The Rescue

Relief from this pain,
I know will come
but not soon enough
for me
the crushing blows
are sometimes unrelenting
and ill-timed.

I just want to be rescued-
an impossibility.

a bully

                                                                        Costa Rica-year unknown

Grief, a bully
bursts through
the door,
no warning.

Blindsided
my heart
pummeled,
I pray
I breathe
I connect
to the earth
and
the universe,
knowing that
grief will
blow out
the back
door
and return
in time.

is there presence in absence?

Her absence is the sky, spread over everything. -CS Lewis

We didn't have long to get use to the brevity of Jerry's life.  A week maybe.  Even then, we all thought that the "ox of a man" that he was would somehow pull through.

Still through the news, I tried hard to stay positive and in the present.  Now and again, while still in Boston, I would wonder through our house in my head, anticipating the emptiness, the pain.  I could not bear to dwell there for long.

It is true that I feel the absence of my husband in the home that he built and the house we raised our children.  Yet, I also feel peace.  I am drawn here.   It is familiar.  It represents my life.

Like Lewis felt his wife's absence in everything and everywhere, I feel Jerry's absence where ever I am. I carry it with me whether I am in the car, roaming the halls of the high school or running into the grocery store for fruit and milk.  His absence presents itself as a nagging, constant dull ache in the center of my heart.  I am reminded of him while I am cutting fruit, baking bread or making the morning coffee.  He is constantly on my mind whether I am brushing my teeth, putting on make-up or sweeping the floor.

I feel his absence all the time.  Does this pain I carry thwart my ability to feel his presence? Or do I feel his presence in his absence?

I Don't Know

Stuck in a tornado of emotions,
Caught up in thoughts of sorrow, loneliness
And grief.
The dust bunnies multiply
I sit
My throat aches
And the tears tickle as they run.

How do I manage?
Day by day,
Yes,
But really how do I live without you
Month after month,
Year after year?
How?
I don't know.

One Word

I walk into the local market to pick up some almond milk and one can of organic grain-free dog food.  I wander the aisles just in case I'm missing something important, but I feel much like a lost soul.  From aisle to aisle I discount we need more eggs, dried beans or mixed greens.  Careful about adhering to a budget, I put the two items on the conveyor belt, pay and head out the door.

While putting the cart away, I hug another basketball mom who I haven't run into since Jerry passed.  She asked what happened.  "Cancer.....all clear....sick all summer....no answers...pain." 

The word stuck in my throat.  Pain. My husband endured so so much.  I just lost it. 

Clinomania

Clinomania (n) an excessive desire to stay in bed.

Most days, I bound out of bed ready for a new day.  Not today.  Sleeping for ten hours did nothing to allay my fatigue.  Under the weight of comforters and blankets, I begin to thumb through the reasons for my lack of energy and either disregard or verify each as a possible cause.

Maybe I'm coming down with something?  I swallow hard-no sore throat. No headache either.  My stomach is OK, too.  I guess I am alright.  Just tired.  Wait, it's my thyroid.  It is true, I blame everything on my thyroid.  No.  Just tired, that's all.

My life is altered.  My brain does not function as it once did.  CS Lewis describes, "... it feels like being mildly drunk or concussed...I find it hard to take in what anyone says." I understand this all too well-this grief.

No, I am unable to function as I once did.  I often ask for help feeling like I am hoisting my widow-status for service.  I find that I have trouble carrying loads of wood up the cellar stairs, so I don't think I ought to try to replace the washer in the basement with another in storage.  I need my boys.  Having always had a fear of chopping off multiple fingers and toes, I won't handle a hatchet or an axe, either. I call on a family friend who is a real Maine Lumberjack.  Physical challenges abound, but so do the intellectual ones.   Sometimes, I trip over my words when I speak. I often have to ask for things to be repeated as my brain can only take so much information in.  Rather than become victim to despair, I recognize that this is grief.  No one expects me to be fixed.  Things will get better in time.  Right now I need to be gentle.  I need to treat myself as I would a dear friend. Tonight after a hot shower, I think I will put myself to bed with a good book and a cup of chamomile tea.  I have an excessive desire to go to bed and stay there. That is more than alright.

