November-ing

     Tomorrow is the first of November.  In my mind and heart, November is about Bob.  His birthday is the 16th.  As the air turns colder every year, as the leaves turn golden along with the sunlight, I am always instinctively aware that Bob's birthday is coming.  Yes, November is also about Thanksgiving and family gatherings and maybe even first ski or snowshoe outings (first snow-shoveling, too, perhaps.)  But Bob has always been at the heart of those events, too.  So November, for me, is about Bob.  

    This year, November adds new heart-connections for me with Bob.  The local culture is very immersed in celebrating Dia de los Muertos, Day of the Dead.  Its rituals are even more elaborate and graphic than any All Souls' Day commemorations in the Catholic church.  Reminders of the event will be conspicuous around town for the next several days. I haven't come to terms with how I feel about all the skull and skeletal images used, but there is no denying that this year there is a profound link between me and Bob and this tradition.

    That link will be made again at a memorial celebration being held Sunday, November 5.  It is hosted by the hospice agency that cared for Bob and is for families of those who have died in this past year.  I hope to be able to reconnect with some of those aides, nurses, and therapists who were such gifts to Bob and to me in his final months.  I expect the service and the sharing after will elicit tears, but I have come to know deeply in these past months how healing tears can be. 

    I open my heart to the entrance of November 2017, knowing it will stir poignant memories and feelings.  At the same time, I trust that because, for me, it's all about Bob, it will be a month when his love--our love--gifts me with unexpected grace and deepened peace.   

Helping Me Cry

     A year or so ago, probably on Facebook, I read a sweet vignette about a little boy who'd gone next door to visit an elderly man who had recently lost his wife.  The little guy was gone quite a while and when he came home, his mother asked what he'd been doing all that time.  He told his mother he had just sat with the man and "helped him cry." 

     Today I thought of that story again when I tried out the other grief support group in town.  I had almost talked myself out of going.  Then, when I walked in, I wished I hadn't come.  There were only two women in the room--the obvious leader and another, older woman.  In such a small group, I felt I'd have to talk whether I wanted to or not.  Both women were very welcoming, and I learned the older woman is about to celebrate her 85th birthday and has been a widow for a little over a year, having lost her husband suddenly.

     These two women, strangers originally, invited me to talk.  As I told--in brief--the story of Bob and the Alzheimer's disease we struggled with, and of his death, I cried and cried and cried.  And, like the little boy on the porch swing with his neighbor, these two women "helped me cry."  They just sat and listened, and smiled gently, allowing me to feel my sorrow.  I remarked to them that I had begun to wonder if I was "stuffing" my feelings since I haven't cried at all in a few days.  But because they gave me a space to speak the story again, the tears flowed freely, as I know they need to do.  It occurred to me as I left the session that that is exactly what I needed from a support group--to help me cry.

Please Rewind

     I want my Bob back.  I want to wake up in the morning and to end every day wrapped in each other's arms.  I want to see the smile on his face, the brightness in his eyes.  I want to watch him glide across snow again, or stride blissfully up a mountain trail.  I want to feel his quiet, loving presence in our home. I want all our togetherness again, everything we shared.  I want it all back.  My head knows it's not going to happen, but, oh, how my heart aches for my head to be wrong.

A Poem

Today

Only a periphery of blue

outlines the cloud-heavy sky

matching

the sorrow-laden quilt 

over my heart--

edged with hope

and sweet memories of my Love.

Loss within Loss

     After Bob's death, a dear friend sent me a book of daily readings, Healing After Loss.  The reflection I read today touched me deeply, especially this part:

    

  "We know full well that our loved one has died.  Do we recognize that in that death a part

of us has died too?

     The part of us that lived in our relationship to that person alive in the world has died.

     The part of us that lived in expectation of a future on earth together has died.

     The part of us that enjoyed the commonality of shared memories has died.

     This is a lot to lose, and perhaps it will be easier to accept the effect of our loved one's dying if we acknowledge the profound event this is in our life, too."

     These words clarified for me what I have been experiencing without realizing it.  It's not just the loss of Bob, which is hard enough, but also the loss of a huge part of myself--the "me" in relationship to him, sharing life, grand kids, plans, hikes, trips, family news and events, friendships--sharing everything. The person I have been for the past 30+ years has been in partnership with Bob.  As one friend wrote, we were "Bob and Caryl"; that was our couple identity.  But that couple died with Bob. Now I am only Caryl again, solo--no longer a couple, a team, a partnership.  For me, the effect of this is much more profound than my words can convey.  No wonder I feel like I am "at a loss" for a sense of direction at times.  I am lost in a very real way.  I have lost my identity along with losing Bob, and losing my sense of self means I need to re-find, re-discover, maybe even re-create who I am.  

     Somehow it's comforting to recognize this loss.  It helps me understand a bit better that there is more to this grief that comes from losing my life's partner, my best friend. The couple we were has vanished just as surely as Bob himself is gone.  Now even though I am in many ways the same person, I am also no longer that person.  It helps a little to reflect back on our life together, to remember that when we were newly-weds, each of us had to become someone new, then, too.  Just as it took time to let go of being self-contained individuals in order to "marry" our lives, so it will take time to let go of the person who was "Bob's other half" in order to become comfortable as a person "flying solo" again.  In the meantime, I hope that my new awareness of this additional loss will somehow make it easier to ride the waves of grief when they come.  Who knew that at 70 years old one might need to once again answer the question "Who am I?" 

     

Another "First"

     Esperanza, Hope and David will be here for supper tonight.  So I am actually fixing an evening meal for the first time since Bob died.  I just finished putting together a crock-pot lasagna. We'll have that and a salad.  And, hopefully, leftovers for a meal another evening.  It seems strange to think of this as some sort of milestone, but fixing an evening meal isn't much fun any more.  I have gravitated toward frozen dinners more often than not, and when I don't have those on hand, then a quick sandwich or maybe scrambled eggs have been the go-to entree.  And, of course, there's always popcorn!

Tender Loving Care

     A couple of months ago, before Bob died, on any given day I accomplished a great deal.  Much of what I checked off my figurative "to do" list were things I did for Bob, but there were many other things, too--making phone calls, doing laundry, writing notes, paying bills, running errands-- mostly mundane but necessary tasks.  I don't know that I was exactly a "ball of energy," but I certainly seemed to have a lot more then, and motivation as well, than I do now.  Then I was going pretty much nonstop "from sun-up to sun-down," as the saying goes.  Now, by about 1:00 or 2:00 in the afternoon, it is a huge effort to imagine doing much of anything for the rest of the day.  Sometimes I manage to push through this lethargy until time for dinner; but there are times when I just surrender.

     This afternoon, I pushed myself a bit and sorted through an accumulation of papers.  In the stack, I found materials from hospice, including a booklet entitled Journey's End.  On the last two pages, the author comments on "Bereavement."  There I came upon these compassionate and supportive words:

"You have probably pushed yourself to be strong for your loved one, giving little attention to your own needs.  Now is the time to treat yourself tenderly.  You have sustained a deep wound that will need loving support to heal."