I have a birthday this month, # 67. Recently, I thought about my Mama. She was only 64 when she went home to be with Jesus. I miss her more than just about anything.
The journey of a widowed Southern lady stranded in the Mid-west surviving the
perils and pearls of grief, adult children, grandchildren, writing, retirement, and assorted crises.
Friday, October 13, 2023
48 Birthdays
Friday, February 19, 2021
Just Breathe
It occurred to me a few weeks ago that for the first time in 12 years I wasn't dragged into a pit of memories and grief over the course of November, December, and January. I admit it was a surprising realization.
When the journey began, more like a train wreck than a journey, they told me the average time to recover from the death of a spouse was about 6 years. Obviously, I am an underachiever. I took twice as long. I can only attribute that to the accompanying PTSD that resulted from my experience.
Maybe you could have done better. Maybe you know someone who did. I'm truly happy for them. I wish.
It took me a bit to understand what was going on with me. Apparently, my brain doesn't release trauma as easily as other folks do. I have memories from my childhood that can destroy my day in an instant. I've controlled this stuff over the years, but not without extreme efforts. Jerry's death nearly destroyed me, and even today, I don't handle stress with the same ease I once did. I break easily now, something that shocks my closest family members when it happens.
And I still have days when a memory can pop up and just wreck my composure. I sit and cry but it isn't the soul shredding of early days and the intense sadness that follows, I can cope with.
Am I "over it"? No. That won't happen. I remember all the times I should have been nicer, more understanding, not taken part in an argument, and said "I love you" more. I remember every moment of the last 24 hours of his life. And I can't think about it. Ever. It is a nightmare I try very hard to avoid at all cost, sometimes failing. I remember the sound of his wedding ring striking the post of the headboard of our bed as he struggled with a massive coronary, and the deathly silence that followed. For months I heard that sound. And if I try very hard, I can still hear it. Just writing these words makes it hard to breathe.
Just breathe. Just breathe. Just breathe!
The cliche is that time heals all wounds. Maybe. I'm not sure. I carry massive scars that no one but I can see. And believe me, they are deep and painful. I often ask myself if I'll ever stop hurting from it. I have no answer to that. Some folks find a new spouse in a few years. I haven't even considered it. I've met death once, up close and personal. He won that fight. The next time, maybe I'll win and Jerry will walk me home.
For now, I just try to breathe.
Friday, December 6, 2019
Echos
Ten years. So long to be away from someone you shared your whole life with. I met and married him when I was 17 and he died when I was 52. A whole life.
You know, he wasn't perfect, and he made me furious
Oh, but that's not the worst of it. There were things to do and new places to go and he'd be there with me. We shared memories and even fears. At least, I did. He never wanted to worry me. I hate that because that's what makes the marriage. You both have to share the bad along with the good. He wanted nothing to darken my days.
How much he'd suffer if he knew how dark my life became with his leaving. Sarah was the only light I had to light my way.
This year, that light
Sarah was the light that kept me focused and the joy that kept me laughing. So this week has been very hard. There will be no lights, no tree, no presents, no decorations, and no excited laughter. No peaking at packages, no Christmas stories, no special meals. It will be just another dark day in an empty house filled with the echos.
The old year is dying and day by day I do too. I haven't been sorry to see a year end in 10 years. I will not care this year either. I do not look forward to a new one. Why should I?
Tuesday, February 5, 2019
The Hell I See and Hear
This morning, as I was on my way home from dropping Sarah off at school, I was thinking about something related to a story element. It was unrelated to anything I am working on so I can't tell you why I thought about it. I suspect, in hindsight, that I was just messing around in my head. I should never do that. I know better.
As I cruised along at 35 mph, I suddenly had a horrific flashback. Really, I don't have them often anymore but I still get them occasionally. I could see Jerry in the bathroom, in the
It is all so vivid but I'm sitting in my car, driving down Virginia Street at 7:30 a.m. in 2019. It isn't January 29, 2009 at 3 a.m. in the
My firm opinion is that hell is reliving all the horrible things you've seen, done, and thought in your entire life. My brain doesn't let go of trauma so I fervently hope I've served my time. I'm trying to be faithful so that something better is waiting and the hell I see and hear won't follow me.
Someone once told me it gets better. They lied. I don't relive it as often.
Wednesday, December 26, 2018
Ten Holidays
Becca brought Madi over on the 23rd to stay until the 26th and we decided we'd get Madi's presents wrapped and under the tree after she went to bed. Sarah's were already there when they arrived.
