Coffee Chat: How I'm Really Doing

 

Dear Friends, 

I'm going to change the pattern of posting on you all for a little bit.  I feel the need to not be a writer but to be open and honest about how I feel just now.

No great revelation to any of you, I'm sure, that I'm grieving.  

Grief for me might look different than it looks for someone else.  I am not wailing and gnashing my teeth.  I do cry at times.  Little things, little tears.  And one stormy evening of wrestling with the real pain of grief and loss and longing to turn back time.  Those 34 years of John were far too short!  They went too quickly.  I wanted more.  I thought we'd have more.

I find my thoughts will drift into mindless places at times contemplating the work I need to do and then it's an hour or two later than I imagined it might be.   I cannot tell you where my mind wandered during that time.  I simply zoned out.   I lose track of what day it is or the date.  I often don't eat supper until 7pm because I've lost myself in something, either paperwork, or a puzzle or simply sitting and thinking.  I stay up far too late, or I go to bed very early and immediately go to sleep.  I wake up early, in the dark, and lie in bed hoping I'll go back to sleep before giving up somewhere around 6-6:30 a.m. before getting up.  

So far, I am avoiding the worst coping habits I have which are either of working far too long and too hard or eating all the wrong foods in too great a quantity, or spending money I really, really need to NOT spend. 

I don't know exactly what my finances will look like when everything is all said and done.  I have enough money to last a full year of routine expenses but part of that is savings.  John left me with no real debt to speak of (two small credit card balances). He had a small IRA that we'd invested well, and which had grown enough that we could, in emergency, draw off without touching the principal of the thing.  The IRA rolled over into my name and is still invested until I reach retirement age.    

My intention is to live off my Social Security.  The SS office assured me they would do all they can to insure I get the most they can possibly pay.  John worked from the time he was 14.  I myself worked for many years.  

And as always, life happens.  There are maintenance things I must do to my home.  There are improvements I'd like to make, like proper railings at the front and back steps.  At least crush run gravel in the carport that is apt to flood so the car won't sink to the tire hubs in mud and water if we have days of rain. There are sheds I must repaint and porch floors, too.  There's a tree I worry may need to come down.  Cars will need to be maintained. I cannot ignore that my cars are both 20 years old and one of them already has 260,000 miles on the odometer.  At some point I'll need to buy a newer car.  Appliances, and heat pumps, and wells have this crazy tendency to suddenly decide that 15- or 30-years of service is too much already.  

And there's need to have a working lawnmower.  John worked all fall and into the cold days of winter trying to repair his 'new' mower which we'd already had three years.  Remember that here we mow about 8 months of the year.  Sam's taken over the job, but the mower has a transmission issue.  Sam's a great mechanic and thinks he can fix it, but it's also a possibility I may need to buy a new mower and that will be a big expense.

I don't know what medical bills will come in the weeks and months ahead from John's brief hospital stay.  Taxes and tags and annual fees will come due.  Prices will go up.  

This is not me whining nor looking for help, I promise you. I will manage on whatever budget I have.   I have the money to attend to all these bigger things if need be and I will.  But I cannot deny that the big question mark of how much will come in and how much more will go out, does make me nervous.  It ought to make just about anyone nervous, I should think.  These are practical matters, something to be recognized and accepted as facts.  

I'm trying to be cautious until I know how my finances will play out.  

I can say honestly that just now food is the least of my concerns.  My pantry and freezer will provide for me for quite a long while.  Katie has found an absolutely lovely food market that has a bargain $10 produce bag.  Sam is planting and expanding his garden this year and will offer me things from it.  There's the discount grocery in the next town with that ridiculously full marked down produce shelf that I plan to take advantage of. 

But I do not know at present, how much I should plan for my own use.  I mean, I've never had to feed just one person before.  I expect it shall be considerably less than I've purchased or put away (canning/freezing) in the past, but I think I should be very uncomfortable if the freezer or the pantry were to be depleted too much.  

I have never cooked for just one.  That's a new thing to consider.  How much is enough?  What is too much?  I've cooked for five hearty eaters and seven plus a table full of company and then for four and had only just recently begun to get into the rhythm of cooking for two.  One is a whole new territory.

