March 23, 2014: The day after the five-year mark of Glen's death I slept late - got up around 7:45. I dreamt something about a hole in the floor. Glen did not appear. In the morning I wrote for a few hours, gardened in the afternoon, and read in the evening. I watched the nearly full moon rise and listened to Pink Floyd Dark Side of the Moon. Five years and one day following Glen's death I live and my life has meaning.
March 8, 2014: Next week will mark five years since Glen died. This is the first year since he died I do not feel overwhelmed with despair, sorrow, and sadness. Oh I feel sad, but not unable to lift myself out of my grief. My life today is very different from what it would have been if Glen had not died. But it is a good life. I enjoy writing (not only about my loss but much more), learning watercolor painting, reading fiction and nonfiction, creating new beaded jewelry, and mostly doing what I enjoy. My friends are supportive and we laugh together frequently. Dubious grief has evolved into the story of how I survived my journey. I realize it is only now, when I've slowly let go of the future that might have been with Glen that I am able to understand my grieving and write my story.
December 21, 2013: Remembering the events of the past year is something I do at the end of each year. This year began badly - depression or grief (not sure what it was) began in February and lasted until early May. I did not write, could not do much except sit around and cry. Looking back on that time I believe it was the final deep grieving I needed to do before I could move on, create my life without Glen. At the end of this grieving period I restructured Dubious Grief and began writing 'my dubious grief story.' For the first time I wrote without intense pain - physical and emotional. This had not been possible until I moved past my deep grief and recognized I could have a life without Glen. 2014 will be the year I complete my story and put my dubious grief to rest.
December 8, 2013: Two chapters drafted - Getaway and Disappearing Act - are the beginning of my final revised version of Dubious Grief. I've finally written the story of my grief. Well not exactly written, but now I have a 'roadmap' detailing chapter goals and construction of each chapter content. For the first time I feel this writing speaks my experience. Each chapter represents a critical scene with backstory woven throughout. Getaway scene is my two days spent at the ocean in July 2008 when Glen was in the middle of chemo treatments and I was taking on ever increasing care taking. Interwoven throughout is the history of our relationship and my growing realization that I was losing my future with him. Disappearing Act scene is the day he died. Woven through are my reflections of the toll chemo took on his body until finally Glen had completely disappeared. The chapter I'm writing now, Creating Normalcy scene is the first Thanksgiving after he died. Woven through are the ways I kept doing, trying to create a sense of 'everything is ok, normal' even without him. So this is the new structure for telling the story of my journey through Dubious Grief. It feels right.
October 18, 2013: Mid October and the days grow shorter; dawn comes later, twilight sooner. I now turn on the kitchen light to cook supper and sleep until seven when the sky lightens to a dull grey. Thick fog hovers inches above the ground. This time of year threatens to suck the life from me. Four years following Glen's death I begin writing lists of things to do - clean closets, dispose of stuff I've no use for, to keep moving forward in this new life. This is the first year I've consciously planned activities to divert grief's onslaught of crushing, debilitating waves. Fortified by an eight day visit with my sister I vow I will not be sucked under this year - or so I think. Only time will tell.
August 1, 2013: I met the wife (widow) of a fellow writer this week. I'd know him briefly (10 weeks) in a memoir writing class. He knew he was dying from terminal lung cancer at the time, I wrote about my grief, the one left behind after the death of my husband. He shared his story of 'the one who is dying' and I shared my story of 'the one left behind" to grieve. His insights about dying helped me understand some of Glen's struggle. My tale of grief helped him understand what lay ahead for his own dear wife. I am so grateful for his friendship, willingness to share his thoughts, and inspire me to write my grief.
May 31, 2013: Over Memorial Weekend I reread Time Traveler's Wife which I had read in 2008. The first time I read the book I had a very different impression. Back then I was angry and suspicious of Henry's motivation. Why would he set-up Claire for being left behind, waiting for his return from wherever in time he'd gone. In my own life at the the time I was angry because Glen was dying (although I didn't realize I was angry at the time). I didn't want to be 'left behind.'
February/March 2013: Grief is not an event, it’s a process, a journey through loss. Following my husband Glen’s death I was caught up in a cycle of crazy grief, deceptions to appear “ok” and a frenzy of activity to avoid feeling the deep pain and sadness of my loss. I did not bounce back. Slowly I got unstuck, moved forward but my life is not the same.
