Widowhood's First Half Year Account

February 17, 2021

Widowhood's First Half Year Account

It's tax season and I feel a need for a different sort of accounting, an accounting of how my life has changed, an accounting of how I have walked through or perhaps dragged myself through my early widowhood.

I haven't been able to write recently, I should clarify, I haven't been able to write here. Everyday since Jim died, I've written to him in a journal. In the last 7 months, I've filled 3 journals with ink, tears, and prayers. Yet in the last month, I haven't been able to write here. I think it's because I'm going through my own metamorphosis that I don't quite understand or feel comfortable with. I'm changing from a wife to a widow, from a caregiver to someone who has needed to be cared for, from someone who delighted in being physically loved to someone just wishing for a hug. I've gone from two to one during the time of Covid. In the process what I've found is the many colors of love.

I miss Jim's touch

There's comfort in knowing my last resting place will be with Dad, Mom, and Jim.

From two to one

Grief: Moving through Pain and Trauma

It's been quite a journey, with the early months a blur. I know I couldn't sleep or eat or leave the house without someone else, and I cried all of the time. I did take care of the dogs, they insisted. If I wasn't a continual recorder of events through words and photos, I would not remember much more. They say grievers go into trauma right after a beloved's death to protect their brains and hearts as they adjust to the reality of death. I'll raise my hand here to that reality as I honesty find it hard to recall anything but anxiety, trauma, and overwhelming tears. On top of the trauma of losing Jim there were other traumatic doings during and after. I'm still dealing with some and will be for a long while.

I was hospitalized twice for being stung (yes I carry an epipen). The first time was the day after Jim died. Cathy saved me that time, Lisa the second time. Three times the dogs have been to the emergency vet. And just last week Bella had a major operation. Right now we are all fine and they are insisting we should go for a walk. Perhaps the biggest take away from these emergencies is that I know I wanted to keep living for myself, for them, and for those I love and who love me. Now I realize that every second of our lives is a gift. Having midwifed Jim through cancer and his own death, I understand grace and strength in new terms and I no longer fear my own but that is an entirely different post.

And to think I love bees and all insects.

If that wasn't enough, our 13 year old house has been falling apart. We've had an outstanding issue that Jim thought was remedied with our developer and the development. But a month after he died, I was told that wasn't the case. On top of that our office/studio floor began coming up and I was to discover the roof needed replacing (on a 13 year old house). And if that still wasn't enough, the camper needed fixing, the appliances needed replacing, the cars needed servicing, the water heater needed replacing, the grill died, and Jim's life insurance did not go through because of a technicality. I was emotionally not at a place to deal with any of this. I especially wasn't ready to go through all of Jim's things in the office so the floor could be replaced. But I had to. With the guidance of wonderful friends and family, I now have a new roof, new flooring, new appliances, new water heater, new grill, a fixed camper, three lawyers, a lot less money, and I've learned how to install lighting and how to negotiate when my heart is breaking. I also learned about another stage of grief, anger. Much like the anxiety that struck me when Jim died so did anger. Neither of these are normally part of my personality but WOW there it was! I've learned that grief's anxiety is protective and anger can be righteous and protective too.

The week of the funeral, the beautiful studio Jim built started to crumble away.

I've learned to install filters, mow lawns, start a snowblower, chainsaw trees, fix campers, plan my spouse's funeral, hire lawyers and contractors, and most importantly ask for help.

Sometimes hardship really does allow the light to come through.

These events might seem out of the ordinary for a griever but I've learned they aren't. It's seems like the universe is asking the griever to be resilient, to seek help, and for those who care to have a chance to offer help. Through this I found out who loves me deeply or who is resilient themselves and can reach out. You have been my life savers.

Those early months were a blur of pain and organizing. My aunt, also recently widowed, asked me early on, "Are you cleaning constantly?" and my answer was "Yes!". It was as if by organizing perhaps Jim could return, or I was constructing my cocoon (as my grief counselor Ally would say), or perhaps organizing was a way of opening my life back up. After getting rid of all the cancer things (the oxygen tanks, bed padding, Depends, morphine, Metamucil, cancer reference books, bed sheets, etc, etc.), I began to organize everything else. Lisa was an amazing friend through all of this and helped me take items to the transfer station and places like Goodwill. I might actually have gotten rid of one or two things I shouldn't have but somehow this has given me space to heal. My process: I would cry, organize, cry, organize, throw a fit, call a friend, organize...

New bedding and the dogs took over...

Shelves that hadn't been organized in years—and lots of things tossed.

Of course our bookshelves that Jim built fell apart the day he died, that meant going through all of his books. Some were given away, some kept.

A big effort was the garage which had accumulated the paraphernalia of death, cancer, and of projects that Jim could not finish. A big day was bringing home the Honda which now brings me the comfort of memories and the facsimile of being held by Jim.

"My" side of the basement was an early project, this is where I would go to clean catheters etc. and fall into Jim's old chair with warm beer late at night as I waited for the soaking to be completed. But his side, his workshop, I can't bear to touch yet.

This is the fire that consumed every cancer diagnosis, oncology report, and insurance bill. Along with photos that no one in my family wanted anymore.

When the studio fell apart, it fell apart first were I stored my parents memorabilia. I felt like I was living in a home of dead peoples' stuff. Much of that got sent to my siblings or disposed of. I needed space to live in the present. But there is still so much more...I've just begun unpacking Jim's digital photos, and I have yet my father's films and slides to go.

For Satori and Enzo, to know their Grandpa Jim

Jim's workshop goes untouched for now. Too much pain.

