Escape

I said in a post I wouldn't write many more posts about grief, but I must have lied. Or maybe I anticipated. There's that. 

Crawling out of a grave sounds like a good thing. Overall, I think it is. But you don't know what you're crawling toward. And that darkness — it follows you.

Something happens when you try and get out of a grave. It's the stuff of horror movies, actually. Things have wrapped around you, grown over you, tangled in your hair and limbs. 

It's a terrifying endeavor. 

You can get out, but the struggle reaches a point you question whether you actually want to get out, or whether it's safer and warmer, and easier just to give up. But it's so horribly dark. 

Last night I shared with a friend a scripture that I carried with me for years after Jerry died. It was the only thing that seemed to anchor me. On my worst days I'd find that scripture and read it over and over. Lamentations 3:21-24. You'll probably be familiar with it. Hopeful, if not helpful. It is a verse of comfort in a dark place. 

Later, when I was going to bed, I remembered something. I used to read the whole chapter. I had a vague idea of the contents. Jeremiah is in a dungeon. Last night I tried to read it again. 

It is not a chapter to read in dark places. It is a chapter to tell you someone else has been in that place. That someone else probably understands. Once you read it, when you read it, and you will, you may relive the darkest moments in your life. But for a minute you won't be alone there.  

I cried all the way through that chapter last night. And many nights before. I think that will happen every time I read it in the future. Because once you've been in dark places, it follows you. You'll always wear the marks of the battle to crawl out and it will always follow you. 

That's when you read Lamentations 3. 

In the last few weeks, I attempted to step out of the dark. The light was blinding. And the pain of crawling out is excruciating. There is a point where I had to decide to leave parts of myself there, in that box. My God, it hurts. Never would I have imagined how painful it is to leave a grave, not once but twice. 

The first thing you notice is you can't breathe. You're chest is tight. You're throat closes, and your nose gets stopped up. Then things start to hurt. First it's just that tight chest but then you have pain across your back and neck. Vision is a challenge. You head hurts. 

It's a kind of dying.

It is the Lord's mercies ... it doesn't feel merciful. It is painful. But you keep crawling. 

We are not consumed. But it feels as if you are. The box has devoured you. It isn't locked but it saps all your strength. It is easier to just rest. 

But it isn't rest. It's death.

I'm not writing this to make you feel better or to make me feel better. I'm writing it to tell you that staying there is death. Crawling out feels like death. They're not the same. 

I went to bed in tears. Again. 

Don't assume there is anything to crawl toward. I woke up this morning to a kind of goodbye text. I cried again. 

It's sun up. I can't see. But I know it's up there. 

I'll just hope in Him.

Light

 Tuesday arrived quickly. December 2nd. I can't believe we're here. 

Today is another good day. I can't tell you why. It has just been one of those days that roll in and surprise you with things you didn't think you deserved. 

We had a bit of snow overnight. I went to lunch at Firehouse, my new favorite place. One sandwich and I'm done for the day. And it is so good. The girls behind the counter have become pals. It's nice to go to a place and have a person smile at you and you know they're glad to see you. They told me I was their favorite customer, recently. They're my favorite sandwich girls.

A friend called me and talked for a while, and that was a lovely respite from what would have been a boring day.

No writing today, well — that's not actually true. I wrote something on the writing blog and this, of course. You'll have to go see it if you're interested. 

I blog little about grief here anymore, except at this time of year. I think I posted something recently. I will not do that this year. At least, I'm going to try not to do that. I have several years of grief post from January 30th, 2009, through maybe the next six years. There are random posts throughout the blog for more years. 

This year, I want to end it. I want it to stop. I had a difficult week in mid-November. It was as if it had happened yesterday and I couldn't cope with it. I literally fell apart several times. 

 In the last couple of weeks, I realized I want that to end. I want to stop feeling the hurt. I want to stop hearing that ring rake along the headboard. I don't want to see his eyes anymore. I don't want to experience a silence so great that it feels like I'm dead. 

At some point during this last month, I figured out I want life. And I've not been living life for 17 years. I stopped laughing. I stopped singing. I stopped seeing the world around me. In November, the walls closed in, and I was suffocating. It made me lose myself again in the dark.

Then, someone made me laugh, genuine laughter. And a light came on.  

