Is Co-existence Possible Here?

Handsome Husband was magic in my life.  He brought magic into my life.  Not in a oh everything is perfect way, but in very tangible ways.  When the kids were small and he was paying child support and college funds and we had, at the end of payday, after paying bills, maybe $1.00 to split between us, he’d conjure money out of nowhere so that we could have a fun time somewhere.  Or, during the time after he retired from active duty, and was unemployed for many months, a time during which my brother and mom and various extended family members were seemingly dropping like flies, he came up with airline tickets or money for gas for the car so that I could fly out to be with my brother or drive up to New England to be with my mom, as they were each, in their time, dying of cancer.  He made things happen and I oftentimes told him he was a fucking magician.

The thing is, he wasn’t a magician because of the tangible conjuring he did, though that was pretty damn impressive.  He was a magician in my life because everything he did, he did from love.  That was his only motivation, ever.  For me, there was magic too, in the way he gazed at me across a room, or winked at me flirtatiously.  After 24 years together, my stomach still fluttered with butterflies when I felt his energy in a room.  I didn’t even need to see that he was in the room with me physically to know that he was around.  Every one of my senses went on high alert in the most wonderful way when he was around.   He used to tell me I was a witch because I could tell when he was coming home (wherever home happened to be at the time), and I would meet him at the door, opening it before he even got to it.  His arms around me-magic.  In the time since his first cancer, when he hugged me I would lean into his chest, taking a breath deep from within my heart, inhaling his scent, memorizing it.   His kisses were magic-he would put one hand behind my neck, or hold my chin in his hand, one hand on my hip, or one arm wrapped around me.

He brought so much magic into my life, and the lives of our kids.  Perhaps magic is just another word for the love he brought with him, the love that he had for me, as his wife and lover, for his kids, near and far, for his grandkids, his mom, his siblings, so many people whose lives he touched.

As he was ill, as he was dying, my wish for him, my intent for him, was to return some of that magic to him, to surround him with that magic he so freely gave.  Whenever I spoke with family and friends on the phone during those days, I’d always end the call with “It’s nothin’ but love here.  Nothin’ but love”.   I believe that I made that happen.  He felt loved in every way.  It wasn’t always easy, ensuring that it was nothing but love energy around him;  there were moments and circumstances in those 3 weeks that threatened to change that energy and bring agitation into it.  But he wasn’t aware of it and that’s what mattered to me.

So now, what I wonder to myself is:  in the midst of this overpowering, immersive sharp shards of shredded glass cutting into my body and my heart and mind in pretty much every minute of every day because he died and I can’t bear the thought of it- in the midst of this, can the magic that he brought into my life, share space with the grief?

I don’t know and so I’m asking you, my dear readers.   Tell me from your hearts.  Can magic and grief co-exist?  And, if so, then how?

My daughter read me this quote today, and I’m going to write in on my forehead so that I will see it every time I look into a mirror.  ”May I release my resistance and lean so far into grief that I am caught by the arms of its fierce love.” ~Abra Bankendorf Vigna”

The not magic moments of grief~

There’s nothing pretty going on with me these days.  Tonight is 4 weeks since Handsome Husband died.  One month.  All I feel is a great gaping emptiness in my world, right where he’s supposed to be standing.

I’ve felt great grief before, in my life.  My brother and my mom, both dead of cancer within 6 months of one another and my entire world was rocked silly.  And it was Handsome Husband who pulled me through it. Their deaths led me, ultimately, into hospice care and then the founding of Tapestries of Hope, and again, Handsome Husband was my primary support.

I know all the intellectual stuff about processing grief.   From past experience, I know the emotional process that needs to be gone through.  I know that it’s good to be proactive in grief, to make time work for you rather than against you.  But you know what?   I can’t make myself care about any of that.  I know that what I’m going through is normal and that’s about all I can say.  I’m making myself go out and do things, join in things, but it continues to be meaningless.  Food means nothing to me.  Nothing means nothing to me any longer, if that makes sense.