Madi kept asking me where her presents were and I told her they'd be here "tomorrow", on Christmas Eve. I felt so sad because it was evident that this 3 yr old could understand that something was off with the presents. But she trusts me so she didn't really make a fuss.
Christmas Eve, when I came down the hall to the living room, Madi met me grinning and grabbed my hand. "Mawmaw, Santa brought me and you presents last night! Come and see!" I thought it was sweet she thought I was included in those presents. I wasn't but it wasn't about me anyway. She was vibrating with excitement and the rest of the day we struggled to keep her from opening them all. We showed her her name on them and spelled it out for her. She knew exactly which ones were hers. We did let her open two hoping to appease her but by sunset, we were done and we opened them.
Both girls seemed to enjoy their gifts. Sarah got her ITunes gift cards and bluetooth headset and books. Madi got the kind of things 3 yr olds get: PlayDoh, colors and coloring books, and baby doll stuff.
The girls went home tonight. Sarah to spend a few days with her mom before going back to school. I am home alone. As I took the photo of the tree, I thought of all the Christmases I've had alone since Jerry died. There have been 10 Thanksgivings, 10 Christmases, 10 New Years, 10 anniversaries, 10 Valentine's Days. Oh, some family have been here for the day here and there but always, at the end of the celebration, I sit in front of the tree and try to find a glimmer of something that feels like a holiday. Eventually, I think of all the Christmases that may lie ahead and well, we'll leave it there.
I'm not wallowing in pity. I had my annual grief cry today and visited Jerry at the cemetery. I stayed a long time and just sat in the car and listened to a podcast as I watched the grave stones in the VA cemetery. Some had wreaths, some had flowers and some had nothing. There were a few new graves. Jerry needs new flowers and I promised to bring them this week. I don't know if it matters, actually, but it does to me.
It made me sad to see the forgotten ones. Once I wondered who'd put flowers on my grave regularly and realized that I'm the end. There will be no one left here for that. Well, if that ain't the story of my life. Of course, there won't be anyone to put them on his either. That's bothers me.
Thursday, January 28, 2016
Vanished Into the Dark
This morning I was wondering this morning how I was going to address tomorrow. Since 2009 I can't approach January 29 as if it were any other day. I remember the first few years the number 29 drove me crazy. Every time the number came up in any context I experienced anxiety. That faded eventually but the day is still a difficult day to approach.
In fact, beginning January 29, 2009, every major holiday and special occasion has been painful. Starting in August, with Jerry's birthday, until February there are six days that have nearly wrecked me: his birthday on August 6th, Thanksgiving, Christmas, our wedding anniversary on January 11th, his death on the 29th, and Valentine's Day. For nearly half the year, since 2009, I've clinched my teeth, straightened my spine, and struggled not to think about Jerry not being here. I rarely succeeded in being stoic. Each month I'd have at least one day where I just fell apart.
This year, I totally forgot Jerry's birthday. I was stunned and upset with myself the day after when I realized it. Sarah and I were sick. I always take flowers but I forgot him. In November, I was away from home for the holiday and things were very busy and filled with people I love so I didn't brood over Thanksgivings Past. Christmas the house was bulging for three weeks. More people I love, my family and some friends, filled the house up and there was no time to really brood over anything but the lack of time alone, which they gave me at intervals. It is probably the first time since he died that I didn't feel bereft or make myself sick crying. With so much coming and going, there were few opportunities to wallow in self-pity. You know there's folks who think that way after 7 years. There were people who thought that way after the first 6 months.
But tomorrow is the 29th. Today there is a pressure in my chest and a sadness hangs over me. I'm not distraught. I'm not prostrate. I don't feel like crying. There is this heaviness in my gut and I feel as if I have lost something, and I need to get up and look for it. Maybe tomorrow I'll find it?
I should go to the cemetery. I should take flowers. I should tell him I haven't really forgotten, that every day, at some point, I see him, hear him, and feel him. Sometimes only for a moment, sometimes for hours. I should remind him that when I see his picture, sitting there on that shelf, a flood of memories rushes over me. They're funny, happy, silly, angry, and sad all at once.
And sometimes, I get angry because he's not here. He left me with an upside down world and no one to help me clean up the mess. I have to figure out everything myself. I have to take care of every problem alone. If I get afraid, there is no one to hold my hand or wrap me in strong arms. No one to tell me everything is going to be fine. No one to fix the car, the toilet leak, the floor, or take out the trash.