Happy Endings

Another holiday finished for a year. What a month it was, too. If you've read this blog long, you know that November through February is a difficult time. In the last few years, it hasn't been terrible, but this year, that mess just blew up in my face.

Starting November 12th, 2025, I began working on a new novel. That wasn't the plan. I have a story I've been working on for a long time and suddenly wanted to write the backstory of those characters to see if it would help me. What happened is confusing and surprising to me.  

As of today, I'm at 35,991 words. That's 2249 words a day, and there were a couple of days I didn't write at all. For non-writers, that's a lot of words.

What was confusing was the emotional turmoil I experienced for the first five days. I cried every day. Every time I wrote and after stopping for any reason. I was just wrecked. It took five days to figure out why. 

My husband died 17 yrs ago this coming January 29th. It was the greatest trauma I've ever experienced. While writing the new story, around the third day, I realized that many of the character traits of the main character reminded me of my husband when we first married. The way he treated the female love interest, the attitudes, and his actions were all my husband. Even the initial meeting of the characters was a reflection of meeting my husband. With that realization, any control I had disappeared. And from that point on, there were moments I had to stop writing at all. I even fell apart in front of my son. 

I don't actually know what would have happened if I had continued without talking to a friend. They gave me the freedom to talk and to let me cry. I felt like a fool and was embarrassed, but it gave me a way to find some control, albeit shaky at best. 

Now, sixteen days in, the story is still flowing like water. I don't know whether anyone will ever read it. I don't care. Though the experience was and is traumatic, the beautiful memory of being loved and cherished is mine to keep. Jerry was the only person who ever wanted me. Maybe we find that only once. I would not like to believe that, but I do. I don't know what he saw in me. I doubt there are many men who can see that deep. 

I still have to get through finishing this story. Then I have to do an edit or two. Every time I go back to check something or read a passage, it breaks me again. How do you survive that?

I don't care. Just this once, I'll finish the story. There will be a happy ending. Something I never got. And maybe that's why this story came to me. Everyone deserves that much.

Where to Start, Where to End

 

I don't know where to begin with this post. It has been a horrible year all the way around. My aunt died May 22nd, funeral several days later, then home. Then I hit a curb at CVS just over a week ago. I blew out the tire, road side couldn't fix it ($200), had to tow it ($161), both charged me. Then the shop called, and I didn't need just one tire. The other tire also needed replacing ($300). 

Then, a week later, the toilets and tub backed up. Repair man came out. To rod it out was $400. Or I could repair the line because it has an air conditioner sitting on top of it that may have damaged the line, causing repeated blockages ($5000). But, if I could dig the hole to lay the line from the house, around the air conditioner, to a place they'd tie in the new line, it would be cheaper. 

So, we dug the hole with a shovel. On the 9th David worked 45 minutes, but I knew it wasn't deep enough and particularly since we had not found the line where they would connect to the main line. Mike and I dug about 45 minutes to dig the trench from the house to the hole where it ended. We dug three feet down and found the main line. They repaired it on the 10th. Yesterday, I had swollen and sore hands. Today just they're just sore. 

How much did digging that hole save me? The repair job was $1900. You can do the math.

So now toilets are working. The car is working. I need to call my aunt. I have needed to call her every day since I got home. I really need to talk to her. She won't answer, of course. 

Today I spent the day reading the Book of James. Nothing else. Just that. It's five chapters, but I took my time highlighting verses that were familiar and considering the meanings and implications. I was surprised to find that we quote so many verses from this small book in the Bible. I doubt we quote Paul as much as we do James. It was astonishing. And I also found that most of those verses, well, you won't like this, but I believe it's true. Most of us simply ignore them. We know them, but we don't follow them. 

Tell me which ones you follow. I'll wait. Because that won't be a long list. Blow up the image and you can see most of them. Actually, don't tell me. Just be honest with yourself. 

I took Mike to lunch in the afternoon and Firehouse rules.

Now, I'm finishing this day with this post. I haven't been writing much for the last year. Most of that time I've been in financial freefall and physical distress. I've spent a lot of time praying and asking why. But I suppose it's just life doing what it does. Casualties sometimes result. But Mama told me that if everything is going wrong, you must be doing something right.

