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!

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

The Last "First" - A Birthday of Memories

The last “First” is tomorrow. Daughter, Niece, and Smile Sister have planned a gathering of family and friends – my village - who have provided the soft landing spot for my free fall into widowhood. Our home will once again be filled with laughter, music, food and drink. All the things George loved so much. There were other options available to me.  Staying in bed all day, or taking another road trip with Charlie, the Goofy Golden. Perhaps dinner with son and daughter. But for this first birthday without my Kahuna, my heart - and his voice in my head – knew I needed to be surrounded by love and happiness. The peace I feel in the energy of so many people in our house will top off my fuel tank as I prepare for the first “Last” – the day I whispered, “I love you, honey. It’s okay to go. I’ll be okay,” just three weeks later. That Day…

Happy Birthday, Disneyland style. 2017

At some point I have to sidestep this grief journey and acknowledge Paula 2.0.  Paula, party of one. She and I have been cohabiting my body and emotions for almost a year now. Paula 2.0 is my future. Instead of the pragmatic, unwelcome guest her presence usually conjures up, I have to learn to embrace this new persona. Paula 2.0 is strong, smart, mindful (thanks to an extraordinary 10 week course in mindful meditation), capable of making important decisions - and artful at disguising her loneliness with a veil of light-heartedness and laughter. Our journey together will be the yin and yang of emotions. Two dance partners taking turns as the lead. For now I feel like Ginger Rogers, dancing backwards and in heels.

This widowhood dance with my new partner can only truly be understood by those who, sadly, have had to lace up their own shoes. Just when I think I have mastered the combination of steps, I stumble. All choreography is lost as I frantically try to straighten my ball gown and regain my balance. I never know what will trigger the flood of tearful memories, puddling on the dance floor and sending me tumbling. And the dance partner who had kept me upright for so many dances is no longer there to catch me. Eleven months of agonizing practice has helped, and while some steps may never be mastered, I think George is applauding the new version of The Lovely Paula Marie – missteps and all.

Tomorrow morning will be tough. I won’t be awakened shortly after midnight with a hug and, “Happy Birthday, Gorgeous. Today is your day.”  There will be no birthday card propped up on the kitchen table, alongside a gift bag. We had everything we wanted, so gifts were not the focus of birthdays. George typically violated the “no gifts” pledge with a sweet surprise and a sheepish grin.

 

My Kahuna's final birthday gift to me. 2018

The true gift was the card – not the printed words, but George’s personal message – in barely legible cursive, filling the entire blank inner leaf, if not more, of the card. Love notes of reflection and happiness. Gratitude and promise. Humor, and my Kahuna’s incomparable wit. Read aloud with love and laughter, and punctuated at the end with a hug and kiss. So many hugs and kisses. so many cards. I saved them all. Valentines. Birthdays. Mother’s Day. Our Anniversary. I recently sat and re-read each card’s message – his love notes to me – recalling the beautiful life we shared for so many years. They are priceless. They were his everlasting gift to his Lovely Paula Marie.

The family joke was, everyone sounded like a second grader trying to read aloud George's "challenging" handwriting!

I wonder what George would have written in this year’s card.  I poured through some of his letters and cards, and took excerpts from past birthday messages (George’s words in italics). Here is the love note his words created... 

Paula my love,

Here we are again. I can’t imagine what I would do on March 30 each year if you weren’t in my life. I love you so much and I hope I tell you that enough times during the year. Thank you for spending so many of your birthdays with me…

I’ve had the good fortune of writing quite a few cards to you on your birthday. I am so very lucky to have you in my life. Not too many people get to have their best friend with them every year as I do. No one knows how much I love you, and how much I enjoy you, enjoying your birthday…

Our life is certainly anything but routine, except for our wonderful routine of celebrating birthdays - that just doesn’t change. You always make our individual day special and I want you to know how special you are to me... Life’s perfect ain’t it? I love you. Happy birthday...

This year marks your new career (1996 – I had left my teaching profession to open an educational toy/teaching supplies store). Yet some things didn’t change… your “self”, including but not limited to; beauty, your consistency at being the best wife and mother, your compassion and forgiveness. Let’s face it, you’re still perfect. We love you. I love you, Spencer (our Golden) loves you, the whole world… OK, I’ll stop, or you’ll get embarrassed,,,

For me your birthday is like our anniversary. We celebrate our years together and continue to be thankful we have each other to spend our birthdays with. Love and kisses from the guy you have put up with for the last 38 years…

Happy birthday to you; you survived another year with me. I know it has been difficult. I am always impressed with your week long birthday celebrations. Some people won’t even talk about birthdays. You embrace them. I guess most would if they never change year to year like you. You found the secret to staying forever young. That’s because it’s in your heart. I think I’ll ride along with you!

Happy Birthday! Love to my favorite girl (How do you like that closing?)

Love and kisses forever, Georgie

P.S. Yes I know my hand writing has not improved, but it’s not getting worse! I’m glad you judge me for my other attributes and not whether you can read my notes!

Love always, your Big Kahuna

If he were to write a card to mark my Big 6-8, I think George would add the following love note to his LPM…

My Lovely Paula Marie,

Happy Birthday. Remember, I am always with you. Love never dies, and our love will last forever. You have always doubted yourself, but I have always believed in you. Be strong. Be confident. Be the person you have always been. Paula 2.0 is going to be fine. I want to see  you dance again. And I am never far away.  

Love and kisses from he who kisses you most! Me

My Kahuna. My last birthday, 2018. Love and Kisses Forever