I'm Done With Complaining

I have complained, whined, cried, begged, bargained and denied....for months.  Here's news: it saps your strength and it doesn't work.   Although it is late in the year for resolutions, I vow to complain no more.  

Here's a grab bag of images and quotes from travels more famous than my own to illustrate my point.

“Henceforth I ask not good fortune – I myself am good fortune,

Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing.

Strong and content, I travel the open road.”

 --- Walt Whitman,  Song of the Open Road

 "Poop, poop!"

--- Kenneth Grahame, Wind in the Willows

I Did It!

My Thoughts on Blogging for the Week

Insight of the Week

Roger and I really used to enjoy home improvement projects.  Every weekend was jam-packed.  Now I realize it wasn’t about the creativity of making a beautiful environment, or the satisfaction of a job well-done; it was just about being together. We were best friends.  We could have been working on a home improvement project, or exploring Mars.  It wouldn’t have made a difference as long as we were together.

Since he died, I’ve gone through the garage and basement as well as every closet and cupboard.  I’ve cleaned, sorted, organized, given away things and re-stored the remains.  I’ve put a new coat of paint on every surface.  I’m exhausted from working so hard and life isn’t getting any better. These organized closets and new wall colors do not bring me joy. I’ve just realized that no matter how hard I work to make our home nice, this frenetic activity is never going to bring him back.  Our home is never going to be “our” home again.  There is nothing I can do to this place to make it feel right.

I have been obsessively filling my time and keeping myself busy so that I wouldn’t have to think about what’s next.  The dawning of this realization has been like Roger kicking me in the butt.  Every hour of effort in perfecting this “home” is time wasted. 

But if I stop working so hard, there is only the vacuum.  Staring into the chasm is probably the most frightening thing I’ve ever done.

Mystery Mail

An extraordinary thing happened on Saturday.  I have no explanation.

A postcard arrived in my mailbox.  The photo was taken by Julia Cameron - an incredibly talented artist/photographer from the mid-19th century.  She was a woman ahead of her time by about a century and a half.

The photo is of her niece, Julia #2 -- Julia Jackson, aka Mrs. Herbert Duckworth, the mother of Virgina Woolf.  This Julia was married early, widowed, remarried, widowed again... and was often described as a woman of strength and grace.  Virginia Woolf used her as model for characters in several of her novels (Notably: To the Lighthouse and Mrs Dalloway) and described her as "searching, sensitive and ever-suspended in thought."  This portrait seems to bear that out.

The postcard is addressed to a 3rd Julia -- at my address, but with no last name to help identify the addressee.  The postman penciled a question mark on it and put it in my mailbox.  I suppose he thought if any Julia had ever lived here, I would know her or know of her.  No Julia has ever lived at this address.  I checked.

The handwritten message on the back of the postcard says:

"Julia,
     Do you ever think about your 5 year plan/life/future?  I think about it, and now all the time I'm just worried.  Worried and regretful, wringing my hands every day about yesterday.  Look at this woman.  Do you think she is worried?  She seems to ache a bit for something.  But she is very beautiful and dignified.  I try to take a lesson from her and even when I ache carry a dignity and grace.  I used to save my nicest cloths (sic) for some special day.  Now I wear them. I must make the special day today."

Such an unusual message to put on a post-card; so full of existential angst!  There is no sender's signature.  It is postmarked from New Orleans.

It's addressed to someone named Julia, so it's not meant for me.  Is it?

Summer Storm

  

We had a thunder storm in Missoula last week.  It helped cool down unbearably hot temperatures and then ended as fast as it had begun.  It was just the right amount of time for a summer storm; all in all, just enough to be refreshing.

I had a little storm of my own one day last week, but it was wasn't exactly refreshing, in fact, just the opposite.  I ran into 4 people -- not in a group, but 4 individual encounters with people that did not know Roger had passed away.  I had to retell the story 4 times.  I thought I was doing okay, but noticed at my pilates class that afternoon that I hardly had the energy to move, much less exercise.  I felt very blue, but still didn't make the connection between recounting the story of Roger's illness and death and my weepiness.  When I got home, hot, tired, hungry and stressed, I felt compelled to change the blade in the x-acto knife so that I could do some stupid little chore that did not really need to be done at that moment.  Sometimes I can feel an accident about to happen, and yet... I just let myself proceed into it.  Yup, you guessed it, the inevitable happened.  After dripping blood all over the kitchen and wrapping my thumb in a big wad of paper towels, I drove myself to urgent care, steering with one hand, and feeling like quite the fool.  While this was happening (in slow motion), I caught myself more or less cursing Roger for not being there.  He wouldn't have let me be careless with a box cutter.  He would have driven me to urgent care.  He would have taken care of me.

