The One-Year Mark

     Today, two days after the first anniversary of Bob's death, I happened upon this quote I copied from a novel I was reading last March:
   
                                 "It's easy to believe for several months 
                                  that someone who died is just out of town.
                                  But the one-year mark brings certainty."

That captures so well how I've been feeling this week, beginning with our tender ceremony of remembrance and scattering of ashes last Saturday.  It's as if a blanket of reality has been laid over my heart, sort of like the rose petals we laid over the burial site.  The truth is settling in.

One Year Ago

 One year ago tonight, 

Bob and I said our last "goodnight."  

We didn't know it at the time, 

though I realized our days together were limited.  

The next day, we said our last "goodbye."  

It seems like yesterday.

The calendar disagrees.

Forever Ours

     And so we did it.  We buried Bob's ashes.  Our daughter, two grand-kids, and five dear friends gathered in our living room last Saturday.  We sang songs.  We shared memories, readings and laughter.  Then we gathered at the site that had been prepared to receive Bob's ashes and we raked them into the already loosened soil.  We scattered rose petals over the site--where we'll also plant a crab apple tree in November, sometime around Bob's birthday.  And then we all returned home to share a meal.

     It was beautiful, tender, touching, deeply emotional and very spiritual.  It was all I'd hoped it might be.  Yet when it was all over, I felt the reality more deeply than ever:  Bob is really gone.  Until last Saturday, his ashes sat on the dresser in my room.  I paid little attention to them, but I knew they were there.  I also knew, and still know, that those ashes are not Bob.  But somehow, they became what they truly are--the precious, sacred last physical remnants of the man I love.  After our ceremony of celebration and remembrance of his life, after carrying home the empty urn, I felt more deeply the stark truth of his absence.  

     Which is why I find comfort now in words from a poem I asked a friend to read at the burial site:

                                     What I know is that

                                     The song once sung cannot be unsung,

                                     And the life once lived cannot be unlived,

                                     And the love once loved cannot be unloved.

Bob's physical presence is no more, but his song, his life, and his love are with me--and with all of us he loved--forever.

               

One of Those Days

     Sometimes it's a relief to have a day when I have nowhere I have to be, nothing I have to do.  Then I know that if my grief breaks through and slides down my cheeks, I don't need to cut it short and pull myself together; I can just let it be.  Today is looking like it may be one of those uncommitted days.  And it's as if the grief knows I'm free to let it out because it keeps washing over me--and it's only 9:00 AM!

     On days like this, I try to just "let it be" and not squelch my heart with thoughts like "Still?"  or "When is this going to be over?"  Somewhere along the line of my life, I must have absorbed the cultural taboos that set limits on grieving because even though I believe it's normal and healthy, I face those internal judgments from time to time.  

     Another hurdle in the process is how much energy grieving takes.  Letting the tears flow, especially if they come from deep within, can be exhausting.  And if it happens several times in a day?  Well, not much else gets done that day!

      Whether grief comes on a day that is busy or on one that stretches out ahead of me in unclaimed hours, it helps to remember these words from the writings of a grief counselor I've been reading this year:

     "It's hard to understand until we ourselves experience our first Great Grief, but grief takes 

time.  It takes a LOT of time.  It consumes whole chunks of our days and weeks.  And as time 

spools forward, it takes months and years for us to express, accommodate, and learn to live with.

     But let's remind ourselves that grieving and mourning are two of the most meaningful 

ways we can spend our time....Like its counterpart, love, grief requires time to dream, remember, reach for the infinite, and simply be.  So let's not feel bad or guilty when grief consumes our days."

"Grief spikes are normal.  Sometimes you can identify the trigger--a song, aroma, place etc.

 Other times, there seems to be no immediate cause at all.  Grief spikes don't need a trigger.  

 The grief resides in your heart, and is finding its way out, bit-by-bit....Every grief spike says, 

 'I loved you.  I love you still.'  The scar is a gift--a reminder of the blessing you had."

      

At Nine Months, A Vision

     Nine months ago today we were keeping vigil with Bob as he lay dying. (It was also a Tuesday.)  By late afternoon, the vigil was over.  Bob had taken his last breath and I was left to go on without him.
     Last night as I was coming down Llama Road, finishing my walk, I "saw Bob."  He was about a third of a mile ahead of me, striding along Millicent Rogers Road.  My head knew the man I was watching walk away from me was not Bob, but my eyes and my heart saw Bob anyway.  He was wearing his tan hat--the one he always called his "pork pie"--and his tan long-sleeve polo shirt.  The sight of him caught at my heart.  I froze in my tracks and stood watching "Bob" grow smaller and smaller as he continued walking north, away from me.  And then I cried.  I just cried.