Remembering

Making a cocoon to change within, sweeping away traumatic remembrances, finding space for what is to come, it is all so much hard emotional work. But in doing so, it has been allowing me to also remember, not just the traumatic times but also the beautiful times. I read once that grief is like a house, and that you have to go through every room and remember what is held within and with that remembering you start to embrace the memories and turn them from sorrow into joy and gratitude. I can recognize this after the death of my parents. It took a few years but now I remember them with joy, they live in my heart, I see them in myself and in my siblings and our children. I pray to them for their wisdom as I face challenges they already faced. I'm not really there yet with Jim. More than anything else I'd rather have Jim alive in my life than as a series of memories. I'd rather go forward with what we had dreamed of than to have to reconstruct myself. But now I see that this is part of my grief work, I've been actively sorting, organizing, and reliving our time together. Some times the memories are unwanted such as when the Ireland truck went through our neighborhood to honor those with and who have died of cancer. Some times they are an act of love like when I wrote the book about Jim for his grandchildren to know him by. Other times they come by "noticing what I notice" without judgement: hearts or Jim's name in the clouds when I need them most; newly uncovered music by or videos of him; and the beautiful photos he took, writings or cards that I didn't know were preserved—how he saw the world and loved me. Some times they are brought by friends such as the lovely card forwarded to me by Stephanie one of his nurses and those make me so grateful to see how Jim is still loved. And some times I carry Jim forwards, by putting flowers by his photos, watching slowly his recorded videos, putting together albums of his life, or by gifting some of his things to people or causes he loved. I will always love Jim forever plus seventy as we recognized early on in our love. It has always been the nature of love.

"Place me like a seal over your heart, like a seal on your arm; for love is as strong as death, its jealousy unyielding as the grave. It burns like blazing fire, like a mighty flame."

—Song of Solomon 8:6 (and read at our wedding)

Finding Strength

Folks say that I'm strong and that I'm doing well but my strength or actually my resiliency is because of them, of you, my friends and family. You are the heroes of this stage of my life. Some friends and obviously family have been in my life or me in theirs forever, some I've only gotten to know since Jim died, and some I only connect to virtually, and some I've never met in person.

Each one of you reading this are one of those. You might think, "no that's not possible, I have't been able to help", but with the simple act of reading this you have given me the gift that means the most. Each one of those who have come to my side have given me this gift. In David Kessler's book "Finding Meaning: The Sixth Stage of Grief" he writes what I find to be the most essential truth for grievers:

Grief Must Be Witnessed
For the dead and the living, we must bear witness.
—Elie Wiesel
Each person's grief is as unique as their fingerprint. But what everyone has in common is that no matter how they grieve, they share the need for their grief to be witnessed. That doesn't mean needing someone to try to lessen it or reframe it for them. The need is for someone to be fully present to the magnitude of their loss without trying to point out the silver lining.

For my part, hearing stories about Jim, telling stories about him, or having someone just be with me are worth much more than gold. So my dear friends, you've texted me and asked how I'm doing, you've come by and offered help with the house problems that I face, you've helped me search for the meanings of life and death, you've shared your dreams of Jim and the signs he leaves, you've given me stones and stories that I hold in my heart pocket when I'm having a very rough day, you've drawn hearts on my front stoop, you've brought food, you've sent cards, postcards, and flowers over and over, you've called, you've sent me videos and music on Facebook and Instagram, you've helped me start the chainsaw and clear debris, you've brought me out skiing for the first time and every time since, you've dug into Jim's computer for me, you've dug a trench to protect the house, you've made hot chocolate and toasted Jim on the mountain, you've bicycled with me and driven in the Honda, you've taken me on boat and kayak rides and put me up in your shipping container (my lovely aunt-another story), you've guided me so I could meditate once again and you've danced with me at Diwali, you've introduced me to online drawing groups, you've organized my house through my tears with me and gone to the dump, you've taken me on socially distanced walks in Vermont to places that I've never known existed... You've sat through my tears, rantings, and cursing of death. You've remembered when most seem to have forgotten. The list truly is amazing. Especially in this time of Covid and grief. You've given me hope that I will once again be fully present to life. With you and through you I am strong.

And Where Am I Now? Where Am I Going?

There's the hardcore question for me. One I can't fully answer. As the daughter of a futurist, researcher, professor, and as a professor, futurist, and researcher myself, that has been one of the most difficult things to confront since Jim was first diagnosed with stage 4 cancer. I honestly can say I hate the expression (thank you, no thank you Ram Dass), "Be Here Now" but I've learned its imperative. It's been so difficult for me the owner and breeder of Springer Spaniels to go slow, to take it one day at a time, to find that grief takes over and makes me fall back over and over again. The best way of explaining it might be the feeling of needing to throw up, sorry about the grossness but there it is. It just takes over, some times out of the blue, you have no choice but to throw up. I'm learning my steps forward slowly, recognizing times that may or may not trigger me (another term I hate), being prepared, but also recognizing what brings me joy. Yes, I said that, JOY.

Right away I knew that celebrating Halloween in the traditional way was a no go. So I didn't. Instead I celebrated the day of the dead with my friend Wendi. That worked. My daughter Tegan in her way and my sister Mary in hers along with key friends have helped me through Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's and Jim's birthday. And then again, along with friends and my granddaughter Satori, through Valentines. Alongside all of these holidays being Jim and my favorites, it's also when we had key events—falling in love, becoming engaged, finding out Jim had terminal cancer, and finally realizing it was his last year of life. All during this very long stretch of holidays. I am so glad I am through those now! I felt like I was climbing a mountain with tons of gear on and continually falling backwards. But I made it. And what has been opening up for me since is being inspired, skiing, painting, delighting in friends, and a sense of readiness to pay forward and give back.

The journey ahead is longer still. There is no end to grief. I still cry every day and night for Jim. My journals remain tear stained. Yet I know this now, I want to really live... each freaking day with intention, meaning, and full awareness of the beauty within and without.