Him

The escapes come often and frequently.  I sit in my wing back chair poised to watch a film.  The slab of chocolate and broken pieces lay on the opened wrapper, my toes touch the floor pointed, raising my knees to  intentionally cradle the contents in my lap.  Birthday chocolate. Precious cargo. These days, I avoid buying chocolate for myself because I have no control.

I guess you could say that we balanced each other out.  This wasn't always the perfect in paradise kind of love.  He loved to eat meat, while I prefer plant based proteins.  He liked the bedroom cold, while I preferred heat.  A soft hearted soul whose kids could talk him into just about anything, especially if it was adventurous and a bit risky, my husband was always full of surprises.  I, on the other hand am more practical and I'd like to think more controlled and logical.  An impulsive, fly by the seat of your pants kind of guy versus a planner, a list maker. We pretty much kept to our roles through over 36 years of marriage, until this summer.

My husband, Jerry never missed a day of work except a few days here and there during hospitalization or following surgery.  This summer, despite lingering unexplained fatigue and pain, he worked through it. Some days it took all of his will to get out of bed, but he made it to work.  In the late afternoon, he would drag himself to the bedroom and lay down.   This summer, work required all of him so by the time he got home, he was spent.

Nearly, everyday for three years, we played Parcheesi.  He was a competitor.  The captain of his football team, a state champion pole vaulter, my husband was tenacious.  These competitive tendencies worked to his benefit while playing board games, too.  Despite feeling rotten, most days this summer he played parcheesi.  He held a stash of Dove Chocolate in the freezer, in a yogurt container labeled, "Frozen Corn."  We were both as serious about our ration of chocolate, as we were about our game. Some nights it was hard to discern whether we played to play or we played to eat chocolate.  In unusual restraint, he allowed us two bits of candy. No more. Both of my candies were unwrapped and devoured before he took his first bite. I always begged for more.  "Can I have one more, please?  Please?  Just one?  Then no more, I promise."

In an unusual stance, he refused my request, " No, save it for later.  We each get two." He wasn't a guy that said no.

I looked at the board and thought about swiping off the smears of chocolate with a sponge after the game.  Seconds later, thinking he might relent. "Chocolate, please?"

Again, I heard, "No."  Strangely, the back and forth resembled an exchange with one of our teenagers.
Night after night played out in a similar fashion.  He held me to two pieces, despite my protests and attempts to wear him down.

Now, I sit in my wing back chair, shoving thick pieces of European chocolate into my mouth.  The first chunk barely melted in my mouth before I shove more in.  I have lost interest in the movie, and  I am not really aware of the quantity of chocolate I have consumed, that is until I look down in my lap and see there are two little pieces left.  Carefully the remaining pieces are wrapped and tucked away for another time.

Everything reminds me of him.  I eat.  I eat.  It does little to fill me up. Vignettes of our life, of him settle in my head replaying. I thought it was the chocolate, but really, I can't get enough...of him.

It's Just Messy

Yesterday I couldn't get past stepping out of the shower dripping wet and feeling assaulted by the 22 degree below temperatures that sneak through the cracks in the doors and windows of my house. I seldom skip a daily shower. Today, I couldn't get past the fact that I didn't take a shower yesterday and felt just plain grimy, so I reached in the shower and stuck my hand under the spray to test it.  It had to be hot.

I stepped in and started to rub the soap onto the nylon mesh ball.  Jerry had a stockpile of his favorite French milled soap.  I ordered it every month for him two or three bars at a time.  During this phase of showering I always think of him.  He never used a washcloth or a mesh ball, instead he held the bar and kind of rolled it around both hands to gather a lather.