This Time Last Year

     February.  I've been using it as a kind of "marker" for about a year now.  February, twelve months ago, was when things got so hard for Bob, and for me, that I finally put out a call for more help.  First, to our next door friend, Donna, and then to Bob's sister Barb who came as soon as she could get a flight and stayed with us a full month.  And then I wrote about it in this blog, and my youngest sister Ginny rallied my siblings and friends. The next thing I knew, Bob and I had almost nonstop live-in help through the middle of May.
     Now it's February again, and I've been overtaken by "this time last year" thoughts and memories.  In those memories Bob was still here.  He still laughed with us, ate with us, was glad to get out for walks with us.  He still went shopping with us and enjoyed ice cream for dessert every night. He could still play with and enjoy the grand kids. In those memories he was still here, but this February he is not.  The memories are filled with so many ways we were blessed with love and kindness, and with support that we needed more than we'd realized.  At the same time, those memories are stark reminders of how different my life is now without Bob, and how much I miss him.
     In the early days after Bob died, I read in some book about grief that "it gets worse before it gets better."  The past few days, I've been wondering if the "worse" is upon me.  I had two weeks of respite being with family in Florida.  In that time, I was blessedly distracted by many contrasts to my usual days at home.  There was a long weekend of partying with family as we celebrated a nephew's wedding.  That was followed by visiting my Bournique and Risen sisters and some of their families.  We walked through lush botanical gardens, enjoyed sand and sun and ocean, and the antics of younger family members.  I loved it all and am grateful for the "infusion" of family, as one sister put it.
     Yet since I've been home, my heart has felt again the depth of my loss.  It crept up on me first driving home from Santa Fe, as I traveled through the beautiful canyon where Bob always delighted in spotting the rafters cruising on the Rio Grande River.  It burst upon me as I turned onto the road to our home, and continued to break over me in waves as I unloaded the car, put away groceries, and unpacked. I couldn't have named what triggered these feelings, there was nothing specific, other than what Hope once said when I commented I didn't know why I was feeling the way I did: "Grandpa died."  Simply put, that is the reason for so much of my emotion:  Bob died.
     Since my return from Florida, it feels as if I had two weeks off from those feelings being at the forefront of my awareness and so they've had a chance to accumulate.  The accumulation spilled over briefly in the midst of yoga class today, as it had on Saturday when I was having coffee with a friend.  It washed over me on Sunday when I spent some time re-reading this blog and was stunned by how much I'd forgotten of Bob's struggles, and my own.  Later that day, more than once, it spilled out during a catch-up phone conversation with another good friend.
     I'm not complaining about these experiences, only being aware of them, observing them, maybe learning from them.  I think I am also somewhat surprised by them.  This grief is unlike any other I have known.  It is all-encompassing and ever-present, even when I am not aware of it.  I've lost my "Other Half" which very literally means I've lost a big part of myself.  Just as one has to adapt after losing a limb, I am adapting to living without Bob, the part of me I will never have again, except in precious memories.

Touching Exchanges

     Today Hope and David were here from after school through dinner.  As Hope sat down to eat, she wondered aloud to David, "I wonder where she sits when we aren't here."  I told her that I sit right where she was at the moment.  Then she asked me, "What do you think about?"  Before I could answer, she went on.  "I know what you think about.  You think about Grandpa."  I assured her that yes, I do think about him a lot while I'm eating.  I told her I also think about her, about her brothers, and her mom.
     About 30 minutes later, Mom arrived from work to take the kids home.  As Hope was putting on her shoes, she asked me, "What happens here?"  For a moment I was stumped.  I asked if she were wondering what I do in the evening after supper.  When she responded that that was her question, I told her I would clean up the kitchen, maybe read, maybe watch TV or write an email.  Then I asked her the same question:  What happens at your house when you get home?  "Oh, watch TV, take baths, do homework, get ready for bed."
     What touched me about these exchanges was Hope's sensitivity to me, her concern for me.  At six years old, she seems to have a capacity for reflection and caring that I hope will only continue to grow as she does.