1/17/2013: Attending the memoir writing class has gotten me thinking about why anyone would read a book call Dubious Grief. What universal truths - deeper meanings in my memoir - are contained within the pages. Certainly the theme of loss is there but each section of the book contains a deeper level of truth. Part I: Death Watch is about commitment to my marriage vow - in sickness and health. This thread exposes my experiences supporting Glen in every aspect of his decision about his treatment, even when I disagreed strongly with his choices. Part II: Left Behind is about my struggle through the time of deep sorrow and pain over the loss of my love, my life - when darkness could have sucked me under and taken me away. All I wanted was to be with Glen - it was a time of cognitive dysfunction, going crazy, depression, and meltdowns. This was a long, dark period of hopelessness. Part III: Letting Go is about those small steps in creating a life when things begin to be better. Grief doesn't end - but I learn to live a life of my own. There is no happy ending to my story - my grieving continues - but life is not hopeless. It gets better.
Now I'm doing a third major restructuring of the book that reveals these truths as my story unfolds.
11/5/2012: This weekend I completed the three day Hospice Volunteer training at Cascade Health Solutions. What a wonderful experience. Not only did I learn a great deal about hospice services, but I met many like minded folks, many of whom will become treasured friends. An added benefit is the understanding I gained about my own relationship with death. One activity we engaged in was to briefly relate an experience about someone dying from a story passed along through our family. This got me thinking about the death of my paternal grandfather when I was not quite three years old. No one in the family ever talked about his death. It was a family secret. As an adult in my thirties I discovered he committed suicide - stuck a gun in his mouth and blew his head off. As I've though about this death secret I've come to realize I have avoided funerals when family members died. As an adult I didn't go to my father's funeral, or my grandmother's funeral. I don't think I went to either my other grandfather's funeral when I was in high school or my uncle's funeral. Maybe I even refused to go, I'm not sure. And when my husband Glen died I chose not to have a funeral or celebration of life immediately following his death. Lots to think about now.
10/14/2012: The first weekend in November I will participate in the Cascade Health Solutions hospice volunteer training. This is my calling revealed through my writing - to help those who have lost a loved one during their bereavement. In our society people simply do not know how to help our friends who are deep in grief. It's a two way process. The griever builds a wall around them in order to present an image of "I'm doing ok." In turn friends 'feel' the wall, assume the griever is doing ok because she says she is. When I was deep in grief I responded to friends and coworkers with "I'm doing ok" when I was not ok. It was all I could do to 'keep it together' when with others. I couldn't ask anyone for help or understanding. Even the thought of attending a 'bereavement' group terrified me. Sometimes what I needed was a hug, sometimes I wanted to just talk about my dead loved one. But no one knew how to help me. My wish is to be the person who can break through the wall of grief and provide comfort to those who are grieving.
9/12/2012: Autumn approaches and I feel the all too familiar sadness creep over me. But this year, for the first time I recognize what the sadness foretells - four years ago came the news Glen's cancer would not be cured - Glen's words "It's not about killing the cancer, it's about how long I can keep it at bay..." No wallowing in sorrow this year - no crushing by the tsunami wave, simply a recognition of the source of my sadness.
3/31/2012: Saturday March 24 I went with friends to the coast. Weather predicted sun with increasing clouds in the afternoon. Rain for the next week. I'd wanted to release the last of Glen's ashes on Wed. March 14 - alas weather didn't permit this. I kept track of the weather forecast - the only break from rain, wind, and snow was Saturday. We hit the coast range and drizzle fell. We reached the coast and wind roared, drizzle fell. I was determined. At the beach I sat in the car, watched the waves roar in, the wind blow. Excitement welled up inside me. This was it - I walked toward the shoreline with my friends. Dark clouds hung on the horizon. Storm was coming in fast. Rocks piled up along the high water mark. I bent into the wind, moved into the rush of air. Watched the waves hit the shore. Everyone took a handful of Glen - tossed him into the wind. I ran along the shoreline spilling Glen out along the edge of the water. I looked up. A huge wave was pounding toward shore. My heart raced; I turned and ran. We all laughed, running away from the huge wave. Glen's spirit laughed, played with us. No somber affair this final release. Joy, laughter, freedom for Glen's spirit. I picked up a smooth, perfectly round flat stone, put it in my pocket. My heart no long ached. I was also free.
3/25/2012: I did it again. How many times will I repeat the cycle - doing not feeling, stuck in sadness, release my sorrow, move into living. Ah, Dubious Grief.
