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Today marks the debut of  my new series of Grieflections - taken from the pages (and pages) of notes, until now unpublished.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

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. 

Save a Seat for Grandpa

I’m into month five of my Kahuna-less life. The finality – the emptiness - is sinking in. I have adjusted to the sound of silence in our home. Charlie has altered his routine to include an almost daily midnight walk upstairs to spend part of the night in our bedroom – something he never did when George was here. He sleeps on the floor on George’s side of the bed, and his presence as I round the corner toward the bathroom each morning is a welcome sight.

LPM's birthday, 2017 at Disney California Adventure. Our happy place. Cheers.

I am adept at pushing my grief further behind the façade of normalcy, but have yet to experience a tear-less day. My lifelong penchant for remembering the details of “what we did one year ago today” is now a pain-inducing reflection of how beautiful my life WAS, and how quickly our happily ever after became a nightmare of unthinkable proportions.

I also find joy. I know George wants me to be happy, and I am doing my best to please him. The joyful distractions are a constant reminder of my most cherished possession - my extraordinary village. Daughter, Son, Son-in-Law, Nieces/Nephews, Sis-in-Law, Cousins and Friends, Friends, Friends. Paula’s Angels. They deserve a future blog post! I cannot imagine surviving George’s loss without them.

There are three Angels on Earth who bring me joy with each smile, hug and “Hi Gigi!” - Mighty M, Rambunctious R, and Kewpie Doll K. The two youngest will only remember their wonderful Grandpa through our stories and photos. But M remembers...

Since That Day, M routinely poses questions – “Gigi, do you miss Grandpa?” “Gigi, do you wish Grandpa didn’t die?” I answer his questions honestly, and simply. We have also had more intense conversations, in which he has informed me, “My teacher said Heaven is way up high, so Grandpa can’t hear you,” to which I counter, “I’m going to keep talking to him anyway, because I think Heaven is at My House, like you told me one day.” After one particularly “heated” debate on this subject, I looked to the sky and said, “Hi Grandpa.” My Mighty M followed suit, and with a quivering lip said, “I miss you, Grandpa.” In that moment, I realized his questions to me were actually his personal feelings - "I miss Grandpa. I wish Grandpa didn't die." I knelt to hug him and we shared our love – and loss – of a wonderful man. M remembers…

George and I had a love affair with Disneyland. It was one of our first special dates, when admission and a book of tickets was a whopping $4.75. And parking was fifty cents! Today that will buy you a churro!

We introduced Nieces and Nephews and, later, Son and Daughter to the happiest place on earth. We loved seeing the magic of “Walt’s Place” through their eyes. Once they outgrew family visits to Disneyland, my Kahuna and I rekindled the child within us and continued our trips to the Magic Kingdom. We eagerly anticipated the day when we could start taking our grandchildren. Those adventures began when M and R were two years old. Sadly, little granddaughter K never had the opportunity.

Rambunctious R's first Disneyland trip.

Last month, seeking a distraction guaranteed to bring happiness, I made the decision to take M on a Disneyland adventure with “Geege” – his nickname for me. It was my first-ever visit to the park as the only adult, and at M’s ripe old age of 4 ½ , I was confident I was up to the task. Backpack, check. Water, check. Wet wipes for sticky churro fingers, double check! Ready, set, go!

My sweet Mighty M remembers his Disneyland trips with Gigi and Grandpa. His favorites? Spinning in the teacups. Driving the Autopia cars with Grandpa.

Taking in the sights of It’s a Small World (cue annoying ear worm!). Holding on to Grandpa as we sailed down the waterfalls on Pirates of the Caribbean (Drink up me hearties, yo ho). Flying in circles with Dumbo the elephant.

Now that he’s reached the height requirement, M’s interests have expanded to thrill rides on the relatively tame Disneyland roller coasters (cue a green Gigi!).