Days after he died, I took the sliver of soap that he last used, dried it and tucked it in the top drawer with my underwear and passport.  I can't explain why.  Maybe in time of grief no explanation is necessary.  I often act on a need; a deep unexplained need and I just go with it. This is a strange time in my life; a mishmash of emotion that cannot be fully understood.  I feel like one with multiple personalities, often confused by the swirl of opposing emotions.  One moment I feel intense joy, while in seconds waves of sorrow overcome me.  There are times of clarity and times of uncertainty.   Sometimes fear wraps me and strangles, while later I may feel the excitement of opportunity and freedom. None of it makes sense.

I run my fingers over the top of the smooth oval, the soap showing signs of wear through the vein-like lines that run through it.  I bring it to my nose, inhale and tuck it back in the drawer for safe-keeping. Mango scent, one of his favorites.

Each day following prayer, I am quiet if only for a few minutes,  listening to what I need. It may be simple like skipping a shower on a cold day or saving my husband's soap and handling it like an artifact of the MFA. I don't always have to have a logical reason for what I do.  I just do it, act on my intuition. Grief is messy.  Grief is complex and sometimes the wave of varying emotions are confusing and make no sense.  It just is-what it is.

The Unthinkable

A tribute to all mothers who face the unthinkable.

Mother dropped

To her knees,

Sobbing,

Ragged waves

Of

Grief.

Six year olds

Aren’t suppose to

Die.

Somewhere

All air was sucked out of the room,

Yet I couldn’t leave

And

I couldn’t stay.

I stood to leave,

You pulled me back.

Your last few

Moments,

Few ragged breaths,

I was there

As you were whisked

Off  to somewhere.

One More Moment

I turned to leave catching a glimpse of his brown eyes casting so much feeling, it made words unnecessary.  He was afraid.  Afraid to move after the fall.  This made everything worse. The Parkinson's Disease didn't help either.  The Physical Therapist had him in a hoist to support his weight giving him a sense of stability.  In a soft voice that I thought would be reassuring I cooed, "It will be OK Daddy.  You'll be OK." I guess I was in denial. I left.

When I was a little girl, the day after Halloween marked a day when I would slide into a pew at St. Mary's Church in Biddeford and pray for people I did not know.  All Soul's Day.  The list went back by generations-family that remained nameless.  "I pray for my grandmother's mother, my grandmother's father,  my grandmother's grandmother," I mouthed.  It didn't feel real.  Just an obligation.  Never did I realize at seven years old that I would one day be praying for the souls of my grandmother, my grandfather, my mother, my father, my aunts and my uncles.  

"I can't be here.  I can't," I managed to whisper breathlessly.  "I can't breathe.  An elephant is on my chest. I can't do it."  Closing my eyes, I remained motionless.  My body heavy and incapable of supporting my own weight in a seated position, never mind move to another room or the hall where I could forget.  

"If you leave.  You can never take this moment back," my sister confided. Choking back tears, I thought about how I had left my father a few days ago.  This time I stayed.  I needed to be here for my father.  Through this transition.  

Today my "All Soul's List" is just as long as when I was seven years old, but now I can remember how my father's bearded cheek scratched against my face when he snatched a kiss.  I remember the oversized hand that reached out to walk me safely across the road.  Old Spice after shave brings a flood of real memories. My heart aches in longing for one more moment.

Losing

Fear shakes me from

Slumber,

Losing you

Fresh,

The heartache lingers.

It was just a dream,

But so vivid,

Real.

I wake with a

Thirsty heart,

Every moment

Precious.

Don’t leave me.

I love you.

Embracing the Time

There is a different slant of light.  The kettle whistles nearby as my husband and I discuss the weather.  Despite the cool air, this morning, in protest I wear a tank top. My arms exposed and chilled.  As we sit out in the garden swallowed by pink, yellow, and purple evidence of summer, uneasiness settles within.  My mind wanders to the near future. Some plants have withered and will soon transform to varying shades of brown with the entire plot following.  Natural process.   It is always the same these last few weeks in August, yet I get the same feeling in my gut.  I just don’t like it.   Once fall fully emerges, I actually embrace the colors, the crisp air, the cozy layering and all that goes with it.  With this straddling of summer and fall-I must accept and find the beauty in this divine cycle.

The Shadow

Honestly, I thought that I would

Excel as always,

Not burden anyone

With

My Grief.