Tomorrow is the 29th. Perhaps, the wheels will begin to turn again and the world will right itself. No. No, it won't. Because it is the 29th and on that day, I died, too. I won't find the things I've lost. Who I am now is not who I was on January 29, 2009. Everything I was and was supposed to be was gone in a moment. I watched it vanish into the dark. Maybe that is why it still feels like I've lost something. I didn't lose Jerry. I lost me.
I love you, Jerry Maddox. I'll always love you.
Wednesday, August 12, 2015
What's Happening In My World
The current week has been hectic. Sarah started 3rd grade on Monday. She came running into the house after school yelling she loved it. I hope the romance last but we all know how relationships can turn on you. Her most exciting thing was "no homework". She thinks this will be a permanent thing. I haven't had the heart to tell her that the paperwork I read wants her working on things at home. We're going to have to create a "chore" schedule just to keep her encouraged.
I've done more crochet this week than I have at any one time in years. I've made several items and started on a new one last night.I really enjoy making these coaster cozies. I have six of my own and they work better than anything I've ever used.
They're designed to fit over the round stone coaster you buy at Walmart on aisle end caps. They come with a wooden holder but once the cozy is on it, they won't fit in the holder. I don't care. They're pretty and you can stack them. They look really nice on the table and are functional. Pretty furniture you worked hard to create or buy should be protected. I think I'm going to make a doily to match them.
When dirty, you pull them off, wash and put them back on. If you have extras, you don't have to wait for the laundry to get done. The ones at right are a gift for someone. The yarn is Hobby Lobby's I Love This Yarn. It is a new cotton they've created to replace the Sugar n' Cream brand. I actually like it much better. It is a bit softer and easier to work with on small items. They have a ton of colors, too.
The other items I finished last night is the "rug" I was working on from yarn in my stash.Photos do not do this yarn justice. It is so beautiful. I do wish it was softer but it just looks gorgeous. As you can see, the item is not really big enough for much but a throw rug. I just used all the yarn I had left from a previous project. It is really warm and I almost considered it as a lap throw but it barely covers my lap and falls just below my knees. Not really enough to bother with when I have larger throws to hand.
This is a Red Heart Yarn, as I've mentioned before. I loved making this but by the last round, I was getting bored. I used no pattern, just started crocheting in the round and when I finished a row, I figured out what I wanted to do on the next one.I tried to vary the rows. I have some that are single crochet, some double crochet, and some treble crochet. There are a couple of chain rows, and V stitches as well as a couple of mixed rows: double crochet and chains.
It wasn't hard but I made mistakes here and there. Once it gets this big, counting stitches is so tedious but for fans and shells, you have to have the right number of stitches to make it work. A couple of times I had to pull out several inches and work two stitches together to correct for miscounting. For the most part, only an expert might find my errors but this isn't to sell or give away. I'll use it. I am considering buying a backing to put on it and make it slip resistant. Originally, I was going to put it in Sarah's room because these are the colors we have in there. However, if you saw her floor on an average day, you'd know it would be wasted on her.
I started on another coaster cozy using a small ball of yarn, left over from a sweater I made for Sarah. I think it will be really pretty. It is an extra so I can wash some one of my others. I am also making it in a brighter color.
I've written a little. I have to get the short story done now. So, I'm going to try and spend the rest of the week doing that. I'm behind in reading but I've been also been busy straightening out the chaos resulting from getting rid of the large computer desk and clearing out Sarah's room to repair the ceiling. Her room is more or less in order. There are a couple of items still to move but nothing major.
It is the stuff I took out of the desk that presents problems. I had no idea that desk held so much! And so much that I hadn't even looked at in ages. I found Jerry's driver's license, our military IDs from years ago, his USI student ID, and his VA ID. All had his photos on them. I found old letters he'd written to me when he went to Germany. They'd been stored in a scrap book I had in the book case that was in Sarah's room but is not in the den. They were very personal and I had to smile at how foolishly romantic we were. They were just sappy and drama ridden. Very "soap opera" to me. Did other young couples write such letters? I don't know.
For a brief moment, I remembered that girl and I longed to be her again. She was filled with so much life and she knew how to have fun. Jerry and I had so much fun. We had a lot of the same problems most couples have but more than anything, we had an amazingly good time. And I think it is that which makes life so very hard now. I'm not having fun. Sarah brings me so much joy and the days with her are almost as much fun as what Jerry and I had but it isn't the same. There is this huge void that I no longer believe can ever be filled or bridged or repaired. I want it to be, more than anything. But the reality is it is impossible to ever be in that place and time and to be that person again. Two people died on January 29, 2009. They just didn't bury me.