All I could think of when my aunt died was that there was no one left to call for help or prayer or just to talk things out with. She was the last. She knew me longer than my own parents. Sixty-eight years she was part of my life and knew more about me than any living person. There was nothing we couldn't talk about. And just like that, being alone means something different.  

My cousin wants me to move to Georgia. I have nothing here that matters anymore. But I'm too old to start over, and I've already paid for my burial plot next to Jerry. So, unless I win the lottery, I'm here for good. Since I don't play the lottery... well, that's that.

Lost in the Dark

 I never thought I'd have to live through another week, like the last week of May 2025. I thought the horrors of death were far behind me and that life, though painful, would not throw that pain into my path. 

My aunt Phillis died May 22nd, 2024. I started life in her mother's home and she was my big sister. She took me places when I was old enough and she permed my hair, many times, to no avail. I knew her friends. Liz made great chocolate shakes, Patsy was funny. There were many others because she had a large circle of friends. 

I was nearly 9 when she married and from then on, it was visits to her house to stay for a night, and then for summers. As a teen, she dressed me. We were the same size until I was in my 20s so she gave me her clothes. They were beautiful clothes and hand me downs were not an insult in my family. I loved it.

I loved her and she became my second mother when her mother died. Our Mama. For 68 years she was always available to me. Always ready to help with whatever I needed a prayer, a new fridge, a trip to recover from the death of my husband. She allowed me to complain to about my sons, to share my worry about Sarah. And I shared her worries and fears. I consoled her when she needed someone to share her grief. 

Now, she's gone, and I do not know what I will do. I came home on the 28th of May. For days I've sat in my house and tried to think. I do not know what I'm supposed to do. Every day I expect her call or to call her and tell her about what's going on with the boys, with Sarah, with me. I desperately need her to pray for me. To help me through this horrible nightmare. To wake me up. There is no one now look out for me. No one I can call to tell how I feel about this. I more alone that I've ever been in my life. And I'm hollowed out inside like a dead tree. 

I said before that death is not a friend but he is a dark and beastly entity who comes into our home and rips every beautiful thing out by the roots and drags it away. He doesn't knock or politely ask to come in. He kicks in the door and puts out the lights. When he leaves, all we have is a howling wind roaring through our life. 

 Possessions are not the most important thing you will have in your life. They matter very little when you're stumbling around in the dark and can't find the path. When the people in your life begin to disappear you lose direction because the compass points are gone and the light has gone out. 

Treasure the lights you have while they burn brightly. When they go out, you'll be lost. 

48 Birthdays

 

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. 

It occured to me that Mama has missed 48 of my birthdays. She never saw me finish high school. She never saw me marry. When I went to Europe, she was not there to see me off, not once but twice. Nor was she there to greet me when I came home.

When my children were born, Mama was not there, nor was she when my granddaughter was born. Mama never rocked my sons or granddaughter. Mama never told them stories about my childhood nor read them stories from books. She never sang Hobo Bill, The Railroad Bum to them, nor Rock-a-Bye-Baby. 

When I needed advice or was in pain, she wasn't there. When I needed prayer, she wasn't there. When my husband died, I wanted my Mama but she wasn't there. My aunt and uncle stepped into as surrogate parents when Mama died but there has always been a hole where she stood. 

Mama never saw me go to college. She never read my articles in the college paper, never read the writing I did in other areas. She never witnessed my graduating from college. The first of her descendants with a degree and she missed it. Magna Cum Laudy, Mama! Can you believe it? I have as brief image formed in my mind of her standing in the audience smiling broadly. It isn't real. She wasn't there. And there is an echo of her voice from a long time ago where she said, "My girl can do anything." 

48 birthdays, Mama. So long, so very long, Mama. 

How Far?

Sometimes Life on the Ledge is quiet and uneventful. Other times, the ledge crumbles and you have to move back in order to keep from falling. This month, the ledge has been moving and shaking a fair bit and I'm exhausted trying to stay on my feet and far enough back to avoid a fall. 

I won't go into too much detail lest you think I need mental health care. Maybe I do. Sometimes I wonder if that would help, but I don't believe so. I remember seeing a grief counselor after Jerry died. I saw him for over a year. He was kind and talking to him helped me get rid of the toxic things; I think. When we knew our time was up, I remember one of my last visits. I told him I knew he couldn't help me, that this was something I had to do on my own. No amount of talking was going to fix it. I could have talked until I too died, but it wouldn't bring Jerry back or heal my heart. 