Get over it,

Be done.

I was wrong.

Sneakily

It creeps

Behind me

Surprised,

I look over my right shoulder,

I begin to run,

Hiding behind

My smile,

My laughter

And books,

Piled high,

Peering out tentatively,

I retrace my path.

Expecting to be alone

Yet grief follows,

Always there.

Grief.

A shadow marking my

Path.

Fed and Nourished

Pulsing with anger,
Fear,
And an aching heart,
The lies,
The deception
Feed and nourish
The hurt.

Will
The
Grip
Loosen?
Will
Pain
And
Sadness
Ever
End?

Hopeless.
I think
Not.

Poetry Selections

Peace

Push me into the depths
Of the cool,
Dark,
Waters.
There I will find
Peace,
As the pounding
In my heart seizes.
The ache is
Gone.
You will hurt
Me
No more.

Lies

All hope is wrung from my heart.
Every lie robs you and me of dreams.
Hope is not endless.
In time, you will understand.
I pray, it will not be too late,
For either of us.

Loving Through Dreams

 This morning, I dropped my sons off at the Mount Desert Island High School and as I turned the car around in the parking lot, I  faced the mountains that border the property, Suddenly, I felt like balling, stopping the car and just letting the emotions rip.  The view was the exact one my mother and I had shared on a visit here long ago.  It reminded about the bittersweet nature of the passage of time.

My mother and I  on campus for an event, stood at the threshold of an open door and gazed at the beauty that surrounded us.  We had spent the weekend on Mount Desert Island hiking and such in Acadia National Park.  It was my first visit.  I was fifteen years old.

Standing in that open doorway which some believe to symbolize discovery and connection with the natural world, I announced, “I’m gonna live here someday.”

When I graduated from college, there were few teaching positions available.  I was granted an interview in Bar Harbor.  It wasn’t until I drove across the bridge onto Mount Desert Island that I understood that I had visited here before.  I got the job. 

My mother was able to enjoy Acadia for more than twenty years.  For this I am grateful.  The ping of sadness that hit me out of nowhere, reminds that I miss her. Standing in that doorway of Mount Desert Island High School and proclaiming a future that came to pass was an important moment.  One that I will always cherish and my mother was there to love me through my dreams.

Facing Tragedy Together

Tonight’s blog is dedicated to all those who were affected by the tragedy today that occurred in Boston and for all those souls who live in fear on a daily basis.  May you find hope through the kindness of humans.

Every generation has had to deal with heartache and terror, but it doesn’t get any easier to understand.  When I was little, I selfishly felt insulated and safe because for a time all the bad things were happening half a world away.  And then, bad things happened here, in this country.  The president, my president (at six years old, I understood) was assassinated, then Martin Luthur King Jr. and then another Kennedy brother.  I sat on the couch watching the replay of Bobby Kennedy’s attack on TV over and over.  I rocked back and forth. I didn’t know what else to do with my nervous energy.  I could not move.  Truly, I lived in fear; waiting for the next bad thing to happen. Reassuringly, my mother would say, “That happened far away from here.  It is OK,”  but I knew it wasn’t.

Today, the world is a small place.  Boston is the wonderful city, my family would day trip to and immerse ourselves in history.  In 2013, I can experience Boston from my computer.  It is nearly impossible to isolate our children from the harsh, horrible realities that are part of our present life.  Our children will be part of the solution for a better future.  For now, we can all partake wisdom from the late Fred Rogers,

“When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers.  You will always find people who are helping.”

Let’s hang onto the essence of human goodness through all our helpers.  The brave souls in Boston who risk their lives to help another are heroes.  It prompts me to pay close attention to how I conduct myself in this world of helpers.  Truly, we are in this human existence together.  We can all help. 

Goodbyes

The floorboards creaked as I tip-toed around the bed and quietly slipped in next to him.  My arm would not quite reach his girth. 

“I’ll be back before you know it. On Friday.”

No response.

“I love you Daddy,” I whispered.