March 21, first full day of spring, except eight inches of snow fell. One week prior - March 14 - marked three years since Glen died. And what did I do - cleaned out the final space containing Glen's electronic stuff. Doing, doing, doing to avoid feeling my deep sadness, my sorrow. To my credit I donated usable items to a nonprofit and recycled the rest. I let his stuff go.
On that snowy spring day the local public radio music station went off the air. The heavy wet snow brought down power lines - (and the two plumb trees in my yard that always bloom in mid March). Eugene isn't well prepared to deal with eight inches of wet snow. The downed trees were heavy with blossoms, unable to hold up under the additional weight of the snow.
But I digress. Snowed in and without music on the radio I played CDs - "our music" - and memories once again flooded my consciousness. Waves of grief built slowly throughout the day. I wrote and revised the structure for Part II - Left Behind - of Dubious Grief. Many of the pieces are written - puzzle pieces I can now fit together. Themes emerged.
I wept without effort. Tears came easily. I did not hold on. I let go and sang along with the Cowboy Junkies...
3/18/2012: Wednesday March 14 marked the third year since Glen died. I had planned to go to the coast to release his ashes. Alas mother nature did not cooperate. Snow fell on the coast - and in the coast range. High winds blew. There was no going to the coast this week. I decided to live my "letting go" epiphany and tackled the final clearing out of Glen's electronic stuff. The front closet, stuffed with boxes, wire, books. I went through it all - boxed up books, magazines, and information sheets. Decided to keep a few science fiction books to read - found a collection of Ray Bradbury short stories - but mostly I recycled. I found two letters I'd written Glen in September 1978 - the year we moved to Santa Barbara. He'd kept these letters for over thirty years. It took two days to complete the task. Letting go is difficult, but necessary in order to move into life.
3/10/2012: I can't grow until I let go. Waves of my grieving - sneaker waves unseen, crushing tsunami waves, and finally letting go and riding the waves. How the waves come - sometimes I see them - others are unseen. But now I let go, ride the waves, let the waves take me wherever I need to go.
Approaching the third anniversary of Glen's death, I let my life with Glen go. Let go of the memories. Let go of the past. Not forgetting, just letting it go.
Memories will return but I will no longer hold onto them tightly. I will remember but not cling to those memories. I must grow. I will simply let go.
3/3/2012: It's been nearly three years since Glen died. A friend suggest we do something together on the actual day of his death. At first I thought, NO WAY. I wanted to isolate myself - not just from my friends, but from my emotions. If I am alone, I don't have to worry about "losing it." The more I've thought about her offer to be with me, the more I've come to realize how isolation is just another form of denial. And I don't want to go back there. I want to move forward. I want to release the remainder of Glen's ashes. The third anniversary of his death seems like a good time. So I will go to the coast with my friend and let the ocean take Glen's ashes out to sea.
2/25/2012: Mike gave me a happy birthday balloon. The balloon gift was a tradition. A mylar balloon filled with helium. One side decorated with purple, pink, and green circles. Happy Birthday emblazoned across the second side. A pink ribbon tied at the bottom of the balloon was attached to a red plastic disk. A weight anchoring the balloon four feet above the ground. The cats played with the balloon as if it were a new cat toy. Kitty, the small female tabby, batted at the ribbon. Made the balloon dance up and down. Marco, the large grey and white male, grabbed the ribbon between his teeth and ran off with it. A game of capture and run.
2/18/2012: I struggled this week - sadness sucked me down into the dark depths once again. Three years ago Glen was loosing his battle with cancer. Brenda felt the loneliness and deep sadness also. Dubious Grief - will it ever end? I think about the adage "those who fail to learn from history are destined to repeat it." I write. I want to learn. I want to avoid repeating this history - grief crashing down on me like a sneaker wave - unseen until it crushes my spirit.
1/15/2012: Writing about my life with Glen and the pain of losing him is always difficult, yet a the same time cathartic. I read through my journal entries from the year he was dying and vivid images of the destruction of his body still haunt me four years after the initial diagnosis of lung cancer. In my mind I see his body disappearing, his mind diminishing, and his spirit fading as hope for more life fades. But this year it's easier, less physically painful, because I have learned to ride the wave of grief, allowing tears to flow easily, without holding them back. Yes, it's still painful - but I am now able to flow with my grief and not bury it deep inside.
