks - my heart still aching as I wander through our home - alone. Am I ready to put up the reminders of the season we both loved, in my Kahuna-less house? I wavered between avoiding every reminder of what I lost, and going into "full-on" fall decorating mode as a reminder of what used to be.

Friendsgiving 2017. Grateful. Two weeks before The News

After some joy-focused meditation, and the realization I had to accept my new normal (I have come to hate that phrase), I made the decision to pull out the fall décor. Every dried/preserved/imported leaf, pumpkin and seed pod! I marked the Labor Day weekend by festooning the house with its usual autumn splendor.

There was one difference…

I struggled with the words used on decorative signage that had previously expressed my gratitude for this season of thankfulness. Grateful? Thankful? Blessed? In my current raw state, these words tugged at my heart. Don’t get me wrong - I am grateful for my village who is watching out for me and giving me space to grieve; thankful to my children and grandchildren for reminding me that George and I created a beautiful family; and blessed to have had so many years with the love of my life. But the predominate sentiment of this season of “firsts” isn’t found on any Pinterest page or home store shelf. Instead of Grateful, Thankful, Blessed, my sign would read Heartbroken, Lonesome, Depressed.

Stores abound with signage of the season. 

 As Daughter and I shopped for even more fall decor yesterday, I felt a tinge of resentment as the signage of the season bombarded my fragile senses and pierced my already broken heart. I turned my attention away from the words that imbued their sentiment, in favor of scented candles, metal baskets and dried flowers. Then I turned a corner to find this framed message...

This. Is/Was. Us.

"It was one of those love stories that people will talk about for years to come."

My Kahuna was suddenly with me. Reminding of me of all that I had been given in my lifetime. How grateful I was for walking into English class 50 years ago and meeting my best friend. How thankful I am to have found my perfect love. How blessed was the life we had together. And I realized he is always with me. He had led me to the Most Perfect Sign. Daughter saw me stop in my tracks and immediately offered consolation as I melted in her arms. I had the love story of a lifetime - and as I learned so suddenly - none of us know when our “lifetime” will end. The George and Paula love story is timeless. And life goes on, as do the seasons. This year of firsts will bring anguished tears of sadness, but I will surround myself with the decorations and symbols of the season my Kahuna and I cherished. And I will smile between the tears.

Keep Calm and Decorate, Decorate, Decorate!

I’m reinventing the meaning of Grateful, Thankful, Blessed this year. I’m not sure I can bear to see the words blatantly displayed in the house yet, but I know George is watching. He is GRATEFUL I am going to celebrate this season we both loved, THANKFUL I won't be alone, and BLESSED he made the most of his simple, yet meaningful life.

Here's to our favorite season, honey. Feel free to visit any time. I'll leave a candle burning for you.

Filling the Hole in My Heart

Are you getting tired of Poor Pitiful Paula? Do you question why I still cry daily? Sleep with his pajamas under my pillow? Forget to eat dinner? Is my grief depression depressing you? George’s death has stolen “me”. In its place is the actor portraying Paula, going through the motions each day with smiles that hide the huge, unfillable hole in her heart. Read on if you dare…

Sixteen weeks. Yes I still count in weeks. You would think it’s getting easier. Think again. I may have adapted to the new routine of life alone, but each day brings with it a new challenge – another reminder of the emptiness I feel. Yesterday it was saying goodbye to George’s car. Another piece of my Kahuna was gone. Who knew the sight of an vacant space in the garage would evoke tears!

What happened to the “woman formerly known as Paula”? Try as I might to reconnect with her, she’s nowhere to be found. Instead I am watching my new, and until a few months ago unthinkable, life being played out by an actor. The day I became Hultman, party of one, Paula disappeared. My body double took over, going through the everyday routine of life, but somehow detached from her new reality. My life is a Hallmark movie!

The trailer would go something like this….”She was an insecure teenager who dreamed of finding her true love. He was the guy everyone knew – the cool kid – and, she thought, the kind of boy who would never pay her a second look. Until one day, when their paths crossed and their lives changed forever. A love story for the ages, until… the doctor delivered the devastating news. Their perfect life together came to a sudden, tragic end. Now she struggles coming to terms with her new life. How will she face her future – alone – without her one true love?”

With each passing day I feel George’s loss differently. More permanently. He’s not coming back. He won’t wear the closet full of clothes I can't part with - yet. No more “Opera Nights” (the subject of a future blog). While I know his absence is permanent, my brain is still programmed to include my Kahuna. I catch myself using plural pronouns – “We have a dog,” “Our house is just around the corner.” This detachment from what I know to be reality keeps the actor Paula on the payroll!  I may sound completely off the rails, and I can’t expect others to understand this double life I live – unless they, too, have been down this path.

But wait. Don’t give up on me yet. There is a glimmer of hope. I’m finding comfort and guidance in daily meditation. I’m also feeling moments of inner strength. An occasional sense of calm. They're fleeting - and welcome. Perhaps the actor depicting me is gaining confidence. She is channeling her inner Kahuna and learning to take on his strengths as her own. They are baby steps to be sure, but something is happening – S-L-O-W-L-Y – bringing my impostor closer to the authentic Paula 2.0. 

That hole in my heart? It’s still there. It will always be. But instead of sinking into the emptiness, I’m beginning to imagine it being filled with all the beauty of George’s spirit as he passes it on to me. His love. His strength. His courage. His confidence that I can live life without him. Honey, I’m trying. I really am. As long as you're within me - filling my empty heart.

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.