Okay, so Roger's not here.  He can't prevent me from hurting myself if I am going to behave stupidly.  He can't comfort me when I've had a crappy day, or when I'm hurt, or sick, or stressed.  He can't take care of me.  I've got to do those things for myself.  Okay, I get it.  I'm sad, but I get it.

This grief burst didn't last as long or feel as intense as the last one.  I get it.

On to better days. 

A Perfect 4th of July

It was a lovely Fourth of July; my daughter Taylor drove down from Chilliwack, BC.  She, our friend Terri, and I rode the 17 mile Hiawatha Trail down the west side of Lookout Pass.  It was hot as blazes in Missoula, but much cooler at higher elevations and we got an early start.

 Going in to the first tunnel. All smiles.

 

The first bridge.  Taylor and Terri are bright such spots in my life. 

They support me and help me connect the past with the future.

 Taylor's very brave, but she's hanging on for dear life in this pic.  The

distance is hard to judge in a photo, but trust me, it's a lo-o-o-ong way down.

 

It's not as scary when you're sitting. 

I suddenly remember which body part hurts the most when riding a bike.  Posing for a

 pic is a good excuse to sit down on a nice, flat surface for a few minutes. 

Terri and I at one of those other tunnels. Who can remember which one?  

I may have been starting to get delirious by this point.

Very near the end, the sun is high in the sky and really hot. 

The smiles are still there, but is that a hint of strain in mine?

Taylor at the end, looking fresh as a daisy. 

Apparently she didn't over-exert herself scourging me through the last 2 miles. 

I was not photo-worthy at this stage of the trip.

 

Bye, Taylor!  It was a great time.  See you again soon.

Hell's Kitchen - Missoula

I had a Tupper Tantrum this morning.  You know what I'm talkin' about.  It happens when you open the cupboard and a piece of Tupperware falls out for the umpteenth time.  It's the breaking point, the last straw, beyond the pale.  It can no longer be tolerated.  I have had it out for that cupboard for a long time.  Things have got to change in "the cupboard with 3 blenders and I don't know if I have a coffee grinder."  I need 3 plastic storage containers, not 30.

The next thing I knew, all the Tupperware was in a big pile in the middle of the kitchen floor.  Tops with no bottoms, bottoms with no tops and lots of miscellaneous kitchen cupboard crap that I didn't even remember I had.  It had taken all of ten minutes to tear it apart and make a huge mess.  I thought I would take my own sweet time putting it back together, in a beautiful, calm, organized manner.  I imagined that, by Tuesday or Wednesday when my daughter Taylor arrived for a 4th of July visit, I would open the cupboard door and it would look like a photo spread in Perfect Home Magazine: this month, featuring "The Merrill home of Missoula, Montana" A place for everything and everything in it's place.

Then the phone rang.  Taylor announced that she would be in Missoula on Monday, or -- what the heck?  Maybe even Sunday.  Wait, that's tomorrow!  Excuse me.  I need to go shove a lot of crap back into the kitchen cupboard before she gets here.




I'm through with you, Tupperware! 
I got one nerve left, and Ziplock, you're gettin' on it. 
Watch out Rubbermaid, your time is coming. 
Who knows? The next to go might be the pots and pans.

Getting by with a little help from my friends



This is my end-of-Missoula-winter look.
 I'd better shed a few pounds and get my legs waxed.

This week my body said "Enough moping."

I started Pilates again with Missoula's best instructor, Avril Stevenson at Studio D. 

I cried throughout the entire first session. All I could think of was the last time I'd been  there, with Roger. (It was October -- seems like moments ago...)We were happy and hopeful then, brimming with energy and good health -- until he got sick again.  I kept imagining I could look over and see him on the mat next to me and we'd share a laugh at our complete absence of gracefulness.

Thank goodness Avril is empathetic.  If she had gotten flustered at my emotional squalls, I would have had to quit.  But she stuck it out with me, kept reassuring me, and didn't let me stop until the session was finished.  Avril says that we hold emotions in our muscles. That certainly felt true.

I have been walking with my head down and my shoulders slumped for so many months now that my neck, shoulders and back ache from the weight of it. It's time for me to stand up straight again.

Thanks to my body for telling me it's time to get moving.  Thanks, Roger, for inspiring me.  And Thanks Avril, for sticking with me.