1/8/2012: This week marked what would have been Glen's 65th birthday. This year was the first time I could actually think about it being his birthday. I baked a chocolate cake, his favorite, and my son Mike and I spent the afternoon sharing memories of Glen - As the day approached, I found myself weeping frequently - letting go of the pain, emptiness, and loss that still remains with me. Sometimes it is difficult to remember it's been nearly three years since his death and I still feel the waves of grief crash down on me. It was wonderful to remember Glen and not feel great intense loss - but instead to remember and smile.
12/17/2011: The holidays are fast approaching and sadness fills my heart. This is the third holiday season since Glen died. I still feel the emptiness that comes with loss, but don't feel compelled to fill the hole in my heart with busy - doing, doing, doing. I received a card from Glen's friend Larry and tears filled my eyes as I realized I'd not told him Glen had died. So I will write a note and send it off this week. Larry has retied and moved to upstate New York. Although I am glad Larry and his wife have retired together, it pricked my heart because this was lost to me when Glen died - no growing old together for us. Retirement is not the same without someone to share it with.
12/4/2011: I am off to see my 91 year-old mother on Monday. I haven't seen her in six months and know her dementia has gotten worse as well as her physical health. I am going home to say good-bye, not for Mom but for myself. Last night I had a dream about Mom. She and I were sitting somewhere together. I was looking at her face - which was years younger than she is now. And she had on bright red lipstick. She wanted me to give her a kiss. I told her I wouldn't kiss her until she wiped off her lipstick. I've thought about the dream all day trying to make sense of it. I don't know for sure, but I think I wanted her to wipe off her lipstick because it represented a mask, as if she were hiding her age, her frailty, her closeness to death. And I wanted to kiss my real Mom good-bye.
11/26/2011: Lots of memories flood over me. Listening to "Alice's Restaurant" three times over the holiday - always makes me cry as I remember all the wonderful times shared with Glen over the years. I guess the third time through an "event" without Glen has distanced me emotionally and then wham! The wave crashes down but I ride that wave back with new understanding. Time moves, but memories linger...
11/19/2011: Mom turns ninety-one in a few days. I haven't seen her since my visit in June. Back then I worried because I didn't feel sad; I didn't really fee anything. Uncomfortably numb. Deep denial she was dying. Or perhaps denial of my impending grief. I struggled throughout the following months to understand why I didn't feel sad that she would soon die. Reports of her declining health didn't awaken my grief. I said, "She's old, she's going to die, she's had a good life..." Last year when Mom turned ninety the family gathered to celebrate her birthday. This year Mom's birthday celebration will coincide with Thanksgiving. Mom says, "I just want to live until my birthday..." At las sadness engulfs me, tears fill my eyes, I feel the pain of loss. I will go to visit Mom in a few weeks, not to celebrate her birthday, but for a chance to say goodbye, and to grieve.
March 8, 2014: Next week will mark five years since Glen died. This is the first year since he died I do not feel overwhelmed with despair, sorrow, and sadness. Oh I feel sad, but not unable to lift myself out of my grief. My life today is very different from what it would have been if Glen had not died. But it is a good life. I enjoy writing (not only about my loss but much more), learning watercolor painting, reading fiction and nonfiction, creating new beaded jewelry, and mostly doing what I enjoy. My friends are supportive and we laugh together frequently. Dubious grief has evolved into the story of how I survived my journey. I realize it is only now, when I've slowly let go of the future that might have been with Glen that I am able to understand my grieving and write my story.
December 21, 2013: Remembering the events of the past year is something I do at the end of each year. This year began badly - depression or grief (not sure what it was) began in February and lasted until early May. I did not write, could not do much except sit around and cry. Looking back on that time I believe it was the final deep grieving I needed to do before I could move on, create my life without Glen. At the end of this grieving period I restructured Dubious Grief and began writing 'my dubious grief story.' For the first time I wrote without intense pain - physical and emotional. This had not been possible until I moved past my deep grief and recognized I could have a life without Glen. 2014 will be the year I complete my story and put my dubious grief to rest.
December 8, 2013: Two chapters drafted - Getaway and Disappearing Act - are the beginning of my final revised version of Dubious Grief. I've finally written the story of my grief. Well not exactly written, but now I have a 'roadmap' detailing chapter goals and construction of each chapter content. For the first time I feel this writing speaks my experience. Each chapter represents a critical scene with backstory woven throughout. Getaway scene is my two days spent at the ocean in July 2008 when Glen was in the middle of chemo treatments and I was taking on ever increasing care taking. Interwoven throughout is the history of our relationship and my growing realization that I was losing my future with him. Disappearing Act scene is the day he died. Woven through are my reflections of the toll chemo took on his body until finally Glen had completely disappeared. The chapter I'm writing now, Creating Normalcy scene is the first Thanksgiving after he died. Woven through are the ways I kept doing, trying to create a sense of 'everything is ok, normal' even without him. So this is the new structure for telling the story of my journey through Dubious Grief. It feels right.