Those are the practical sorts of thoughts I've had.  I've been busy enough just trying to slowly sort through all of the things there are to be done.  Housework, trying to determine exactly what John had and what needs to go.  Then there's all the things one must do when your partner dies: figuring out the legalities of property, establishing accounts in the name of the living partner, trying to discover what income will be coming in, etc.  Those things take up time and require more than the usual amount of thinking.

But there's more.  I caught myself the other night thinking of John and realized that for some unknown reason I'd been clinging to this hope, this fantasy that John would suddenly reappear, that every bit of this was all a dream and any moment it would not be so.  And at the same moment, I know that death is reality, that he cannot reappear, that this is the life I must now live.

Last night, after I wrote the post for April 17 (it is currently April 8) I seriously considered shutting down my computer, walking away and never again writing another word.  Not here.  Not on BHJ.  Not anywhere except in my journal.   And the thought didn't frighten me or worry me.  Without John here, writing seemed like the least important thing in my life.  Not that I can think of anything other than my family who seem important at present.  Well and taking care of myself so that no one else has to.  

I think, perhaps, my postings will slow down for a while.  I think I will probably continue to write, but just now, not work so hard at making sure I have a post twice a week here, or that I do at least a thrice weekly diary post for BHJ.  

Just now there are appointments to attend to so many things that eat up my time.  There are grandchildren to be kept here and there, and I want very much to take some time to go to the mountain and to St. Augustine (another expense, but I'm trying to find ways to curb that considerably) to spread some of John's ashes.  

I want to be available to my children who are all grieving in their own ways, by withdrawing hard, crying daily, or refusing to show any emotion at all.  My brother-in-law is having a hard struggle with his grief as is John's former partner and best friend.  I want to help each of them, but I also need time to experience my own grief.  

I'm also trying to step out, reach out to others when they are reaching out to me.  A friend is coming by this Friday that I haven't seen in a long time.  The pastor of the homeless outreach asked me to come to dinner for the monthly meeting this weekend.  I have to build a life that involves people outside my home, outside my family.  And that is scary to me, because John was not only the extrovert, but his presence was so much and enough, that he really was all the company I wanted or needed.

I have this odd sensation of being on the brink of adventures and at the same time feeling my life is done and over and I'm not sure how to balance on the edge of both of these at once.  It's very strange and scary and wonderful.  I'm unsure of myself.  I was so much more confident with John here.  Now I feel a bit shaky.

All of that to say that I don't know how much writing I will do in the days/weeks ahead.  I have posts already written and scheduled through April 17. It is currently April 8.  I don't know if I want to keep to the twice a week schedule, I've set myself these past few months here. I don't know if I want to write even once a week.  I don't know.

It's not just a time factor either.  I don't know if I have the emotional bandwidth to write deep posts at present, and I do try to reveal the deeper more thoughtful part of my life here.  And right at the moment, perhaps for some time ahead, I think that grief is going to be an emotional process all by itself.  I'll share some of it, I'm sure, but I don't want that to be all I write about.  It's just right now, it is a fairly big part of my life.  

I'll put this post up following my April 17th post and then I beg your pardon while I slow down, reflect, do odd jobs here and find my way along this unexpected path I am on.  

Love to you all!  

Terri  

 P. S.  For some reason, the question of how much I shall have to manage on is already dusted and done.  I can only assume the day I went to the Social Security office that I truly did strike the hot iron at the right moment.  I have already received a notice saying exactly what I shall get each month.

I have enough.  Not all I had with the two of us together but enough.  I shall manage.  I'm absolutely flabbergasted that that whole thing went through so very quickly.  And if you want to know how I managed it, all I did was go right into the office on the day I picked up John's death certificates and waited in a nearly empty waiting room and talked to a representative that very day and that was all that was needed.  Praise and hallelujah!

Architect of My Soul

 

This evening on the way home from a day of appointment, errands, and a family visit, I finally put in the CD of John's music that he'd recorded and put in our safety deposit box.  I found myself singing along, smiling, raising a hand in worship at times, and thinking deeply about what a journey a life can be.  What we are truly building as we go is a Soul, that mysterious inner being that is so connected to heart and mind.  With the building of our Soul, we become our own three-in-one self.    

