The Changing of the Seasons. Changing Me.

It's the turning of the seasons. Again. Ugh.

Once upon a time, I used to delight in how the seasons changed—perhaps harking back to being an aide in elementary schools where each turn is a new chance to explore, teach, and learn with bulletin boards and holiday traditions ladders to subjects such as Language—words like fall (verb and noun?) or A U T U M N (that's a mouthful to spell) and Science—nature digging in deeply filling itself with reserves to get through the winter and History even if the narrative was partial and disjointed like the "discovery" of the "new world".

In my "new world", autumn is approaching with a PTSD-like trigger warning, "Oh no, I have to get through all those holidays and birthdays again without Jim whom  I most want in my life but will never have again. I want our seasons, I want our habits re-instituted: picking our apples and making the pies and applesauce he loved; decorating and entertaining scores of children for Halloween (his favorite holiday)—our house is still talked about as a go-to-place—but no more for me; photographing the changing of the leaves and tucking in the house together for the upcoming winter—polishing up our skis; and of course Thanksgiving and turkey—spent with friends and family, Jim the perennial entertainer. I learned to cook turkey as a gift to him as I had been a 20 year vegetarian prior to our marriage.

Our last Halloween

It's been 14 months that I have been a widow and lately there's been a subtle shift for me. Yes, I still cry almost every day, but no longer ALL day. I still miss Jim but I'm no longer in the "I can't think, can't move, can't imagine living" stage of grief anymore. I'm no longer traumatized. My brain is not fogged over anymore. I enjoy being with folks again. I can once again laugh. My grief counselor says I'm just where I should be. However I am impatient (she says that too). I'm tired of waiting on the house, on the life insurance, on the repairs, on Covid protocols and anxieties, on making decisions, tired of being alone, tired of feeling trapped, tired of feeling  that the best of my life has ended and there is nothing to look forward to again.

Mary, Cathy and I in Cape Cod—the first vacation I've taken in three years. So much fun!

Perhaps the biggest shift is that I realize there is something I need to do first. I need to get my energy back. I need to create new habits. 

For almost three years, I have not slept well. At first it was because of the anticipatory grief of knowing that Jim would not survive his cancer which led me to prayer and meditation.  These two have become my first and lasting habits for dealing with what is. As cancer progressed, my lack of sleep worsened as Jim's chemo kept us both up all night and then it was because for approximately 12 months, I was Jim's around the clock caregiver and end of life doula—reacting to things such as his blocked colon, emergency surgery, bad drug interactions, sudden high fevers, rigors, pain management, and all the things that happen to us as we are at the final end of life. During that last stage, I was up every two hours. Then adding on top of all of this sorrow, grief stole my sleep and my appetite, my ability to exercise, and frankly desire to live. 

A funny thing happens with grief, it saps all of one's energy so that just completing one thing a day is exhausting. Even figuring out what help one needs is impossible. The love from which my dearest friends waded into and through my grief supporting me during those early days will be what I will recall and be forever grateful for even onto my own death. One really finds out where and what love is during life's most difficult times.

It may be that spending time with my sister-in-laws in Cape Cod, where we got fresh ocean air, explored Provincetown, watched whales, ate well, spoke on end about life things to include our inability to sleep well, without judging my tears, gave me the space to breathe, reflect, and shift. Since returning, I am trying to institute behaviors that return my energy: setting aside 10 hours so I may sleep 7, trying to eat consciously—not mindlessly filling the void left by Jim's loss, and trying to at least take the dogs for a walk everyday. I'm really looking forward to skiing again. This may sound paradoxical but skiing gave me such strength, energy, and joy last winter.

I've come to know how lucky I was with Jim. Our joy was so deep and our appreciation for each other so pure. We knew we won the lottery with each other. I was listening yesterday to one of his end-of-life interviews. He is talking with my friends Lisa and Sarah. Sarah asked him with all his travels what was his favorite and he replies "All of those with Ann." This morning I was about to close out my Flicker account and what did I discover but photos from all of those wonderful travels to France, Chamonix, Spain, Italy, Turkey, Greece, Canada, and more. Together, we were constantly exploring whether through foreign countries, on skis, in kayaks, on bicycles, or through cameras and conversations. This summer I couldn't quite get into bicycling or kayaking by myself and of course foreign travel was out of the question but perhaps I will again.

Jim in Fontainebleau

Jim on our way to Nova Scotia, camera always ready, bikes and tent in the hull.

Now I wonder "how will I create new wonder in my life?" Such a bad time to lose one's love—at the intersection of being in the working world and entering retirement and during a global pandemic. Even for an independent woman, so many shifts in such a short time without his or my parents' shoulders to lean on! My first next step is getting my energy back and then reaching back into the world more fully. I hope travel, being outdoors, baking pies, preparing feasts, being with family and friends, and continuing to seek to question and discover new answers is part of my future. We shall see. One baby step at a time.

In Paris