October 18, 2013: Mid October and the days grow shorter; dawn comes later, twilight sooner. I now turn on the kitchen light to cook supper and sleep until seven when the sky lightens to a dull grey. Thick fog hovers inches above the ground. This time of year threatens to suck the life from me. Four years following Glen's death I begin writing lists of things to do - clean closets, dispose of stuff I've no use for, to keep moving forward in this new life. This is the first year I've consciously planned activities to divert grief's onslaught of crushing, debilitating waves. Fortified by an eight day visit with my sister I vow I will not be sucked under this year - or so I think. Only time will tell.
August 1, 2013: I met the wife (widow) of a fellow writer this week. I'd know him briefly (10 weeks) in a memoir writing class. He knew he was dying from terminal lung cancer at the time, I wrote about my grief, the one left behind after the death of my husband. He shared his story of 'the one who is dying' and I shared my story of 'the one left behind" to grieve. His insights about dying helped me understand some of Glen's struggle. My tale of grief helped him understand what lay ahead for his own dear wife. I am so grateful for his friendship, willingness to share his thoughts, and inspire me to write my grief.
May 31, 2013: Over Memorial Weekend I reread Time Traveler's Wife which I had read in 2008. The first time I read the book I had a very different impression. Back then I was angry and suspicious of Henry's motivation. Why would he set-up Claire for being left behind, waiting for his return from wherever in time he'd gone. In my own life at the the time I was angry because Glen was dying (although I didn't realize I was angry at the time). I didn't want to be 'left behind.'
Now five years later, rereading the book punctured my heart, wounded me to my core. I wept, sobbed, overcome with grief. A love story - a story of loss, grief; how closely I identified with Claire and her lost love. My tears flowed freely as I read. No elderly couple walking hand-in-hand through life for me (or for Claire). Instead a life of loneliness, waiting, dragged along through time. The story raised a question of me: Do I want to continue along my lonely path? The lonely, aging, eccentric woman living in the house on the corner? Or do I want to something more in life? I do not know the answer.
February/March 2013: Grief is not an event, it’s a process, a journey through loss. Following my husband Glen’s death I was caught up in a cycle of crazy grief, deceptions to appear “ok” and a frenzy of activity to avoid feeling the deep pain and sadness of my loss. I did not bounce back. Slowly I got unstuck, moved forward but my life is not the same.
Now it happens again. I sink into despair and loneliness, a slow descent into gloom like a prey stalked by a predator. It begins in mid February around valentine’s day. I can no longer write about my loss and unbearable sadness. My heart too heavy to form words insists I stop.
A frenzy of activity consumes me; I do, do, do so I will not think, feel, remember. It has been almost four years and I can’t stop moving. I clean out my book shelves again. Fill a box with books to donate to a local nonprofit, a box to send to my nephew, a box to give to my friend who is compiling a library of feminist materials. It is as if I am replaying the sorting through and donating Glen’s stuff a year ago.
Another frenzy of doing begins on Sunday after a phone call from my sister Susan. The sun, warm and bright tugs me out into the garden. I pick up my gardening stool, lopers, drag the yard waste recycle bin out into the backyard and sit in front of the remembrance garden. The lavender bushes are overgrown and I hack away at the dead flower stalks from last years blooms. My muscles spring alive with energy; clip, clip, clip, off comes the old dead growth. I can not stop and move on to the overgrown purple phlox I had neglected to cut back last year. I rake the leaves off the purple and yellow crocus flowers. On my hands and knees I scoop away the leaves covering the daffodils with their yellow buds sticking out from the debris. Even the green shoots of the tulips have managed to emerge from the earth and promise red lipstick color blooms in a few weeks. Perhaps in time for the anniversary of Glen’s death. The white iberia flowers are blooming. I circle the garden alive with color and new growth, the statue of the thinker in the center makes me smile.
Sunny days of early March urge me out into the gardens again and again. I pull weeds, rake decaying leaves covering the emerging bulbs along the front of my porch. The forsythia bushes fill with large yellow buds. The sweet peas have survived the winter as have the strawberry plants.
