Grieflections 3 - Love in a Rear-view Mirror

To everyone who has lost a loved one, how do you hold on to your memories? Read My Latest Blog Post on my other Blog, Tales from the (WIDOW) Hood

"Time, it is said, softens the blow of loss. Heals all wounds. Marches on. For me, time has also brought a new chapter in my grief journey. The sadness of feeling my past – the one with my Kahuna - fading into the background of my new existence."

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Today marks the debut of  my new series of Grieflections - taken from the pages (and pages) of notes, until now unpublished.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