I’ve been here in Arizona, at my daughter’s house, for just about a week, though I’m looking for a place to rent for the month of June.  A room maybe, rather than a furnished studio even-I don’t want much room to move around in or feel lonely in.  It devastated me to leave California, as desperately as I wanted to leave.  That’s the last place Handsome Husband and I were together and I felt like I was leaving him behind.  I actually got the dry heaves right before I left.  Grief never did that to me before.

It feels better being around my daughter and son here and I know I’m in a safe place to fall apart, which I’ve been doing on a steady basis.  These tears are a new kind of tears for me too-coming up from my gut and spewing throughout my body.  Yes, yes, all part of the process.  What I’ve come to realize, in looking at the good old cycles of grief handbook, and common grief reactions, is that not only is there no pattern, which most people fortunately realize in this day and age, but that each of the cycles and reactions can happen rapid-fire, one after the other, and return to the originating point numerous times within an hour period,  never mind a day.

I miss Handsome Husband acutely.  From having been around each other on a massively steady basis for the last almost 4 years to not having him anywhere around now for a month is completely disorienting to me.

I expect him, still, to come walking in the door and say to me “Wow, that was a weird experience”.  And the we’ll talk about how completely weird and upsetting it was, and has been, and then we’ll get on with our lives together.  And I’ll never let him go.  Once he walks back into my life, I mean.  Because I can’t tolerate the idea that he won’t.  That he isn’t.  That he never will again.  That he’s gone.  Forever.

 

Philosophically, the Biologic Imperative of Grief~

This is running around in my brain because of a post that I recently saw reference Handsome Husband, and I hadn’t given thought to the possibility, until I saw it.

Handsome Husband’s death, like any death, has brought up emotions and questions that weren’t necessarily front and center during his life.   Marie Rilke, the philosopher, long ago suggested that life doesn’t always give us answers, so become comfortable in the questions.  (I’m hugely paraphrasing her there).  I’m able to do that in life, for the most part, and actually find a great comfort in not having to have the answers to so much of life.  It makes me think, and opens me up to possibilities.

My mind, my soul, my heart, and my body have been immersed in nothing but grief, (that’s news to all of you, I’m certain), so I have an appreciation that the post gives me an opportunity for my mind to be otherwise engaged.   Is there a biological imperative to grief?   Not that we grieve because we are human, but what more along the lines of is there a difference in a person’s grief because they are biologically related?  Is there something that happens in the body itself that might prove that out?    I’m posing that in a genuinely being interested in feedback way.  Let’s step beyond the immediate gut response to “of course there isn’t”  to, is that a possibility?   Social scientists, bereavement folk, feel free to jump in and offer an opinion here.  I’m a voracious reader of memoirs, of books about the human condition, I’ve done non-stop observation and discussion with people in grief over the past decades, plus I have my own personal experience, so that has to suffice for me.  Which is why I invite any and all of you to comment on this.  This is the stuff that I find fascinating about humans.

Observationally, for an overall picture, we have to add into the mix (of being Humans), the grief that can hit a nation in the gut when someone famous and loved, whom we don’t know at all personally, dies.  Think Diana, Princess of Wales.  (I just saw the movie “Queen” the other day).  JFK, of course, comes to mind-there are a few who touched people’s lives dramatically and were truly grieved.  Now, was that in a removed enough way that people didn’t actually mourn for a lengthy time, or did it impact their daily lives, as grief does?  It clearly didn’t require a personal relationship, yet people mourned deeply, each time.  Where does that grief fit?

Handsome Husband and I had a blended family.  He brought one daughter to the marriage, who is the eldest, and I brought one daughter and two sons. All of them were very young when he and I married-his daughter no more than 2nd or 3rd grade (I’m horrible at remembering these things-he was the memory of we two), my youngest was just out of diapers (sorry, Fireman Nick).  My ex chose not to be a part of their lives, with no interest in seeing them or paying child support, so  Handsome Husband, when he signed on, did so with an open and knowing and welcoming heart.  He parented my 3 and they became his and it was the rare person who knew they weren’t biologically his, because he never called them his “steps”.  He remained an involved dad with his daughter-truly involved in that he traveled a long distance 3xs weekly to be in her life for home and school, with telephone calls and all the love he had in his heart.  One day he had one kid, the next day he had four.   Shortly after we married, when we contemplated adding yet another child to the mix, he told me that he’d always wanted to have a large family; though clearly  he hadn’t given thought to just the hows of it happening.   And he’d given thought to adopting my 3, only not doing so because my ex wouldn’t allow it (it was an ownership thing).   And life happens that way, doesn’t it?  There are ten thousand ways to get what you want, including a family, which brings us back to…grief.