As we enjoyed the familiar sights, my little man recalled previous visits – and clearly felt the absence of his familiar sidekick. “I remember Grandpa at Disneyland,” he commented. It wasn’t an unexpected remark, as he has felt George's loss deeply, and is processing it as best he can – with the comfort and guidance of remarkable Daughter and Son-in law. His comment prompted a conscious effort on my part to “bring” Grandpa with us throughout the day, thus beginning a series of enthusiastic exclamations as we made our way from one attraction to the next – Me: “Do you know who loved this ride?” M: (at first puzzled with my query) “No, who?” Me: “Grandpa!” His face lit up as we enjoyed each ride, and I silently fought back tears as we shared our wonderful day at a favorite place.

Fist bumps with Pluto. Grandpa's favorite character.

Guess who loved the trumpet player!

By end of day, M was asking, “Was this one of Grandpa’s favorite rides?” My heart soared as I saw my little man turning his grief for what he had lost into the joy of remembering the fun he had with Grandpa. As we waited in line for the last ride of the day, he turned to me. “Gigi, I think Grandpa is here with us.” I couldn’t hide my joy, as I said, “I think he is too!” He looked to the heavens and shouted, “Hi Grandpa!” Be still my broken heart. My sweet M had found joy too. “Gigi, I think Grandpa just touched my head.” I thought the day could not get any better.

But it did! As he climbed into the cozy compartment of Big Thunder Railroad and sat down, I asked M to scoot over to make room for me. With complete sincerity, he moved only slightly before exclaiming “I’m saving a seat for Grandpa!”

We laughed with delight and screamed with surprise at each twist and turn. I held my Little Man close, and remembered my Big Man. Always sitting beside me. Keeping me safe. Celebrating the joys of our past, and guiding me through the sorrows for as long as it takes. Honey, I will always save a seat for you.

Our Perfect Opera Nights - Time to Say Goodbye

In February, while George was at war with cancer, a special friend sent me a link to a video along with a message: “I heard this song,  Ed Sheeran Perfect Symphony with Andrea Bocelli  and want to dedicate it to you and George. I can picture you guys dancing barefoot together in the kitchen, having a glass of wine and holding on to each other.” She knew us well. 

Perfect lyrics. Perfect voices.

George and I were raised to appreciate a wide variety of music genres. Our depression-era parents introduced us to the Big Bands and swing, which fed George’s future love affair with the trumpet. We grew up on 50’s and 60’s rock and roll, and played the music of the 70’s as the soundtrack of our early years as young lovers. Jazz and blues found their way into our lives as well, and an occasional country song always reminded George of his mother.

My Kahuna and I didn’t need a date night to find a reason to turn up the volume and take a spin – or slow dance. With the right music, he would take my hand and our dance party of two began. Slow dances in his arms. I felt loved there. Happy. It was perfect.

One musical style can’t be traced to either family’s catalog of vinyl that spun on the hi-fi’s of our childhood. Yet it became a special part of the George and Paula story - Classical and Opera. The Three Tenors and Ravel’s Bolero, among others, became the musical background for some very special evenings…

Opera Nights, we called them. Candlelight. Wine or snifters of brandy. Speakers cranked up with the music of full symphony orchestras, and a blanket by the fire.  With each CD selection George would “conduct” the orchestra, throwing his head back in complete rapture, as the symphony translated a series of notes on a page into mesmerizing music. He would educate me on the placement of each instrument group on the stage (his beloved trumpets in the rear due to their overpowering volume). We listened carefully to identify the instrument added to each repetitive melody of Ravel's Bolero and felt the power and sensuality of the crescendo. It was perfect.

Our Opera Nights continued with arias sung by the likes of Luciano Pavarotti, Jose Carreras, Placido Domingo. But our favorite Opera Night offering was Time to Say Goodbye, with Andrea Bocelli and Sarah Brightman. As candles flickered, we lay together, not understanding anything but the one lyric in English, yet completely under the spell of the passion expressed through their voices. Some of our most romantic nights-out were a night-in with music and dancing in the dark. They were perfect.

Our Kahuna size Christmas tree. 