Hard Things

Fact of Life:  When you lose your husband, the world expects you to step up and adult even if you don't want to, don't feel like it, are anxious about it, or dread it because it's dang hard stuff you must do.

And it sucks.

But you get up each day, and you do it anyway, because no one else can do it for you.  Oh, they can...But how selfish to expect anyone else to stop their lives to do it for me simply because I feel lazy or low, or fearful, or whatever else emotion I might cough up.   I mean, they all have things they must deal with and attend to and face their own loss at the same time...surely, I can do just as much. 

Reflections on Loss

 

Does Loss count as a big emotion?  By definition it is not. The emotional response to loss is grief.  You grieve over a lost mate, a lost pet, a lost job, a major change in life, losing anything that you valued or held dear.  Grief is the big emotion.  But purportedly loss is what has happened to you, not what you feel.  So.

I cannot determine if I am numb, or if this past year, all the conversations John and I had, all the things we did to secure our future, my future, so prepared me for what lay ahead that I've accepted that easily that I am now alone.  I have discovered what it is to experience loss of someone who was so much a part of my life that I truly felt he breathed out and I breathed in.  

I've tried to contemplate what it means to remove John's things from this house, the home that we shared.  I find that I cannot bear the thought of moving John's things at the moment.  Oh certainly, I can tidy and put away what normally would be put away.  But picking up a book he kept beside his chair...I put it back down.  Clearing the top of his chest of drawers?  Nothing moved except clothing which I put into his dresser drawer.  Remove something of his from the music room?  I can't bear it.  I can't.  It's as though I am erasing him.

And that's when I know I am not numb.  Because the thought of my home without anything of him in it is too painful to even contemplate much less do.  It is the home we put time and effort into, a home which was very much his because he had a vision too and tastes of his own and he insisted that he be part of the process.  He also had a motley collection of things in the music room that consists of obituaries and pictures, posters, signed Cd's from artist he'd met or followed, and tools and music stuff.  I can imagine that room as a guest room, but a decidedly John sort of room, not a Terri sort of room.  But not yet.  Not now.  So, his things stay.  Even though some have asked for something of his, something to remember him by, I can't part with anything. I will.  I know I will come to the time of letting go of the remnants of his physical life, but right now...  No.

The house is quiet, too quiet.  No tv running all day long, no music pouring forth from the music room, no constant conversation.  I've put on a few of the videos we watched together, those that we both enjoyed.  I think I might add some of my favorite vloggers to the line-up on YouTube...but I hesitate.  I feel my breath catch at the back of my throat.  If I do those things, then this means he's gone.

I know he is gone.  But I find myself skirting about the spaces that remind me too hard.    

I didn't feel lonely at first.  I felt...bored, I'd say.  I do the few chores required, I've made meals for myself but beyond the necessary living chores, everything seems pointless, silly.  How can I possibly enjoy the junk journal when John will never again be here to listen to me chatter about it?  How can I possibly sink my teeth into a book and escape when there's no noise to escape from?  How can I possibly sit and color or play a game or arrange furniture when there's no one to talk to, no one whose opinion matters on the subject of whatever it is I've done?

And then one night this past week, loneliness hit me.  An ache I can't describe.  Because no one else can fill that space that he's left behind.  

And honestly?  It feels as though he's been gone for weeks, months, years.  The distance between him and me unfathomable.  In my heart, I know he's just beyond the physical realm of this life/universe.  I know he's there in heaven, but at times, as the days drift by, I feel the separation more and more.

So, I talk to him.  I tell him I miss him and that I'm lonely.  I tell him how silly everything seems without him here to share it.  I tell him I love him.  Because I do and I always will.  And I tell him I know he loves me, because I've felt it at times.  I can't really describe it but it's there in the atmosphere around me.  

I talk to him about the day, about the children when I'm worried over one or the other, about how proud I was to do something that I'd dreaded doing, or how upset I am when fear has grabbed me by the throat, and I face uncertainty.  

There's a point in almost every day when I sink into this loss and just sit with it. Not depressed, not blue.  Just absorbing the reality of it.  Saddened by it.  Accepting of it.  

And then, rising to live. Not reluctantly, but willingly.  Pushing to move forward, to continue because John would want that.  I want that for myself.  

I go on.