Nothing.  His silence. The lump in my throat made it hard to swallow.  I would not see him again for five days.  Shouldn’t that make him happy?  My return? It was my leaving that was unbearable for him. Earlier, I had cracked the door and sounding as light as possible, “Rise and shine!”  Surely, his signature call to wake would arouse his humor and his aging body.

I always had trouble leaving too. Especially, when both my mother and father became ill and traded trips to the hospital.  It was my mother now who needed the physical care.  Between my brother, sister and I, we made sure that our parents were never alone.  During the week, I taught and returned each Friday night until sometime on Sunday.  My father always rose early on Friday morning and sat near the window in wait.  It was the Sundays that we all dreaded. 

My mother confided that she had been having recurring dreams in which she had died.  Her condition was worsening.  My conversations with my siblings were mostly related to medicine, appointments and such. We all couldn’t say aloud, what we were thinking.   I would soon be without my mother.  Each Sunday, the goodbyes got longer and longer for I knew it might be my last. 

The final time I was with my mother, she lay in a hospital bed, mostly sleeping hour after hour.  I had quite a drive ahead of me.  I had to leave, but I didn’t want to leave. I roused her, gently leaned in kissing her.

“I love you Mummy.  Don’t go anywhere without telling me. OK, don’t go anywhere without telling me.” My code for please say goodbye, before you leave.

On the night that she passed, she tried to call me.  I was watching my First Graders  at a Christmas Concert.  I was protected from the heartache of goodbye.

Following my mother’s death, nothing changed.  Each Sunday, I slipped into bed beside my father and whispered, “I love you my sweet Daddy.  I’ll be back on Friday.”  And each Sunday, he lay motionless and silent.

I guess we all are troubled by goodbyes.  

Letter Dear

Dear Handwritten Letter,

You have had quite a long and revered history, which is ironic because presently your future is uncertain.  The fast paced communication of today like e-mail, social media and instant messaging have all, but snuffed out your existence.  I can’t quite let you go.

 We have been through too much together.  You’ve seen me through loves lost.  Remember those tears I cried when I learned he had another? My loneliness extinguished as I collected thread after thread of lines that bound me together in strength following the loss of my parents.  Those kind words saved for when I needed it most. That is how a broken heart began to heal.

  I learned of the ordinary day to day nuances experienced by my grandmother while I was away, and I realized that there are no ordinary moments, just extraordinary moments. Words brought me to her, to her day when she dined on bran cereal, two slices of lightly buttered toast on whole grain bread and black coffee.  The consistency of my grandmother’s predictability, chronicled in her impeccable slant of cursive read once, and re-read and re-read again comforted me in my loneliness.  My grandmother long passed, now precious moments preserved within you.

On one of my darkest days, you mysteriously dropped at my feet, a bundle tied in satin ribbon, the recipient my mother, the sender my father.  My hands trembled as I untied the ribbon. Holding the first envelope lightly between my fingers, I examined my father’s perfect penmanship each line uniformly spaced, the stamp carefully cornered, one long edge opened clean from the swipe of a letter opener. My breath quickened as I carefully slipped the pages from within and slowly unfolded them.  My eyes opened wide taking it all in as I read.  

Love. Life. Plans.

I read another and then another and stopped.  I had all the information I needed.    

My father’s words sounding desperate at times, also revealed longing and devotion for my mother.   Their stormy marriage left me wondering a lot about their feelings. Later that morning, I attended my father’s funeral, holding onto thoughts of their love despite the troubles.  The contents of these envelopes gave proof of their feelings; that is how I survived that day.

Today, while others exclusively prefer instant communication, I prefer the thoughtful crafting of your message and savor the anticipation of a response.  With pen in hand, I write.  I write of ordinary things, like my grandmother did. I write as the observer.  You, dear letter preserve my thoughts, my feelings, my history and the history of the time I live. You ease the burdens of loneliness, sorrow as well as celebrate the joys of the yesterday, today and tomorrow.  You have the capacity to penetrate the heart.   You can’t leave just yet. The world needs more of you. Won’t you just stay?

I, Remain Sincerely Yours,

Barbara