Am I a professional griever?

Am I a professional griever?  The four year “mile-marker” of the day I said goodbye to my Kahuna is looming. Today marks 16 months since Scott joined his dad. And recently I had a heart to heart with myself, as I pondered this question: 

Has my public sharing of this unexpected journey labeled me as “That Person”? The one you pity? The one you avoid for fear of triggering tears? Or worse...the one who needs to "Get over it and move on"?  Am I now identified by my widowhood status, and the unthinkable death by suicide of my son? If so, please allow me to re-introduce myself...

While each day is peppered with memories of my “before” life, I find joy and gratitude in the present. I have regained control of my heavy, dark thoughts. I see them now as ripples on water after a stone is thrown - momentarily surfacing, then quickly disappearing into the river carrying me through this human existence. 

I have stepped out of my self-imposed bunker. I say yes more often to social invitations. I sing loudly, hug freely, and smile broadly. I have a beautiful life. Most of the time…

I still feel the emptiness. The pain of their absence. The what-if’s and if-only’s still manage to float through my consciousness. But now they rarely trigger ugly cries. I accept them as the occasional rain clouds in my otherwise blue skies. 

As grateful as I am for all of the blessings in my life, I have also learned to welcome grief when it visits. Sit with it for a bit then let it be. Without love, grief would not exist. Losing a child and a husband - my soulmate - cannot be erased from one’s memory.

Does that make me a professional griever?

There can be no doubt that I have changed in the last four years, but I hope to the outside world I have not become someone to pity. Instead I would like to think my public sharing of life after loss has given my village a glimpse from my “window seat”…

Appreciation of the rare and precious gift that is our human life. 

Acceptance that suffering in life is inevitable. 

Understanding that, without suffering, we would not comprehend the beauty of the joyous moments in our lives.

My gratitude runs deep and I have learned from you what it is to be a friend. I have been comforted with such kindness and compassion from my village. I am truly blessed.

Please don’t worry about me. I’m not grieving. I am LIVING with grief. Thriving. This human existence is messy for all of us. 

My advice? Be kind. Be grateful. Stay curious. Look at life with a childlike wonder. After all, we are all stardust, fleetingly gathered into this human form. 

And we all come with an expiration date from this earthly existence!

Special Acknowledgement to my mentor, my mindfulness and meditation guide, and dear friend Audrey Walzer. I encourage everyone to dip your toes into her Mindfulness Meditation with Audrey course. More information can he found HERE

One Thousand Sunsets in the Widow-hood

In what feels like another lifetime, I noted on my iCalendar that today marks the 1000th day since I said goodbye to George. While I don’t remember exactly when or why I instructed Siri to calculate and mark this date, I know myself well enough to understand my intentions. It would be a day of reflection, marking the absence of my Kahuna with a progress report - my term paper on life in the widowhood. As year three approaches, I could offer wisdom and insight, and celebrate the re-invention of his Lovely Paula Marie. And I would imagine George’s heavenly pride in his delicate flower, applauding her broken-hearted hardiness.  Well folks, as we all know life doesn’t come with a playbook....

Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined what life would be like on this 1000th Kahuna-less day -  a nation and the world in the throes of a deadly and catastrophic pandemic that has killed millions worldwide, crippled the economy, left millions jobless, destroyed businesses, and has left us masked, un-hugged and sequestered for 10 months. Science fiction and horror genres became our reality in a story too outlandish for even the most creative fiction writer.

Then came the unthinkable, unbearable loss of my first-born - my Scott - my happy, kind, always smiling son, lost to suicide 54 days ago. His death and the circumstances around it left me broken. Again. Speechless. Haunted by if only’s and what if’s. The Covid quarantine was perfectly suited to my need to be alone. Phone calls from my village went unanswered - there were no words to be spoken. Invitations to socially distanced meet-ups were declined. George’s pillow, my nightly spooning partner, would now share bed-space with the LA Dodgers blanket that draped Scott through life support before his donated heart, kidneys and liver were recovered to give life to others.

Losing Scott opened a new door to a different grief.  A mother’s grief for the baby I cradled. The little boy whose “owies” I kissed to make it all better. The teen I argued with over curfews and homework assignments. The son with whom I shared a dance and whispered in his ear how proud of him I was.