There's always another heartbreak, another tragedy, another grief. There is no end to them. By the time you recover, another comes round the bend. 

I often wonder how much the human psyche can endure before it cracks. Sometimes I think I'm the guinea pig for that experiment. The trek from one disaster to the next is arduous. I might get to rest between them, but not really. 

Today, I'm so tired. I don't want to go another step. I can't go back and going forward is just too much.  

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. 

Echos

This will be my 10th Christmas without Jerry. It is still painful to look at his photo and realize he's not coming home. No, I'm not over it. It is unlikely I'll ever be over it. No, I don't have a boyfriend and I haven't remarried. I can't even imagine that. That man in the photo is what I see if I even consider meeting someone else.

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 at times. But he was so very good to me. I always felt like I mattered, that someone loved me and cared about me. There would always be someone to catch me if I fell and set me back on my feet. If the car broke down, I knew who to call. There was always someone to help with the heavy lifting.

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 is gone. For the first time in 13 years, my beautiful Sarah will not be with me for Christmas. She has gone to live with her dad and I will probably never have Christmas with her again unless I live to see her grown. She is far away, and they never come here for Christmas and I've never been there for it.

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?

The Hell I See and Hear

It is February 5 and I'm officially over the worst of the holidays. All that remains is Valentine's Day, and that doesn't really matter, anyway. Jerry usually forgot such things. It isn't the day, rather it is the images and atmosphere that are troubling. But so are normal days.

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 middle of the night, when I got up to see about him. He was in the dark and said he was all right. He wasn't, but I didn't know. Then, remember waking up to him thrashing around on the bed, his wedding ring hitting the headboard railing and making that horrible sound. I saw myself jumping out of bed, running around the bed, calling him and then the room goes horribly quiet. By the time I got the light on and saw him I knew. But 10 years later I still try to wake him. I pat his cheek, call him, scream for help. 

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 middle of the ice storm of the century. I keep driving and I shout, over and over. "STOP. STOP. STOP. STOP" When that fails to stop the scenes, I pray for it to stop. Miraculously, it does as I pull into my street. 

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.



  

Ten Holidays

So, another Christmas done. I'm not sorry. I was blessed to have Becca, Sarah, and Madilyn with me and my sister came by for Christmas dinner. It was such fun watching Madi get so excited over the tree and presents. Sarah, of course, is an old hand at all that stuff and getting her excited is a lot harder. Of course, she had fewer gifts this year but she did get things she asked for and so I think she was fine with it.

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.

Vanished Into the Dark

Tomorrow will be the 29th. Seven years ago tomorrow my whole world turned upside down. Every day I stare at this tableau there is a stab of pain and a flood of memories.

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.

What's Happening In My World

You know I am always looking at the flow of my life and how it is working. If life were a clock, I'd have assembled and disassembled it many times over. Sometimes it works better. Other times, not so much.

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.

Out of the Ashes

Nearly every mother faces an identity crisis when our children grow up. And believe me, it is every bit as profound as that faced by our children when they cross the threshold to maturity. I'm not sure it isn't worse.

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.

A Letter to the Lost One

Hi,

Not many people know this about me. I don't talk about it. I have only mentioned it in passing a few times in my whole life, when the subject came up. 

In 1978 Jerry and I were living in Germany. We had been married five years. We'd never managed to get pregnant during that time and since we suddenly had insurance, we went to have tests run. We were thinking about adopting but wanted to be sure first. One of my test was a God-awful biopsy. My doctor was a nice Indian man named Abrol. I liked him. Just as he was about to preform the test. He said, "This will be like a bee sting." 

That was a lie. It hurt so bad that I couldn't even scream. I just gasped. I remember that so clearly.

Shortly after the test was run, within weeks, I actually became pregnant. When I went back to my doctor and he said, "I hope your husband doesn't blame me for this." I cracked up, he blushed when he realize how it sounded, and the nurse gasped and said, "DR. ABROL!" Then we all laughed. I was so happy.