I won't burden you with more sadness. I'll leave you with a Sarah story.
Sarah is growing up. Recently, she found she had hair under her arms. Obviously, all girls go through this phase but she is a bit young. She'll be 9 in a few weeks. However, we had to deal with the issue. Although the problem wasn't great, it was noticeable, particularly to her. So, I informed her I'd shave the hair off for her and show her how to do it so when she was capable of managing she wouldn't be nervous. We discussed how this would mean it would have to be done all regularly after this. Anyone knows the sooner you start shaving legs and armpits the worse it gets. But you can't just leave it.
Anyway, we took care of it. In seconds it was done and Sarah said, "That fast?"
I just grinned and said, "That fast."
I left her and went to the kitchen. She must have gone to the mirror because the next thing I heard was Sarah shouting, "I'M YOUNG AGAIN!"
I laughed and asked her what she meant.
"I'm young again. Only old people have hair under their arms."
Y'all have a great day.
Thursday, March 20, 2014
Out of the Ashes
My friend, Chris D. made a poignant post in her blog, A Parent Spectrum Disorder, today. She still has adolescents at home but the day is fast approaching when she will have an empty nest. As I wrote my comment to her, I realized it was not just meant for Chris. There was something in it that tickled my ear and I was forced to think about it.
"It is the tragedy of motherhood that we sacrifice ourselves on that altar. We make ourselves literal burnt offerings. They grow up, leave, and we lie in the ashes, forgotten. We have to resurrect ourselves. And when your spouse dies, it is even worse because there is no one to help lend a hand if you need it. Grab your husband and make your life what it was before children. You can. You must. It ends too soon to waste time."
Resurrection. I'm not God. I have no real idea of how to do that. My children left home years ago. They've come back a couple of times since but that was different. I was dealing with adults who didn't want anything but a place to sleep, eat, and no rules. Once on their feet, they were gone again. At first it was hard to deal with adult children but after a few months things balanced out, rules were established in spite of them, and we were fine. It helps if your kids like you a little but that's another post. It is nice to know mine actually like me a lot.
I think even when they come back you fall back into the Mom role. You aren't yourself. You're the person you became when you heard that first cry. You're the healer, comforter, protector, accountant, landlord, chief cook and bottle washer. When they're born your world became this tiny place initially filled with dirty diapers and regular feedings. It expanded to regular bedtime battles and legos in the dark. From there it expanded to managing multiple schedules and shuttle duty, with binding up the bloodless wounds of teenagers. Then, rather sooner than you were prepared for, it was over. The house was empty, the laundry manageable, and you have no idea what to eat or how to cook for two. And when you looked, you didn't recognize yourself in the mirror.
My husband died and we had never really figured it out. How could we go back 30 years and be the fun loving duo who looked for exciting things to keep us interested in one another. We were looking but ill health and death interrupted us and before we truly got a chance to find that place again, he was gone, forever altering my perception and my world.
Resurrection is no different for me than for any other mother. If anything, it is harder. Not only do we mold our personality around children, before them, if you were fortunate enough to have a spouse, we molded it around a spouse. The "two become one" is no joke. In a good relationship, you do become a single unit. Children further cement this and your identity shifts farther away from who you were single.
So here we are, sans children. And we look in that mirror and we see lines that weren't there, shoulders that used to be straighter, necks that were once slender, too many chins, bags under eyes that once sparkled in laughter and now... well, sometimes they glitter in anger. We look...and a total stranger stares back.
I thought, once past the worst of the grief, I'd find ways to put the past behind me. I just knew... was positive... if I survived it, I'd be me again. I didn't realize that it would be impossible. Today, when I read my own comment to Chris the truth dawned on me. That girl, the one who laughed so easily, found excitement in everything she did, and was so creative... she was long gone. I am suddenly faced with the realization that I have to recreate myself. I have to become someone else.
Who am I? What am I supposed to do now? For five years I've tried to figure this out. At first I thought I knew but with half of me missing, nothing fit. I no longer had an identity. The stranger in my mirror is truly someone I do not know.
I forced myself to find ways to become involved in things I loved. I started crocheting again. I started sewing but neck problems put a crimp in that. I became a local Municipal Liaison for National Novel Writing Month and I started a local writing group and I connected with dozens of people online who loved writing. I began to write more. There was a sense that I was moving toward something. I had no idea what.