My Beautiful Boy

It’s also a grief of blank pages. I realize now how much I did not know - especially when Scott retreated after George died - and it adds to my heartbreak. He left so many unanswered questions. My sweet son with the big smile is gone, and so are the last chapters of his story. Lost in the conversations we didn’t have…

Today I set the intention to resurrect my blog with insight and wisdom gained on this 1000 Day journey as Lonely Paula Marie. But writer’s block set in as I poured through pages of notes I had been writing these past months. What usually comes easy felt forced. Unauthentic. Life as I knew it, as recently as 54 days ago, had been hijacked. 2020, and the first 13 days of 2021, had rendered me hopelessly unfocused. Was I struggling because there was nothing left to say? Was my 1000 day prophecy meant to be my closing credit? I stepped away from my laptop, poured a glass of wine and walked outside to view the sunset. And I got my answer…

George and Scott both loved the beauty of winter sunsets, with their golden yellow-oranges as the sun drops below the horizon. For many that’s the finale. BUT…if conditions are right, and if you have patience, your reward awaits as the sky erupts with a pink-purple brilliance that defies description. Tonight was that night.  Photos can’t capture the spectacle, but tonight’s sunset was just what I needed. My heavenly boys were speaking to me, and I knew what they were saying. Don’t walk away from something you love. Be patient. Sometimes the most beautiful moment is delayed, but the wait is worth the time you give it.

So, my dear followers, thank you for reading this far for basically a request to wait a little longer! I want to share with you some of my breakthrough moments, valuable lessons and mindful teachings that have helped me navigate life in the widowhood. It promises to be bumpy, as I now feel my way through the loss of Scott.

Most importantly, I want to thank YOU. While grief is often a solitary journey, I have made it this far through the weeds because of the unwavering support of my village. Family, Friends, Casual acquaintances whose compassion and kindness have filled my heart with gratitude. I thank you all, and invite you to stay tuned. 

 

Maui Sunset Bliss 2016

My Heavenly Golfing Goofballs

Grieflections 2: Once Upon a Nightmare

"I don’t have nightmares often. In fact I can’t remember the last one. What I do remember? Before That Day, George was always there to comfort me, even awakening me when my panic became an audible, muffled scream. A terrifying dream was always followed by a bear hug from my Kahuna. Consoling me. Assuring me I was safe, and dissolving my terror into his warm, soft comfort until sleep returned..."

READ MY LATEST BLOG HERE.

Grieflections: February Feels

Today marks the debut of  my new series of Grieflections - taken from the pages (and pages) of notes, until now unpublished. Thought bubbles, of sorts, from my widow's fog of last year, to the widow's brain of today. 

Please follow my other Blog: TALES FROM THE (Widow)HOOD

Something Happened on the Way to the Decade

Something has happened.  A subtle shift in the wind direction that has been pushing me - a brittle, broken, fallen leaf - detached from my tree of life. No lightning bolt or fanfare announced it. But I know. And I feel George so strongly. For the first time in two years, a sense of peace is stronger than my shroud of sadness. I miss him as much as I have every single day, yet the weight I carry in my broken heart feels lighter. Something has changed...

The other day as I said goodbye to my Pandora Christmas playlist, the first two
songs were the prelude to what was about to happen. First, Rod Stewart sang the familiar verse my Kahuna and I considered our pledge to one another.

“You’re in my heart, you’re in my soul,

You’ll be my friend when I grow old,

You are my lover you’re my best friend,

 You’re in my soul.”

Immediately afterward, Neil Young sang the lyric George has “sent” me so often since That Day. 

“Because I’m still in love with you, I want to see you dance again…”

For two years, those words triggered tears of loneliness and longing. Now they felt like an anthem of encouragement. I stood in the family room, Charlie nearby, and I danced again. And again. I felt as if I were floating. There was joy. I danced, my digital picture frame keeping time as it displayed each image in a ten second rotation - memories - that have kept me company the past year and a half. I felt a lightness of being. Not the weight of grief. Something was changing.

And then it happened...