So, to keep this all to the point:  all 4 kids grew up knowing him as their dad, and the only thing that separated them was, and is, DNA.  But is there a biological DNA imperative involved when it comes to grieving?  I’m thinking of adopted kids who are raised by parents un-related by DNA, of kids who might have horrible parents but find that one person who makes a difference in their lives, even briefly  (a teacher or a mentor).  Further, let’s add gender into it,  which took me a bit by surprise, honestly, because it just wasn’t on my radar.  Prior to his death, Handsome Husband took aside our oldest son, Snads, and passed the torch, so to speak, of being “the man of the family”.   (Another blog there, regarding my instinctual strong woman vs you can’t fight nature and it all comes from his heart response).  Do each of the people in these various situations grieve differently because they are DNA related, or does it have more to do with love, and shared history?     ( Like most of life, if we’re getting down to the nitty-gritty of it).

Even as I’m writing this, I’m realizing the depth of the topic.  I suppose the true question is:  is grief measurable?   And, if so, how is it measured?  Does a person’s grief run more deeply because they share DNA?   Because they were chosen (think adoption). Because they shared a life, as in being married, or partnered?  Because they loved and were loved?  What if you love someone but they don’t love you?  Is that a different grief?  Does length of relationship make a difference?  Does the type of relationship matter?  (Wife, child, friend, ex, etc).  How about daily exposure to a person?  If you were with someone every day vs only occasionally, what is your grief?   Perhaps, at times, the question that would be more accurately posed, what people are truly meaning, is:  did I love him/her enough, did he/she, love me enough?  Often, in a grieving time,  people jockey for position, seeking out their part in that loved one’s life, needing reassurance.  We each bring something to the end of life, whether your own’s or a loved one’s.   Which is why this is an incredibly fascinating philosophical discussion in my mind.   It can seem very convoluted, but honestly, I love questions such as these.  There is healing to be found in this discussion.  As a bereavement counselor, sure, I’ve got a pretty good handle on the answers, both professionally from training and because these are the questions that arise in grief support groups, which is why I’m posing them here.  As my husband’s widow, I’m grieving-no news there.  Each of his four kids is grieving deeply, each according to the relationship they had with him.  Not in a DNA way, but in an “I miss doing things with him/talking to him/having him in my life and I miss my dad” way.  His friends are deeply grieving him-I hear that from them in regular phone calls from them as they check in on me, not only out of their love for me, but because they know that Handsome Husband would like for them to do so.

My bottom line is the same bottom line I carried when Handsome Husband was ill and there were so many relationships and emotions swirling around him, as each person sought their final time with him, their final words with him, their final time of showing him love and receiving his love.  The name of the relationship didn’t matter then and it doesn’t matter now.  I was intent on having the people there who needed to be there.   It wasn’t so much about the name of the relationship as it was the relationship itself, which is what enabled me too consciously step back from my alone time with him throughout his process, allowing things to happen that I knew needed to happen.  Not because I’m a very cool person, but because I knew what he wanted and what he needed, because he and I had just spent the last 4 years in a car together, ruminating over this very scenario and because, yes, I knew my husband.  Handsome Husband was all about the love.  For me, for his 4 kids, his sister, his nieces, for his “brother from another mother”, from his close friends, his AA buddies, his sponsees, those who weren’t able to be there physically but were there in spirit.  The love ebbed and flowed, according to what each person needed from him and what he needed from them.  Not all of ran clearly or smoothly, simply reflecting life at its’ deepest levels. I wanted him to have, I wanted the entire experience for him, to be about nothin’ but love.