We allowed our opera night ritual to slip away the past few years. We had begun a new tradition two years ago that was equally romantic and memorable. Under the illumination of our Christmas tree, with the gentle crackle of the fireplace logs, we spread a blanket and lay in each other’s arms as Christmas music played. Bing Crosby's White Christmas was George’s all-time favorite holiday song, and it became our dance worthy moment that special Christmas. It was perfect.

The memories of these intimate, simple-yet-extraordinary moments are precious. As much as my heart breaks that there will be no more Opera Nights – no more magical Christmas moments, I hold tightly to the memories, and close my eyes trying to recapture their intimacy. 

If I can share a piece of advice to my readers it would be this: create your special traditions. Make them yours. Make them memorable. Make time for them. Make them PERFECT! You never know when it will be time to say goodbye.

Footnote: As I made the final edits to this post before publishing, Perfect by Ed Sheeran began playing on my Pandora station. I love #KahunaSigns. Perfect!

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.

The Route to 66

It’s official. I am a Medicare card carrying, Social Security receiving Super Adult. Today marks the 66^th anniversary of that eventful day when my 42 year old parents, and my 19 and 14 year old siblings welcomed little Paula Marie into the world. I have tearfully said goodbye to Mom, Dad and my sibs, but I feel their presence always, and know they are celebrating with me today as I mark another notch in my birthday belt.

The past year was marked with some challenges and milestones – a debilitating back injury and surgery, retirement, Hubby happily relocating to a home office, and all of the adjustments that ensued. While I may have moved to the last age demographic bubble on (almost) every survey, there’s still a lot of life left in this girl!

I also find myself being more reflective. What have I learned so far on my journey? Here are 17 Things I Learned On My Route to 66.

1. I have had a simple, full life. I have reconciled any regrets with self-forgiveness
2. I reinvented myself and my careers, choosing always to follow my heart
3. I have made lifelong friendships
4. I have not let the worst moments of my life affect the best moments
5. My children are my greatest accomplishment
6. Grandparenting is my reward for not inadvertently killing my kids as their clueless mother!
7. I am happiest when Hubby is by my side
8. Laughter is the secret sauce of a great marriage
9. Letting go of toxic relationships is liberating.
10. Perfectionism is an excuse - and a roadblock to growth
11. Giving selflessly is reward enough
12. Fighting against social injustice is ageless
13. Forget science and technology. Well engineered undergarments (aka Spanx)  are the best invention of the past 100 years
14. You’re never too old to dance
15. Every fashion trend will reappear in time – except, maybe, shoulder pads
16. Pie trumps cake
17. Love trumps hate

Aging is inevitable. Your relationship with age is a choice. I choose to embrace the physical reminders and cherish the gifts that my years have bestowed on me.  Hubby is taking me to the Happiest Place on Earth today, where I will proudly wear my “It’s My Birthday” button, enjoy the people watching, and count my blessings.  

Go ahead. Call me “Paula-ana” – I’m excited for what my next 66 years have to offer! Happy Birthday to Me. Here’s to my Sensational 66!

My loves. My heart.

Why Am I Here?

Everyone can relate to those annoying moments when we can’t pull that byte of information from our human hard drive. What day is Charlie’s vet appointment? Is this the “other” week for taking down the recycled trash bin?  What was it I headed to the kitchen for? Life, at any age, is rife with moments of forgetfulness. As a super-adult the memory lapses may become more frequent, but to date I can say my record for timely data retrieval is pretty damn good. Except for that one day…

It began as a Sunday brunch at our home, following a Saturday night shindig in our "always ready for a party" backyard. Out of town friends and family congregated at Casa de Hultman for mimosas, munchies and memories. As usual I channeled my inner Martha Stewart, doing what I love most – entertaining. It was a lovely gathering if I do say so myself! After the guests departed, I felt the satisfaction of another successful social event, and a bit of fatigue associated with the week of socializing with wonderful friends.  I decided to take a nap – something I never do – but my bed was calling my name.