It began with a simple, “How are you?“ from the Costco greeter. Since The News two years ago I have struggled with my reply to that innocuous question - a well intentioned pleasantry - from friends. Family. Congenial sales people and grocery workers. For two years my go-to retort has always been, “I’m well,“ an obtuse non-answer, and the best I could muster. And much better than, “Do you really want to know how I am? I’m devastated. Lonely. Heartbroken. Angry. Afraid. A big blob of sadness just one trigger from an ugly cry, thank you for asking.” My abbreviated response of “I’m well” typically ended further inquiry and got me past the awkward moment. And I wasn’t sure I would ever have a different reply.

But yesterday, for the first time in two years, I heard myself say it.  “I’m great!” I was stunned! My auto-response caught me completely off guard. Had those words actually come for me? I did a mental look over my shoulder. Surely a ventriloquist must have muted my voice to speak the formerly unspeakable!  I wrapped my brain around the force that allowed that phrase to re-emerge. And I felt my Kahuna - smiling.

I have felt George with me more intensely the past few days. His closeness in spirit. His comfort and reassurance. And I’m not (as) sad. I’m going to be OK. I can finally feel the shift in the wind. And it feels wonderful. He's never going to leave my side. And I will love him forever.

How am I, you ask? I am great. I had a great marriage. A great love. He’s in my heart. He’s in my soul. And I am ready to face life again. Ready to dance again. Happy New Year to me!

Thanksgrieving - Reflections on the Second "First"

I won’t lie. Prepping for my second Kahuna-less Thanksgiving still tugs at my lonely heart. 588 days without him cannot erase the love and memories of the 18,108 days we shared.

I shared my thoughts on a second Thanksgiving on my Tales from the (Widow) Hood Blog. 

You can read it HERE

It's Getting Easier

I still count the loss in months. Can it really be sixteen? Emotions well up as the 19th of each month approaches. George was always mildly amused with my penchant for recalling what happened a “week/month/year ago today”. I was his personal almanac of otherwise forgettable moments that somehow left an impression on me - worthy of my recall...

16 months. It’s getting easier.  

George, my love...
Every morning I wake up to your absence. The empty space in our bed. The void that will never be filled. I blink away the fog of sleep and accept it. You’re not here. The reality sinks in and I prepare for the beginning of another day without you. 

It’s getting easier. 

I look at your picture on the wall beside the bed. Your eyes beaming your reassurance that I can do anything. I pull myself out of bed to begin my day. I fill the moments with ordinary activities and paint on my happy face, reminding myself of all that I have to be grateful for. I know that's what you want me to do. 

I talk to you. You often answer with specific songs on my Pandora channel, played with a frequency and timing unexplained by any "thumbs up" algorithm . Charlie listens to my conversations, both with you and with him. His soulful eyes and gently wagging tail give me comfort and purpose. 

He's particularly attentive today, and as I write this blog, he has nudged me periodically. "Is Daddy with you?" I ask him. I imagine Charlie's snuggles are from you, letting me know you're nearby. 

I get through the day, and to most people I look “healed”. After all, it has been 16 months since That Day. But those who know me best understand. 

It’s getting easier.

The Grands visit often, and squeal with delight when your face appears on the scrolling digital frame.

“Grandpa!” they exclaim, doing a little happy dance, with my encouragement.

They hardly knew you, my love, but they will never forget you.

And my day goes on, without you. The routine. The mundane. The business of living. And the delightful distractions. Lunch with friends. Grand time. An occasional road trip to visit loved ones. My weekly pilgrimage to our favorite place for Happy Hour, where I get my dose of hugs from those who miss you too. Smiles and laughter. Music and memories.

Everything reminds me of you, honey. I cherish each reminder, and smile often. I  watch the video of our last dance and feel your arms wrapped around me.

I imagine your voice, your laughter and your no-nonsense, take care of business confidence. Your blue eyes, and the fringe of hair peeking out from under your ever-present Dodgers cap.

It's getting easier.  

As darkness fills the sky and the day comes to an end, I make my way to our bed once again. Another day further from you. I feel so small at night. The void you left touches the deepest parts of my being. I look at your picture again, and as I say good night I invite you to visit me. I hold your pillow. The one you took to your hospital stays. The pillow your head rested on when I kissed you that final goodbye. Now I caress it, imagining my hand on your chest, feeling your heart beat. I close my eyes, eager for sleep to numb my loneliness. Relieved to have made it through yet another day - without you.