And that’s exactly what happened.  

Tearing away~

None of my writings are intended to be pretty and magical.   I’m grieving hard and there is no pretty about it.  Anything I write is raw and directly from my heart, with no filter.

It would make me supremely happy if I could believe that Handsome Husband is anywhere around me, but I sense him nowhere except gone.  Poof.  Gone.

Tomorrow morning I’ll leave California, headed towards Arizona, to join 2 of our kids for the month of June.  I want to leave.  This is a place of pain for me, and the only reason I was ever here is because Handsome Husband was here.  This was a place for us, not for me.

And yet.

This is where I and Handsome Husband were last together.  I look over at the couch and see him sitting there, me sitting next to him, late at night, rubbing his back to ease some of the pain.

I stand in the sunroom, gazing out to the mountains, searching out that light that caught my eye the first night we were here, the light that continued to catch my eye on those dark nights of worrying about him and what was going on.   I’ve gazed at that light on the mountain every night since he died.  It haunts me.Horror is a strong word to use, but its’ been in my vocabulary quite often recently.  His cancer, his death, my being here alone, and now, my leaving.

Because I do want desperately to leave here.   That desperation to leave is just as strong as the horror that knifes through my heart when I consider leaving here.  Leaving him behind.  Leaving us behind.  This is where we were last together.  I can’t feel him anywhere since his death, but at least he was here at one point.  And there are just no words to describe the fear that clenches my heart at leaving us behind, going out on my own.  Yes, yes, I know that I need to believe that I’m carrying him with me.  But it doesn’t feel like that.  What my heart is screaming to me is that I’m leaving my last physical link to him behind.  And I can’t bear it.

I would like to say how brave I’m being, how strong, how I’m persevering through this, as he would want me to.  I frequently debate whether I’m just feeling sorry for myself, because I would never want to do that.  I hope I’m not doing that.

I’m not going to lie , to myself or anyone else.  This has been a horror show in every way.  Yes, I made damn sure his illness and death were as loving as could possibly be, and I believe I succeeded in that, and I’m glad for that.  I’ll always be glad for that.

The horror, from the first day I took him to the ER, to his time in hospice, and the horror now that he’s dead and gone, and the final goodbye to him tomorrow morning as I point my car towards Arizona…I don’t know sometimes if I can bear this.

I don’t know where you are, D.  You know where I am.  Please find me.

Three weeks, again~

Three weeks.   Its’ been three weeks for everyone in the world and each and every person in this world had their three weeks play out according to their own personal current events.

My three weeks, as of last night at 11:21, was three weeks since my beloved Handsome Husband died.  Three weeks since my world, and the world of our kids, changed forever.  And forever.  Each Sunday night for all of us, at that particular hour, for a while to come, will bring a sense of heightened adrenalin, as if we are back in Odyssey Hospice, watching this man, who changed all of our lives over 23 years ago, breathe higher and higher until there was no place for more breath to live, and his final out breath happened, and he was no more.

I’ve had so much anger in these three weeks, over big things and small things.  Some of the anger was, I believe, completely justifiable, though it might more accurately be called hurt, at how some of the events around his death played out.  That hurt is still there, more evident now than the anger.  But mostly the anger is gone, and the crushing grief has smashed through and into, my body, my heart and my soul.

I went to a bereavement support group, I went to a Tai Chi class, I’ve made myself go out, out of this place we rented that is nothing but a place of nerve-tingling pain for me.  Out into where people are and where I have no interest being.  Over to Joshua Tree National Park, where Handsome Husband and I wanted to go.  And yes, I even got out of the car, with the intent of hiking and maybe climbing some of the easier rock formations, thinking that maybe I’d find him there.  He wasn’t there and I didn’t stay long at all.  There was no meaning to being there, without him to share the experience with me, so I returned to the car, filled with both pain and numbness, and came back to this painful place where I pretty much just wander from room to room, picturing him in whatever room I happen to be.  And not picturing him in a good way because we had no “good ways” from the time we arrived.  There was pain, and worry, and unknowing and frustration and effort and futile attempts to allay what we thought was going on with him.