New Vocabulary Words

A friend told me recently that reading my blog made her sad.  Here's a bit of advice from someone that has been down that road a time or two.  Just say no to sad! 

--- ---

I tell my stories because I need to connect with people, even remotely.  Grief is a human experience that we share, or have shared, or will share. There is something to be gained from shared stories, but only the right stories at the right time.  These are the only stories I have to tell right now. If this blog makes you uncomfortable in any way, stop reading it.  Go, do something else and find joy in it.   I won't be offended in the least.

Updates/Recent Discoveries:

• I can't lift the heavy planters that Roger and put on the porch and patio every spring.  Sigh.  One more thing I cannot do by myself.  I had to replace them with lightweight plastic planters.  I am learning to do things in a new way.
• Junk mail and junk phone calls directed at Roger's business are slowing down.  Good.  I'm tired of telling people to take Roger off their call list.
• The bedroom remodel is done.  Life was a chaotic mess for a couple of weeks.  I slept in the guest room while my bedroom furniture was stacked and stashed in every room in the house.  You wouldn't believe the dust created by removing an old cottage cheese ceiling.  By the time I was completely out of patience with the project, it was done.  I am so glad to be in my beautiful new room.  It is clean and serene.  I love sleeping in my own bed.
• I have a new car.  I discovered it's easier for me to manage a regular monthly car payment than  being surprised by large repair bills.  Sorry Roger, but your Volvo had to go.  I couldn't afford to keep it road worthy.  I love that my new Prius feels a lot like my old Celica.  It is reliable and safe.  It feels like home.   (I am still not adventurous enough to push some of the buttons, and I can live without internet connectivity in my car!)
• I have decision burn-out.  How many decisions do we make each day?  I should Google it.  I bet it's a lot.  I bet I've made 10 times the normal number of decisions over the last 4 months.   I don't want any more change.  Right now I just want stability and serenity. 
• I've started reading trashy novels.  I'm a little embarrassed to admit that because I've always been a snob about good books.  I don't need to stretch my brain right now.  I need to escape life in 30-minute increments.
• I cry less.  I don't miss Roger any less. 

Those of you who have known me for a number of years will recognize what appears to a new vocabulary in action.  Words I thought I would never apply to myself:  serenity, safety, comfort, reliability, stability, escape.  Yep - those words describe what I need now.  It's amazing what telling our stories can do.  Perhaps I learn more from it than any of my readers do.

One Warm Spring Day in a Cold Climate - And Everything Changes

Life on Planet Widowhood is a paradox. Time speeds up and slows down simultaneously. Life is happy and sad.  I want to keep things the same as ever and change everything.

I feel that I have so much to do and I want to get it all done as soon as possible. I am reworking my home and my life - creating a life that suits one person.   Time is going by too fast. I’m not ready yet. 

And yet, the days of sadness and grief drag on.  When will this be over?

It’s not the life I want, but it’s the one I’ve got.  There is some guilt in taking any pleasure at all in changing the way things were.  And yet… and yet…

Observations at 3 and Half Months Out

I am no longer numb.  But I still can hardly believe Roger is never coming back.  Often it seems like he's just away on another extended business trip.

I realized a few days ago that I have not sat in the living for more than a few minutes at a time since his death.  It was Roger's room, the room where he held court and told funny stories, or got outraged over politics.  It was the room we sat in together at the end of each day.  I haven't been comfortable there without him.  That's all well and good, but I cannot go on avoiding the living room forever.

I realized that I have been so deep in my own grief that I didn't even notice others are grieving too.  To those of you that loved Roger, I am sorry that I haven't paid attention.

I realized that, while I am now more comfortable making references to Roger and to his death and to my grief, other people are less comfortable with it.  I guess they think I should be over it by now.  Don't worry, you are not expected to say anything profound.  "Sorry you're going through this" is sufficient.  Or, don't say anything, just be tolerant and let me be in it until it passes.

I am realizing, day by day, that I am alright with being by myself.  I am lonely for Roger but I am never bored.  I enjoy the feeling of competence that comes of knowing I can take care of myself.

I am simplifying my life.  Eliminating tasks that are not essential and belongings that no longer belong.  I avoid news and politics; I don't need that stress right now.  I make plans if I feel like it and I bag out if I feel like it.

I am getting by.  I hope you are too.