I miss you Georgie.

It’s getting easier. 

But it will never get better. 

Sorrowful Seconds - An Anniversary for One

Dear Readers,

Before I share another tale of widowhood woes, please know that I have many good moments. Every. Single. Day. I am surrounded by my family and friends who make sure of that. I've come to accept the reality that where there was immense love, deep prolonged grief will follow. Learning to coexist with the daily tearful - and happy - moments is getting easier. But once in a while, a tidal wave hits...

I'm learning the hard way. Some “Seconds” are as difficult as the Firsts. Tomorrow, July 6, would have been our 45th wedding anniversary. Instead, That Day hijacked our happily ever after. Canceled our dream of so many more anniversaries. Last year, our 44th anniversary came just weeks after saying goodbye, and my widow's fog blurred the reality - the permanence of his death. This year I think I feel it more deeply. Want the truth? I have not "gotten over it!"

July 6, 1974

July 6, 2017. We didn't know it would be our last anniversary.

You would think, after almost fifteen months, I’d be better equipped to face my second Kahuna-less wedding anniversary. Apparently I am not. For every step forward I have taken in the past year, milestones like this one are still a heart-breaking, meltdown-inducing gut punch.

Interestingly enough, it’s not the day. It’s the anticipation of a special date that wreaks the most havoc on my healing heart.

My low point came a few days ago. I painted on my happy, healing widow mask and proceeded through my very ordinary day. But the reservoir of tears and lump in my throat were always one Pandora playlist, and one memory away from spilling down my cheeks and stifling my voice, which they did - without warning - multiple times that day. I forced myself to meet up with my usual Tuesday night group of friends, resisting the urge to spend the evening alone on the patio with Charlie - and maybe a glass of wine. Tuesday date nights at our version of Cheers (where almost everyone remembers George, and now provide me much needed hugs) had been a ritual for us, and driving there – alone - this past year has become easier. Not this week. I parked my car, wiped my tears, and buried my sadness as best I could.

I smiled, chatted with friends and kept my emotions in check for the most part, with a few momentary breakdowns. But as our very talented musician friends played their closing song, "it" suddenly hit me. With no provocation, I had reached my emotional tipping point and made a hasty exit, sobbing as I drove myself home. My fifteen months of forward progress were suddenly buried by an avalanche of grief - and snot-nose ugly cries. Every irrational thought crossed my mind as I screamed to the heavens, “George I want you back.” “I can’t do this alone anymore.” “I hate this life." And, finally, as I lay in bed gulping back the sobs, I repeated the scariest words of all - until sleep provided a pardon, “Nobody needs me here. I just want to be with you.” I had hit rock bottom. I was sad, alone - and ashamed of my selfish grief rants. But in that moment it was all I wanted.

I’m “better” today. At least in this moment. This is my new life. I get it. These milestone dates will come around every 365 days, and I need to press through them. Tomorrow Daughter and I are headed to  Santa Barbara for a day/night of pampering, wine tasting, and story sharing. Just what the grief doctor ordered. My 45th anniversary - the second without him - will bring with it a flood of Facebook and TimeHop memories, doing their best to sink my healing ship. But I will get through it – one Kleenex at a time. I know that's what George wants. Let's see if I can pull it off!

July 6, 1974. Ready to begin the adventure. 

I never imagined I could miss someone so much.  I feel guilty for not being stronger. For all my steps forward, this week feels as raw as it did last year. I think I’m better at camouflaging my sadness, but I’m now keenly aware that forty five years spent in the warm embrace of a profoundly loving relationship can’t be neatly boxed and retired to a shelf of scrapbook memories. Those years ARE me. George continues to live and breathe within me, our children, and grandchildren.

July 6, 2014. Pebble Beach. Special wine. Special love. 

I will celebrate each milestone moving forward. I am not sure what that will look like, but hopefully in the years to come, smiles will replace tears – and I will do my best to celebrate and be forever grateful to have been loved so deeply by my Kahuna. 

Happy anniversary Georgie. I will always love you.

July 6, 2013

Chapter 6 - The Wedding

Time it was, and what a time it was,

It was, a time of innocence,

A time of confidences.