And all the while it was cancer.  Oh blessed hindsight that now signals me that of course it was his cancer returned.  How obviously it had returned.  And the ungodly pain he was in, though he masked it well.    Hindsight is an evil exercise so I shut my brain down when it creeps in.  Don’t go there, don’t go there, don’t go there, I chant to myself.  Because if I consider the ungodly pain he carried, it becomes an ungodly pain for me, that I carry for him, and the pain morphs into a pain that is bigger than our love and that is unsustainable for me.

Three weeks.  No time at all but more than a lifetime.  Every emotion that beats through my body is overwhelming now, because every emotion translates into crushing grief from what happened, how it happened, that it happened and that my world will never be the same for me without him in it.

I had Handsome Husband for 24 years.  For 23 of those years we were married.  He had 1 child, I had 3. We celebrated our 5 year anniversary with a renewal of vows.  Our 23rd anniversary we celebrated with a slow dance at the side of the road in Death Valley as the sun set and Chicago played for us on my IPOD.  He died 1 month before our 4 years on the road anniversary.  For almost 4 years we sat no more than 2 feet across from one another in our Ford Escape.  2 hearts, mine and his, figuring out our new world.  2 hearts, so closely entwined in the most loving way.  Not perfectly figured out, this traveling world, but always with love.

Handsome Husband loved numbers, frequently adding up the numbers of parks we visited, or military bases or hotels where we stayed, the numbers of miles we traveled.  Numbers.  They carry within them the history of a person’s life.  They mean everything and, ultimately, they mean nothing.

October 16, 1952  (his birth date).  October 18, 1990 (our marriage date).  May 29, 2009 (we became Happily Homeless).  September 2010 (cancer)  October, 2011 (final surgery).  March, 2013 (cancer returns)  April 21, the Day.   11:21 pm, the Time.   May 12.  11:21 pm.  3 weeks.

Inside of those numbers is his life, my life, our life together.  Inside those numbers lie so many broken hearts.

 

 

Those things that tear a heart apart~

I go up and down these several times daily.  These are the stairs to our rental here in southern California.  Going down these stairs isn’t so bad, really.  But each time I stand at their foot and contemplate climbing them, my pulse races, my breathing hitches, and I want to throw up.  I don’t, but I want to.

Each time I stand at their base, I remember our arrival.  I remember the high hopes we had that his fungal infection and pinched nerve would finally be resolved when he saw a doctor here.  Because we were here for 3 months and that would give him the time to be cured of both.  We’d started the conversation about having to settle down for a year while he regained his health.  Our settling down would more than likely be in Arizona, because he really couldn’t travel further than that.  Our attendance at a family wedding would be cancelled, as well as traveling to Indiana, back to Vermont to spend time with the grands, and any trips to New Jersey.  None of which we wanted to do, but he needed that time.

Traveling through this area, getting to here, we were excited.  Nice area, with lots of hiking opportunities.  As we turned in the drive to this place, our anticipation built-this looked perfect for us.  We took a look inside before unloading the car, and loved it.  Homey, cheery, cozy-life would be good for our time here.

Painful memory prevails.  Handsome Husband was unable to assist in unloading the car, and he apologized over and over to me for not being able to do any of it, never mind the heaviest parts.  I know he cringed as he watched me struggle with a 5 gallon water bottle.  Water that was metal-free, chemical-free and in a BPA free jug, all of which aided him with the fungal infection.  I know his heart broke as I lurched up these stairs with heavy suitcases.  He wanted to carry at least some of the smaller items but he couldn’t-the pain that radiated up his arm to his back just wouldn’t allow it.   He was the kind of man who liked to do such things for women.  He was the kind of husband who enjoyed doing these things for me.  He knew I was completely capable of doing for myself, as did I.  But if he wanted to do, then I was happy to step back.  Not being able to do this-it caused him so much heartache.  That’s why he insisted on doing all the driving.  He told me that if I had to do everything else, at least he could do that.