The last three years I've been too sick to care much who I am. Each day has been pretty much a struggle to get up, put in 8 hours and come home. The sense of forward motion stopped dead. There is still this woman who stares back at me from the mirror. Her eyes still glitter. I realize she's fairly angry that life is throwing painful things at her. She still lies in ashes.
So, although I can't prevent the slings and arrows of life, I must keep trying to find who I am. Stopping now is unacceptable because ... well, in truth, that is who I am. And maybe, one day, I'll wake up and look in that mirror find that, like the Phoenix, I have emerge from the ashes a completely new person.
Thursday, February 27, 2014
A Letter to the Lost One
Thursday, December 5, 2013
Slaying Dragons
St. George Slaying the Dragon by Hans Von Aachen |
During these four months, the sensation of being broken in half is stronger, the edges seem sharper and more jagged. Even my personality feels as if part of it is missing. I am a whole person in the mirror. I can see a whole person but there's that gaping hole that I can sense.
I've analyzed this repeatedly and find it is no easier to understand. I was and continue to be very individualistic and independent. I handled international moves, the demands of the military on my family, a disabled child, and finally a disabled spouse. I should be able to handled life now that I'm alone. But I can't seem to function as whole person either.
Five years later life decisions are still nightmare to deal with and just the thought of them can cause severe anxiety. Crises throw me into a panic. Disrupted schedules and clutter send me reeling. They're all dragons before me. The final insult is that I get sick and there is absolutely no one to call. No one will be there to check on me if I need help. I spend time wondering what happens if I can't call for help? It is a question I have late in the night, the very time you don't want such questions. Just another dragon.
What I'm really hoping for is that there is this magic hour, day, week, month, or year when I'll wake up, open my eyes and find that the feeling of something missing won't be there. There won't be the feeling of a gaping wound that never heals. Instead, I'll be strong and competent and able to slay my own dragons.
Wednesday, October 2, 2013
Too Deep to Plumb
You think, during the grief process, that it will never end. In a sense, it never does. You do resurface but you don't ever really reach land. At least, I haven't. You learn to tread water. You must or you drown. You know what lies beneath and you never want to try that descent again. So, you just keep paddling. You get tired but you never stop.
I've gotten better in many ways at treading water. In fact, sometimes I can actually swim. There's no land in sight but I dare not stop.
This summer has been lighter, as if someone opened a window. The weather was beautiful for moths. Since June, I've felt better for much of that time. I was sick from a virus for the six month prior to that. I began walking in July, something I thought would be impossible with my joint problems and pain. I started with 10 minutes and managed to work up to half an hour in which I knock out a just over a mile and a half.
Last week, I messed up. On Wednesday I lost a ring that Jerry bought me when I graduated from college in 1995. It was a blue topaz in a filigree band. It was so pretty, not very expensive but just so lovely. It was $99 when he bought it. It was the most special gift he'd ever bought me. And I lost it. It fell off my hand. I can't figure out how it happened.
I'm pretty sure it was in CVS on First Ave. They won't let me put up a flyer offering a reward. I remember something falling near my foot but I was so distracted and tired I looked around and when I didn't see anything, I just moved on. It took four days to figure out what I'd done. Now, I've sunk to such dark depths and I can't figure out what to do.
It's just a ring. It means nothing to anyone but me. It has no intrinsic value other than the price of gold. You might be able to pawn it for $50. I'd pay twice that to get it back. But it has reopened a crevasse that has taken me years to escape. And as before, I can't do a thing about it. I can only struggle for the surface. I want my ring back. I want to be able to sit and look at it and remember the day we bought it. I want to pass it to Sarah and watch her try it on, knowing it will be her's someday. I want to tell her the story of looking down in the jewelry case and picking it out and how it felt when he brought it home sized for me. I want to tell her why it is so special and hand it to her they way Jerry handed it to me.
I lost it. And the revelation I had was that life is just one series of losses after another. We're all losers most of the time. Winning at anything pales in comparison to what you have to lose. Ultimately, I think, what you lose is a reflection of who you really are, deep down. Had I lost the ring my mother bought me when I was 15 I'd have been sad. I wouldn't have been devastated. Had I lost even the necklace Jerry bought me for Christmas when we were dating, I would not have been so desolate. What I've lost is more than a simple ring. I've lost dreams. You can't replace that.
The depths to which they fall can't be plumbed.
Thursday, March 28, 2013
Just One Touch
Why I'm still up is simply beyond my comprehension. I'm so tired. You know how tired I get sometimes. For most of the evening I've been reading blogs and other stuff. I sat and watched .... some show on my computer... I think I only watched one but at the moment, I'm not sure. Then I got up to shut the system down, only to check email and posts one more time... cause we all do that.