Twas the Night Before...it took a day or so to remember, as the video below shows.

An hour before I "lost my mind"!

Six hours later, I opened my eyes as I was being inserted into an MRI chamber! What happened in those hours between my nap and that tube of terror is nowhere to be found in my memory. But Hubby, Son and Daughter have filled in the gaps. Let me set the scene…

As I headed upstairs for that fateful nap, I asked Hubby to run to the store for some Gatorade, my after-party beverage of choice. I had opted out of imbibing that day, but the week of “fun with friends” had resulted in the lower intestinal “gift” that keeps on giving! Son and Daughter-in-Law were at their home preparing meals in advance of the arrival of their first born, due any day. Daughter was with her Mommy and Babies group at the beach, enjoying a beautiful SoCal Sunday. About an hour after I had gone upstairs, Hubby left to fulfill my G2 request. Then the calls started…

According to phone records and corroborating reports from those involved, I called hubby first, but he had left his phone in the car when he ran into the market. I called Son and Daughter-in-Law next. By all reports, I sounded completely normal, and asked if Hubby was there. DIL said no, and I ended the call, but not before telling her, "I can't remember anything." I then called Daughter. “Something is wrong, I can't remember anything," I reported, then I added the kicker! "Dad’s not here and he won’t come home!” Understandably alarmed, she stayed on the phone with me while her friend called Hubby. He was leaving the store, got the call and raced home in record time. He found me sitting on the edge of the bed, coherent but confused, saying I didn’t remember anything. 9-1-1 was called, EMT’s arrived, and I was triaged, then transported by ambulance to the local hospital. I REMEMBER NONE OF THIS!!

I learned in cases like this, the first diagnosis is stroke. Once that was ruled out, the ER doctor and “virtual” neurologist (yes, there was a robo-doctor!) diagnosed Transient Global Amnesia (TGA). You can learn more here, but the cliff notes are:

• Sudden onset of memory loss
• Retention of personal identity despite memory loss
• Normal cognition, such as the ability to recognize and name familiar objects and follow simple directions
• Absence of signs indicating damage to a particular area of the brain, such as limb paralysis, involuntary movement or impaired word recognition

Just ride it out, the doctors said. She will not remember any of this and will be herself within 24 hours. To rule out anything more sinister, I was subjected to CT scans, MRI’s and EEG’s, and experienced my first hospital sleepover since giving birth.  

For the family, relief replaced panic. Daughter and Hubby stayed by my side, and enjoyed the comedic side effect of TGA - my repetitive questioning – “Why am I here?” “How did I get here?” This was a continuous loop for hours, with my occasional comment, “This is just like “50 First Dates.” DIL and Son showed up to join the party, and Hubby swears he asked my permission to video a TGA moment, as a souvenir of my “mindless” adventure. My comments and reactions to Hubby's news is priceless. You know I love my followers because I am showing you "Paula, unplugged!"

As promised, my memory slowly returned, and about six hours after my “nap”, I was almost back to normal. Follow ups with neurologists confirmed this was TGA. Try as I might, I cannot pull any memory of those lost hours, and in particular feel a little cheated out of recall of that ambulance ride and cute paramedics!

Earlier this week, Daughter reminded me of a momentous event in her life that I had totally forgotten. TGA wasn’t to blame this time. As she shared the memory with a bit of a laugh, I felt guilt. I should have remembered! Thankfully, Daughter filled in some of the gaps and rekindled my memory. Whew! 

We all have unforgettable moments in our life, but what about the lost memories? I'm hoping they are lingering in the recesses of my brain's white matter, ready to materialize one day. As a super adult I am learning there is a limit on our mental cellular data. 

To my friends who have dutifully kept journals, I admire you. Imagine the joy you will have reading and reliving your history!  I am pledging, for my remaining days on this planet, to begin this daily practice of jotting down notes.  Perhaps the collected memories will help me answer the BIG questions of life…

Why am I here? How did I get here?