Grieflections 4 - Rats in the Water Softener, and Other Self Discoveries

For those who have asked how I am doing, you will have the opportunity to find out on my other blog- Tales from the (WIDOW) Hood

The COVID-19 pandemic has us all facing an uncertain and frightening new reality. Social distancing and flattening the curve are now the common lexicon of 2020 discourse. Life as we have known it has been upended virtually overnight, and the"Safer at Home" proclamations have forced millions - including me - to keep active without venturing beyond our front yard. 

For me it meant making time to write. I have been organizing the copious notes I've written, or (often) dictated into my iPhone notes app. Thank you for visiting my other blog. Tales from the (WIDOW) Hood

Stay Safe. Wash Your Hands,
Paula

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Today marks the debut of  my new series of Grieflections - taken from the pages (and pages) of notes, until now unpublished.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