This New Season

 

In March, as I worked through big emotions and sorrow, I wrote out the posts and pre-scheduled them to publish.  I finished them a week before John died.   Since then, I've been doing a lot of writing.  The two posts published on this blog and on Blue House Journal about John's passing, posts for April, in my journal.

Writing being the cathartic exercise that it always has been for me; I'm finding my way as I go into this new season of life alone mostly by writing, not by word or book.  I don't know what it is I feel.  I'm having to stop and exam it as I go.  

Promises for April

 

1.  I promise to start reaching OUT to people when they are reaching out to me.  John and I tended to be selfish with our time together.  There's no one there for me now.  I'm not slighting my children.  They are being so supportive and would happily fit me into their lives even more than they did in the past.  But they have their lives.   I owe it to John, I owe it to them, and most of all I owe it to me, to not give in to the easy thing.  I need a new support system; one I'll build for myself.  I need to be open to people and stop thinking everyone is highly suspect and likely to hurt me.

2.   I promise to choose carefully who I allow to enter into my life.  That may sound contrary to the first promise but it's really an extension to it.  I attract needy people.  People are attracted to my co-dependent nature.  I want HEALTHY personal relationships in my life, not someone who will reduce me, use me, trap me in their dependency.  

Big Emotions, Pt. 3: Sorrow

Sorrow sits at the bottom of the deep river of all unplumbed emotions.  Grief, despair, hopelessness, anger, shame, hurt...They are all mixed up in sorrow and get dredged up to cloud the water and alter the current's flow.  This river has a power of its own, moving at will along the path it carves.

Many times, when I lie down to sleep, when I just start to drift, I see a very real flood behind my eyelids, sweeping me along with it, sometimes confined within riverbanks, sometimes spreading rapidly across the landscape of life. I have no control whatsoever over my vessel, swept along without any way to stop it or slow it, completely vulnerable to the whims of the water beneath me. 

Sorrow, I know.  

Big Emotions Pt. 2: Shame

 

When I first began this journey, it began with a dream in which I appeared unclothed before a crowd.  I walked without any embarrassment or sense of shame, quite at home in my own skin.

But the most often experienced emotion I've felt over the past few years has been shame.  I've written about it both in my journal and here.  I've examined it until I have felt I was going to go mad.  I've ignored it only to have it rear up and strike at me hard.   

In Week Three of The Artist's Way, two of the emotions we examine more closely are anger and shame.  Today I want to delve into the emotion of shame as I have experienced it.

The Unexpected New Season: Joy

 

This weekend, the unexpected happened.  My husband, who has never been seriously ill in all of our thirty-four years together, who never needed to see a doctor for anything but routine labs, died.  

In the midst of the month when I've had big emotions, when I've written and have upcoming posts already written about big emotions, this comes into my life.  Nothing you've read prior to this and nothing you read after this for the month of March is about the most mysterious thing of all, and that is Joy.

Yesterday I was a married woman.  Today I am a widow.

Big Emotions Pt. 1: Anger

As a child growing up in what at best could be described as an angry household, anger was the most punishable offense we children could commit. Looking back now, I find that ironic to say the least.  Why should it be so?

It was how anger was handled in our home that seemed rather messed up.  No slamming of a bedroom door, no raging at the adult who was calling us out on our actions.  That part was reasonable.  What was less reasonable was the expectation that we'd show no emotion at all, never admit or own to any anger at any time.  Injustices were to be suffered in silence, without speaking up.  If we did, then we were punished physically as well as with verbal and emotional abuse.  We were meant to simply accept the situation and immediately correct our actions to suit the controlling adult.  All anger you see, was seen as disrespect.  And disrespect was always followed by punishment.

Going In Circles

 

The other day I was listening to a sermon, a very good sermon I might add, but also a difficult one.  It was difficult because it opened up within me a world of painful memories.  The pastor spoke about his childhood, a disappointing childhood, a hard childhood and how even at school he found himself compared too often to another boy, one whose family life was stable, who hadn't the things against him that the pastor was experiencing in his childhood life.  The pastor spoke of his hurt, his loss of hope, the sense of never being enough.  Indeed, not just feeling he would never be enough but being told by grown-ups in his life that he wasn't enough.  Not smart enough.  Not responsible enough. Not good enough.  Not stable enough.