Long ago it must be, I have a photograph,

Preserve your memories, they’re all that’s left you…

Simon & Garfunkel

July 6,1974. We were babies. 23 years old. Earlier chapters told the story behind this moment  I will forever remember our special day. The love we shared. The love that will never, ever die...

The Wedding

We were both in college, living at home until the day we married, (except for my six month trial run sharing an apartment with a girlfriend). As college seniors in 1973, we considered graduation as merely a baton pass to the bigger prize – law school for George, student teaching and my credential for me. Our wedding would have to wait until one of us (me) had completed grad school and found gainful employment. 

I remember when (early spring, 1973) and where (headed to a Dodgers game) I pulled out the only calendar available (the back of my check register) and threw out some possible dates for our Big Day. I balked at a June date. Too cliché. We settled on July 6, 1974 – a little more than a year away. George would have one year of law school under his belt, and could step into his summer job - now managing  Firestone stores. I would have my credential and hopefully find a teaching position before school started in September.

My seventies fashion sense envisioned a wedding in a park-like setting, wearing a country-girl influenced dress. I worked for JW Robinson's department store and found my perfect wedding dress - a floor length beauty, complete with an eyelet pinafore - straight out of  Country Brides magazine. With my employee discount, I got my $120 dream dress for under a hundred bucks! A floppy wide brimmed hat would complete my John Denver/Country Girl-worthy, field-of-flowers wedding.

Farrah had the hat I wanted...

George had a different dream wedding scenario. I had not given away any secrets about my dress, when he said, “I have always imagined you walking down a church aisle, and lifting your veil for our first kiss as husband and wife.” I was so touched by his romanticism and honesty. How could I deny the man I adored his wedding moment? A church wedding it would be. There was one problem, though. My country girl dress would not work with that veil he dreamed of, and with a no-return policy, my only option was to buy a second wedding dress! I went all out - $150 for dress number two, plus a $20 veil and $10 headpiece. 

Dress No. 2. And the veil of George's dreams.

Home sewn bridesmaids dresses. Field flowers in baskets. And those wide brim hats!

I left the field flowers and wide brim hats for my bridesmaids, and walked down the aisle to the love of my life. He lifted my veil for our first, “Mr. and Mrs.” kiss, and I loved that moment as much as he did.

Veil lifted. Husband and Wife. Perfection

July 6, 1974. And yes, the tuxedos were yellow. It was the 70's!

Our wedding coincided with my parents’ retirement, and we knew they could not finance a large affair. Still our day was everything we dreamed of, surrounded by family and friends, with a reception at Brother’s beautiful home. 

On a shoestring budget, and in order to save the $10 delivery charge, we transported the cake in the back of George's Pinto - in 100 degree Valley heat!

George’s parents gave us a wonderful wedding gift – airfare for a two week vacation in Hawaii. It would be George's first air travel, and only my second. And George, as always, saved enough for our hotel and expenses. Our wedding night would be spent at a hotel near the airport. And it would be our first overnight together – ever. 

After the reception. Headed to our first overnight together!

And among other wedding night discoveries, I learned yet another sweet tidbit about my husband...

Did I mention George lived at home until our wedding day? My remarkably strong and capable man saw no reason to leave home. “Why pay rent when I can barely afford my law books?” he would reason. I would discover on our wedding night that his mom packed his suitcase for our Hawaiian honeymoon! He had to call home from the hotel to ask her where she packed his checkbook!

Let the adventures begin!

Honeymoon bliss. The love that lasted a lifetime....

Hawaiian Honeymoon Memories, 1974. I would have to work on my Kahuna's clothing choices!

To those who have been following my trip down Memory Lane, I thank you for indulging my shameless romanticism. I hope to write more chapters, if only for myself - recollections of our joys and challenges as newlyweds and new parents. Navigating all that life and marriage threw our way in our 43 years of marriage. We all know by now I'm a hopeless over-sharer, and writing has certainly been my grief therapy. 

As with the old photos I shared, time has blurred the focus of so many memories. The colors have faded, yet the images have reminded me that life doesn't have to be remembered in the detail it was lived. Remembering bits and pieces of our journey has softened the pain of my grief. I have smiled more than cried as the chapters have emerged from my memories to these posts. And I know. George is with me. Always. As I turn the corner and lean into my new life, I will cherish the years as his Lovely Paula Marie.