As I brought in the last of our supplies from the car, I stepped back and indicated that he should precede me up the stairs.  I wanted to be able to catch him if he stumbled.  Yes, we’d probably both go to the ground if he did, but I could at least cushion him a little.  It took him awhile to climb these stairs, holding on to the rail.  Every moment was painful to watch and stuck a blade in my heart, seeing this strong man falter.

He came down those stairs just a few times after the initial climb.  A couple of times we went to the hot tub that is on the property-it brought temporary relief to him.  A couple of times we came down these stairs so that we could make the 2 hour drive to the doctor of Chinese medicine, and just as many times, to the chiropractor.

The last time we descended these stairs, he was in excruciating pain, huddled over, with tears in his eyes, as I stayed close to his side, buckled him into the seat belt, and drove to the nearest hospital, whose name I had googled just minutes before.

He never climbed these stairs again.  And each time I climb them, I hate them.  I hate being here at this condo that held such hope for us.  I hate being in southern California, with the brightly blooming flowers and impossibly beautiful skies.  And yes,  I know that I will hate anywhere that I am, because he isn’t with me.

The very beat of my heart has changed with his death.

What is left behind~

This is what is left of Handsome Husband.   His cremains and a stack of death certificates.  I know, I know.  And years worth of memories and his love for me and mine for him.   Those memories aren’t cutting it right now and I don’t feel him anywhere near.  I haven’t felt him near since he died.  I haven’t felt the real him, except for glimpses, since we arrived here in California and the fucking cancer started taking him, piece by piece.

I’ve done this grieving thing before, with my mom and my brother, who died within 6 months of one another back in 1996.   The pain and grief I felt then was something I never wanted to ever, ever, feel again.  Well, goody for me, I’m not feeling that particular pain again.  Waiting just outside my controlled thinking is pain that is deeper and more overwhelming than any I could possibly conceive of.  (dangling participle again).

This little box is surprisingly heavy.  Appropriately so, I guess, and it could easily be placed inside my chest right where my heart is.  Perhaps that would go a little ways towards describing the weight that is in that part of my body.  (Can I be any more dramatic)?   I haven’t opened it yet.  The plan is to give each of the kids, his sister, and anyone else who would like, some of his cremains so that they can spread them wherever they wish.  I don’t know when I’ll be ready to deal with that.  All I know is not now.

I can’t look at pictures of Handsome Husband from when the fucking cancer had him, and I can’t bear to look at pictures of him when he was well.  The thing is, if I don’t look at pictures of him, I can’t even call his image to my mind.  After 23 years of marriage, I can’t call him to mind.  That would be disturbing to me if I didn’t intellectually realize that it’s because  the pain and grief  is planted right in front of those good things.  Time, and being proactive in my grief, will help.  I know that.   Christalmighty, I’ve been the bereavement facilitator sitting at the table saying all these things to newly bereaved people.   And it doesn’t make a fucking difference at all.  Yes, it will.  In time. Blah, blah, blah.

I’m making myself stay busy as I can.  Primarily what I want to do is go over the edge.  You know, like so many do.  I can medicate myself through this-I know that, and the drugs have been offered to me.  That would be so easy to do, and so very, well,  American.  Who isn’t on drugs for one thing or another, after all?  There is a part of me that would appreciate just being able to drift through this, all the sharp edges and rifts and pits shaved into something not quite as piercing, so that they don’t cut into me so much.   Everyone makes their own choice with that.  My choice is to not have the drugs.

Today I’ll make more of the phone calls that need to be made after a death, taking care of the legal aspects of this messy business, sending those fucking death certificates to whomever needs the proof that my husband is dead.   I already notified the military a last week, so he’s officially dead to them.  Banking, insurances, etc.  All happening today.

There is a yawning chasm at my feet, black and staring, wanting to pull me in.  Or more so, waiting for me to take that one little step into it.  I can easily imagine the almost comforting ease with which I would float in that chasm, drifting away from this crushing heartbreak and disorientation and pain and horror and disbelief and what the fuckingness of this.

I know I’m not the only one who has gone through this.  Zillions of women through the centuries have endured this, and built a life beyond it.  This is  just my time for the same experience that will connect me to them.

And its’ killing me.