Cloud Burst

If it's true that I am the sum total of all that I have experienced, then it's fair to say that I am not just experiencing my grief now.  I AM grief.  Father. Brother. Sister. Sister. Friend. Mother.  And now, husband.  My grief is compounded by the relentlessness of loss (it just keeps happening!) and by witnessing the mourning of those I love.  I'm caught in a sad cycle of self-pity-->empathy-->self-pity that will never bring back the dead or make up for the losses.  What do we gain from so much sadness?

It's a cloud burst of grief.  Or, a grief burst, if you will.



I had a pretty good week or ten days.  Life seemed less intense.  The challenges did not seem insurmountable.  I was taking care of business, not too happy and not too sad.  And then the wound reopened suddenly, without anything in particular to trigger it.  Or maybe there was a trigger and I didn't recognize it as such.

Today, I will give in to this.  It's Sunday, so I can stay in and stay quiet.  I will hang around the house wearing yoga pants and no makeup, feeling sorry for myself if that's what needs to happen, until this passes.

This sadness is only made tolerable by the knowledge that it is a squall.  As quickly as it came, it could go.  I also know that it will happen again and again.  I hope that each time a grief burst occurs it will be more brief and less painful.

I miss Roger.  He would know how to snap me out of this. 

Getting Used To It

As I pulled into the driveway this evening in Roger's beloved Volvo station wagon I  realized I'm getting used to coming home to an empty house.  I don't love it, but I am thankful that I no longer come in the door expecting to see his big old cheery smile and being suddenly and sadly reminded that Roger and his smile are no longer here. 

It sounds like a very small step, but I count it as progress.  Getting used to it is the best that can be expected right now.

How to Survive a Birthday

This is all that April should be:

 

 

And this is what it is:

This week my friend took me out -- okay, dragged me out -- to celebrate Roger's birthday.  It was hard.  I couldn't help but think of how we spent his birthday last year.  Can it only have been one year ago?  A road trip, meeting up with friends, eating seafood and drinking champagne, but most importantly, feeling healthy and optimistic, feeling like we'd beat the odds.  It was so much fun.  This year, not so much.

Although it was painful, we toasted Roger and shed a few bittersweet tears.  Thank you, Terri.  I would have stayed at home and wallowed in self-pity if you hadn't taken me out.  They say that alcohol is no cure for grief.  I get that.  As soon as it wears off, the grief is right there waiting to surge back in.  But, with the acknowledgement that it's not a solution, and with the caveat that I would shed tears before and after, it was nice to have relief from the pain for a couple of hours.  It was just what the doctor ordered, in fact.  I feel greatly relieved that this "first" birthday is over.  I don't think I'll need to be dragged out to celebrate next year.

 I so want to get to a place where memories of Roger trigger smiles, not tears.

Resurrection

Dateline: Missoula, Montana.  Two and a half months post-Roger

I am being resurrected this sunny Easter Day.  No sign of Roger though.  Damn.

I tried to keep up the Bone Marrow Boogie blog but couldn't stick it out.  I have enough painful reminders of him in my life as it is.  Every cupboard, every drawer, every bill and piece of junk mail.  Every grocery item I purchased because he might like it.  Every voicemail message that I check at the end of my work day.  Every reminder from Facebook to send him a Valentine or wish him a happy birthday (I've learned to avoid Facebook).  I spent the first month finding and framing photos of Roger and putting them all around the apartment.  This week I took them all down and put them away again.  I don't need painful reminders of what I've lost; it's etched in my brain and on my heart forever and all too frequently thrown in my face.

Common everyday chores are turned into sentimental and sometimes hysterical emotional journeys by the requirement to show Roger's death certificate as proof that I am not doing <blank> as a mean trick just to spite him.  Fill in the <blank> with the name of any routine chore. Changing the name on a bank account, selling a car, even getting the household bills and credit cards switched to my name.  I have burst into tears at the bank, at the grocery store, at the AT&T cell phone store, at the Motor-Vehicle Divison of the State of Montana.  I think I'm making a name for myself in this small town as the lady who cries in public and makes us all uncomfortable.

So, there you go.  I've gone underground.  Life has been quiet, dark and scary.   And, yet, I still live.  Apparently I will go on living.  How?  That is the challenge that lies ahead. 

I thought maybe I would start by creating a space of my own.  What's next?  I think I should do a little design, maybe put up some pictures on this new blog?

I don't expect many of you to follow me from the Bone Marrow Boogie to Widowhood 101 since the focus has changed so much. If you care to learn, along with me, how it's possible to survive widowhood, stick with me.  Bookmark this page.

--Candi