Anyway, I just clicked on my Timeline and there you were, smiling out at me, those wonderful blue eyes sparkling just for me. I remember that moment clear as a day. I could read your mind just by looking at your face. It was all there. I remembered. And then, in one blinding flash my whole being screamed with one phrase... I just want touch you. You hands, your arms, you face. Just to put my hands on your cheeks and feel your warm skin and to breath in the scent of you. The sound of that silent scream washed over me like a raging torrent and I was blinded by waves of tears and I gasped for breath with muffled sobs. I buried my face in my hands because I could not bear the flood.
I know...melodramatic. I always was, wasn't I. I'm not so much anymore, except about you. I suppose I should be embarrassed, even though you'd say not.
But you still take my breath away. Every time I see you, I simply can't breath. There is this place between breathing in and breathing out where everything seems to catch. Sometimes, I'm afraid I won't be able start breathing again. I wonder sometimes... no, I wish that you knew it, before... and now... that you do that to me.
I don't know if you ever knew it.
I only know that I just want to touch you for one moment, one more time.
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
A Patch
Instead, in the last two months, I've simply been on the slippery slope where I was physically ill with a variety of things. In February, I had a rash on my ankles and legs that I have no idea what caused it but that cost me several nights sleep and a trip to the urgent care. I had pain in all major joints, was unable to walk without limping for days, was not sleeping well, even with medicine. I had increased ringing in my ears, more lost sleep, coughing, sneezing, and now, pain in my hands.
I've been struggling with pain in my hands the last couple of days that was so bad I was having trouble working. I do tons of data entry. I write. My hands are my living. And they were in bad shape. Tonight, they are better. I asked people to pray for me and I started putting some medicine I use on other major joints on my hand. I still have pain but not nearly as bad. I am hoping by tomorrow that the pain will be gone.
And then there has been the last three weeks of overwhelming exhaustion that had me barely able to get through a day at work without falling out. Some days I had to simply find some place and put my had down because I was so tired I couldn't hold it up. By the time I dragged myself home I was in tears because I was so tired I couldn't bear it. It is a tired that you can't begin to imagine. No, you can't. I can't imagine it either. And when I lay down I could not rest. Things hurt.
The sheer volume of what I'm dealing with has become unbearable. I simply can't take it anymore. The proverbial brick wall lies in shambles from the impact. And when my mind starts reasoning that what I'm doing is not living, but dying slowly, in pieces, then I know I'm in a bad place. It is a road I've traveled several times and it ends on a ledge overlooking a bottomless pit. You're too tied to do more than stare down into it and think about how very easily it would be to just close your eyes and lean over and let go. It isn't going to get better.
I came home from work today and took Ativan. They prescribed it for me when Jerry died. I was on it a couple of months. It is amazing stuff but I stopped taking it after a while because it is highly addictive. I have enough problems without an addiction. I've taken them a couple of times since then, for about a week at a stretch. But I still have maybe 25 pills. Tonight I started again. This is the point at which addiction is a very minuscule issue.
No, it isn't a fix. I've decided nothing can be fixed. It's nothing but a patch.
Saturday, March 16, 2013
A Small World
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
Purple Passions, Dark Days, & Frozen Time
I looked for some profoundly moving topic to write about or perhaps, hysterically amusing. I have neither. I have a rather boring life that doesn't require I do much but get up and cope with the most recent disasters, which usually entail my keeping a grip on my anger, frustration, annoyance, depression, or elation. I usually end up holding an empty bag. I suppose if you look closely I'm a bit manic at times.
I went back and read some old posts. Really old. Like 2006. I sounded so young. Life sounded much simpler in some way that I can't pin down. The foolish stuff I blogged about so trivial and foolish I wonder if anyone ever even read beyond the first paragraph and I almost hope they didn't.
Then, I read posts from 2009 and realized that my life can't ever be simple again. I can't jump back to the years before January 29, 2009 and instead choosing to live here, pick another city so things will turn out differently for all of us. That it will all have been a nightmare.
I absolutely despise the month of January. As my mother always said, "I hate it with a purple passion." January 11, last Friday, was my wedding anniversary. It was a painful day. And I know at the 29th grows closer every day will become heavier and darker. On that day, Jerry will have been gone four years. It seems as if it were only yesterday that I watched him die and had to bury him in the snow and ice. Some things are just frozen in time.