I had the usual sick feeling, no vomiting. I also got clumsy, actually fell a couple of times, and I had vision issues when I tried to read. The text would go blurry. I went for an exam and it didn't reveal anything wrong. Ten weeks later, they put me in the hospital because they thought I was going to miscarry.

I was so scared. Everyday they came to do a test to see if you were still alive. And every day I was frightened they'd come in and say, "No." Finally, about a week after my admission, they came in and said you were dead. 

I was devastated. Five years I'd waited and then, you were snatched away. 

I remember the Catholic chaplain coming into the ward and stopping by my bed. I was staring out the window, with silent tears running down my face. He sat down next to me and put his arm around my shoulders and talked to me. I do not remember what he said to me. I only remember how grateful I was for his presence.

They told me that they had to preform a D & C because you did not leave willingly. Afterward, I remember waking up and seeing your dad and asking, "Is it over?" He caught my hand and said, "Yes." I wept. I see it clear as a picture. Now that he's gone, I see a lot of things clear as day. 

For a long time I wondered if you were really dead at that point. Had they made a mistake?Did I actually have an abortion. And I cringe at the thought. Crazy, huh?

I always thought you were a girl. I don't know why. It just felt right. It still does. I don't know if you had blue eyes or green ones, if you would be left handed like me or right handed like him. For a long time I wondered such things. From time to time, I still do. Would you be a tomboy, like me? Or would you be a fine princess?

After I went home I cried for days and I had nightmares about losing you. In my dreams I'd be looking everywhere for you. For weeks. They gave me pills to help. I ended up flushing them down the toilet one day when I found myself considering taking the whole bottle. I decided if I could't get through it without pills then it wouldn't be worth the effort.

Never, in all these years have I stopped thinking about you. Oh, not like I did at first. But you come to my mind now and then and I wonder all over again, what kind of person you would have become. A doctor? A teacher? A famous author? Who would you have married? How many children would you have had? So many questions I would love to have answers to but you never had the chance to even form them.

Recently it occurred to me that at last he got to meet you. He knows the color of your hair, your eyes, and if you have dimples. I had no doubt that that would have been a joyous reunion. And I was jealous. Jealous that I never had the chance to hold you and rock you and sing to you. Jealous that I didn't get to see his face when you met for the first time. 

I hope they have photos in heaven and someone remembered to take that one.

Slaying Dragons

St. George Slaying the Dragon
by Hans Von Aachen

I'm in that place that I live each year around this time of year. The Dead Zone is a good title for it. It starts mid-November and doesn't end until sometime around the end of February. I hate four months of the year. Isn't that crazy? I never get over the feeling that part of me has disappeared, probably the best part of me.

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.

Too Deep to Plumb

There are depths of despair that I would not wish anyone to ever plumb. I've been to depths I never thought it possible to descend and had I considered it, I'd have thought it impossible to return alive. And yet, I'm still here.

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.

Just One Touch

Hi....

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.

A Patch

I've reached my limit. I've had a horrible month. I anticipate this time of year being difficult for me but I expected more around the first of the year, the anniversary of Jerry's death. I was so busy it slipped by unnoticed for a week or more. So, I guess it just caught up with me.

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.

A Small World

There is no guide on how long grief lasts. I've wondered for over four years now if there were markers, like mile posts along the highway, that would tell me when I was getting close to the point where I won't remember, relive, or feel the death of my husband. Unfortunately, no one appears to have erected such markers. The road is long and I've seen nary a one.

I missed Jerry today.  So, I stopped and bought flowers and took them to the cemetery. I've avoided it for months, felt guilty every time I pass the gates, which is fairly often since they are on a road I travel several times a week. No matter how many times I pass the sadness of it never fades. Oh, I don't fall apart as I once did but honestly, in some ways, this is much worse. I can't explain it. There is a sense of betrayal in it. Imagined, I'm sure, but nonetheless felt. 

As I put the flowers beside his tombstone, I couldn't breath and I couldn't look at the name graven in the white marble. I apologized for being so long in coming and tried to explain  but it is no use. While I know he'd understand, I feel no better. The bands around my chest only tighten and I have to go back to my car where I sit and sob and try to breath and explain why. 

When I see someone walking in my direction, I know it is time to go. No one wants to share this.

And I came home. I don't feel better. I do what I always do. I push it away and try to think about something else. It's a small world, grief. There is nothing else.