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
Fading Flames
Mama, Aunt Phillis, Alice (my mother), and Daddy. Mama and Daddy were my aunt and mother's parents. |
This image also reflects any gatherings of my family. We usually end up laughing at something and often it involves a story from the lives of one of these people or something one of us has done. We are a family of natural humorist. We are funny without trying to be funny. And we laugh most at ourselves.
This morning it occurred to me that this photo also depicts the three women who most profoundly affected my life and directed its course. These women determined my outlook, my character and my goals. They made me most of who I am today, good and bad. I can't imagine what my life would have become without them. They gave me the strength to survive trials and turmoil and grief and continue laughing, even through tears. They gave me a desire to become more. I love them, each in a slightly different way but far more than any of them could guess.
Mama would say, "My Cindy can do anything." My aunt always says, "You are so smart." My mother always said, "I'm proud of you." I had no idea who they were talking about. I wanted to be like all of them to one degree or another. I wanted to love the way Mama loved. I wanted to be the kind of Godly women Mama and my aunt were. I wanted to be as beautiful as my mother, to have that presence that made heads turn when you enter a room. She drew people like moths to a flame. I always thought if I could have inherited the best qualities of these three women I could shake the world. I do not think I've ever approached that goal.
I can't say my mother and I were close. Her parents raised me but I still loved her, with bitterness and then, with resignation. I loved her humor, her laughter, and her singing. She had a beautiful voice and I loved riding in the car with her and listening to her and Mama sing gospel songs. They'd let us kids sing with them but those two voices were about as close to a heavenly choir that I've ever gotten. I loved her ability to go out job hunting at 8 and come back with a job at 10.
Put her in a crowded room with boring people and where she was standing would be a party. When she was a waitress her customers were the happiest in the room. It was not unusual for her to carry home $200 in tips for an evening's work and that was in the 70's. People just flocked to her and she reveled in that. When I was a little girl and she came home from time to time, I loved the moments when I was the focus of that dazzling smile and I felt the warmth of that flame. I was special for a little while and when she left, I always missed her.
Thursday I will see her one last time. The flame of my mother's life is extinguished. She's left me again.
Friday, September 7, 2012
A Lonely Dark Mountain
When I came home from work I actually went to bed because I was so exhausted I couldn't bear it any longer. I've pushed through the last two weeks and forced myself to ignore the storms that had gathered around me - my job, my allergies, my family, my grief all have simply depleted me. I reached the end of it at 6:30 p.m. I went to bed and went to sleep.
The phone rang a few times but I'd left it in the living room and decided that, tonight at least, other people's crises weren't important enough to crawl down the hall to respond. I went back to sleep. The last call woke me and I did get up, with what I can only say was horrendous effort. I hurt everywhere. Probably a result of the low pressure system boiling overhead. I hobbled to the bathroom and then, to the kitchen where I saw it was 8:30.
In the distance I could hear thunder and the windows were blazing white every few minutes. I went out back and lowered the patio umbrella and then went to stand on the front porch and watch the light show. I returned my oldest's son's call and let him know I was o.k. Then I returned my youngest son's call. He wanted to know if I was all right. I asked about Sarah. He told me Sarah and her mother had moved out today. I didn't know that. I knew she was planning it but not when. I'd have remembered that.
If you've read much of the blog you know I actually love storms. Normally, I'd be sitting out on the porch watching this one. Not tonight. I'm fairly tired of the storms and I'm at a loss anymore how to deal with them. It only gets worse each passing day.
I changed my blog title this week because it was suddenly apparent to me that my life has always been lived on this tiny ledge, swept by storms. More than once I've slipped and nearly fallen off during the storms. My life has been filled with a myriad of storms and I used to weather them well. There was usually someone to pull me back up and help me still the racing of my heart and slow my breathing. Mama protected me until she died. Jerry took over and sheltered me from the full brunt them when he could or held my hands when he couldn't. Storms are best shared. He died. Now, I ride them out alone on a small ledge on a lonely, dark mountain.
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
Two Mondays a Week
Monday, September 3, 2012
Rainy Day Monday
I've been going from room to room hunting things and finding that the problem is there is still too much STUFF! I want some space and order and I don't seem able to get there. Things still find their way into rooms and stay for no apparent reason. I need to find a place to start, and just do it. I did that a couple of years ago and tossed a lot of junk but this time, I seem to be stalled.
It is like some sort of transition step you take in the grief process, I guess. That one step is just a bit too high for me to reach. Sigh.
I've been experiencing that overwhelming hollowness again. The holidays are approaching but I hesitate to blame them. I haven't even thought of Thanksgiving and Christmas. . . well, not much. I've been thinking about NaNoWriMo. I've been thinking about my son's impending divorce. I've been thinking about how much pain I've been having again. I've been thinking about how upsetting it is to be in chaos alone. Sigh.
All right, too much thinking.
I'm thinking about changing the name of my blog. I have done that one time and I've never been terribly happy with it. Boring. But last night when I was downloading the missing blogs from the quickly dying Multiply I ran across one that is a snapshot of my life every single day. The title of that post was brilliant and I don't know why I didn't see it before. Well. . . I only write them once and move on so that could be why. Even the content of the post was such a snapshot of what I live that it was laughable. It isn't on this blog yet. I'll post it eventually. The name change you'll see probably sooner.
Maybe even today.
Monday, August 6, 2012
The State of Happiness
Since 2009 I've been through a series of physical, emotional, and mental upheavals that defy description but if you truly want to torture yourself, it's all here in the blog. I lived in a nightmare hell the first year and can't remember huge amounts of time from that year. The second year, I woke up and realized it wasn't a a nightmare at all, it was just hell. The third year I though I was going to be able to crawl out and maybe, just maybe I'd be able to live among other living beings only to fall back into the pit. I am approaching the 4th anniversary and I've begun to question if life after death is even possible. Not my death. His. Is it even possible to push back the darkness and be, if not happy, content?
I've sought to involve myself with people and things and stay busy but honestly, I live in a vacuum where the only time I see or hear from most people in a 50 mile radius is when someone else has a need. Never when I have one. I try to be obliging but the results is I end up running short of energy, time, money, and reciprocation of such. Nearly 4 years later, I still am sitting in my house, alone, in silence and listening to echos. I have no more outside contact that I did the day the last person left after the funeral and the last calls came in. It shocked me to my core then. I don't shock so easily now.
These days, I don't actually think it is possible to be happy. The people I know personally are miserable. The problem, as near as I can figure, is our concept of happiness is distorted. People seem to think happiness is doing something we enjoy, all the time. Happiness is being in a crowded room with lots of people we like and who like us and having fun, all the time. Happiness is having the money to buy all we want, all the time. Happiness is having security, jobs, friends, things. Happiness is stuff. All the time.
You think, when you don't have things, that getting them will fix it. You'll be happy for sure then. I'll get a new house, go to a new school, a new church, move to a new town, meet new people, get a new job. Right. It won't work.
I've got stuff. I'm not happy.
Let me tell you what unhappiness is and maybe that will explain it better. Living without the person who knew everything about me, right down to my birthmark is the most difficult thing I've ever been forced to do. I once said it felt as if I'd had my arm cut off. I was wrong. It is more like having a leg removed at the hip. And they don't sell a prosthetic for it. Someone said "Think about the good times." I don't dare. I can't reclaim them. I can't relive them. And I can't make new ones. I shatter in a billion tiny pieces and have to pick them up. They are made of obsidian glass and flay me.
In all the 35 years of marriage, I distinctly remember being terribly unhappy on many occasions, times when he displeased me and when I displeased him. Of course, we got past them but there were some times that neither of us really got over. We were human after all. We weren't happy all the time and as he grew sicker, we both grew less so. For years, I was so stubborn and demanding. He seldom said no to me and I was cared for and cherished. Right up to the night he dropped dead.
But you know something, right now, this very minute, I would do everything he asked me if he'd just come home and complain about something. I'd be happy! I'd be ecstatic if he stepped into the room and griped about something trivial. If he left the towel wadded on the seat of the toilet, his shorts in the floor, his shoes in the middle of the living room. I would be overjoyed. If he left dirty dishes on the counter.... I'd wash them with a smile. He had a hard time keeping a job the last few years and I didn't know why. He was sick. But today, if he was unemployed and broke and simply wanted to complain about it, I would so listen and put my arms around him and say, "I'm here. We're in this together. It looks bad but we have one another."
The truth is that there is no feeling like being loved, cared for, and made to feel you are the Queen of the Universe or the King. Realistically, it isn't always like that. But knowing it is always there, why, you can live in a hovel and never notice. I've lived in a few! There is nothing that can take the place of looking across the room when you're worried and having someone smile at you. Or lying in the dark staring at the ceiling and having someone squeeze your hand. They don't have to speak. You just know that they just sent you a message. I'm here. We're in this together. It looks bad but we have one another.
Nothing else in the world feels like that.
Jerry, I'd be happy to see you're face smile across the room.