My eyes fill with unexpected tears at the sound of a song streaming from the radio. I weep without restraint. Not the heavy, tight, painful weeping of times past. I remember our life and let go. I am not always able to do this - let go - but with the dawn of springtime approaching the fourth year since Glen’s death, I recognize my grasping, clutching, holding on tightly linking me to the dead past, and I just let go.
My heart tells me this will always be a difficult time - mid-February through mid-March. Yet I will move through the gloom of my sadness and into life. I thank the sun for warmth and the reminder of new growth. This is my journey. Now I write, write, write again.
1/17/2013: Attending the memoir writing class has gotten me thinking about why anyone would read a book call Dubious Grief. What universal truths - deeper meanings in my memoir - are contained within the pages. Certainly the theme of loss is there but each section of the book contains a deeper level of truth. Part I: Death Watch is about commitment to my marriage vow - in sickness and health. This thread exposes my experiences supporting Glen in every aspect of his decision about his treatment, even when I disagreed strongly with his choices. Part II: Left Behind is about my struggle through the time of deep sorrow and pain over the loss of my love, my life - when darkness could have sucked me under and taken me away. All I wanted was to be with Glen - it was a time of cognitive dysfunction, going crazy, depression, and meltdowns. This was a long, dark period of hopelessness. Part III: Letting Go is about those small steps in creating a life when things begin to be better. Grief doesn't end - but I learn to live a life of my own. There is no happy ending to my story - my grieving continues - but life is not hopeless. It gets better.
Now I'm doing a third major restructuring of the book that reveals these truths as my story unfolds.
11/5/2012: This weekend I completed the three day Hospice Volunteer training at Cascade Health Solutions. What a wonderful experience. Not only did I learn a great deal about hospice services, but I met many like minded folks, many of whom will become treasured friends. An added benefit is the understanding I gained about my own relationship with death. One activity we engaged in was to briefly relate an experience about someone dying from a story passed along through our family. This got me thinking about the death of my paternal grandfather when I was not quite three years old. No one in the family ever talked about his death. It was a family secret. As an adult in my thirties I discovered he committed suicide - stuck a gun in his mouth and blew his head off. As I've though about this death secret I've come to realize I have avoided funerals when family members died. As an adult I didn't go to my father's funeral, or my grandmother's funeral. I don't think I went to either my other grandfather's funeral when I was in high school or my uncle's funeral. Maybe I even refused to go, I'm not sure. And when my husband Glen died I chose not to have a funeral or celebration of life immediately following his death. Lots to think about now.
10/14/2012: The first weekend in November I will participate in the Cascade Health Solutions hospice volunteer training. This is my calling revealed through my writing - to help those who have lost a loved one during their bereavement. In our society people simply do not know how to help our friends who are deep in grief. It's a two way process. The griever builds a wall around them in order to present an image of "I'm doing ok." In turn friends 'feel' the wall, assume the griever is doing ok because she says she is. When I was deep in grief I responded to friends and coworkers with "I'm doing ok" when I was not ok. It was all I could do to 'keep it together' when with others. I couldn't ask anyone for help or understanding. Even the thought of attending a 'bereavement' group terrified me. Sometimes what I needed was a hug, sometimes I wanted to just talk about my dead loved one. But no one knew how to help me. My wish is to be the person who can break through the wall of grief and provide comfort to those who are grieving.
9/12/2012: Autumn approaches and I feel the all too familiar sadness creep over me. But this year, for the first time I recognize what the sadness foretells - four years ago came the news Glen's cancer would not be cured - Glen's words "It's not about killing the cancer, it's about how long I can keep it at bay..." No wallowing in sorrow this year - no crushing by the tsunami wave, simply a recognition of the source of my sadness.
3/31/2012: Saturday March 24 I went with friends to the coast. Weather predicted sun with increasing clouds in the afternoon. Rain for the next week. I'd wanted to release the last of Glen's ashes on Wed. March 14 - alas weather didn't permit this. I kept track of the weather forecast - the only break from rain, wind, and snow was Saturday. We hit the coast range and drizzle fell. We reached the coast and wind roared, drizzle fell. I was determined. At the beach I sat in the car, watched the waves roar in, the wind blow. Excitement welled up inside me. This was it - I walked toward the shoreline with my friends. Dark clouds hung on the horizon. Storm was coming in fast. Rocks piled up along the high water mark. I bent into the wind, moved into the rush of air. Watched the waves hit the shore. Everyone took a handful of Glen - tossed him into the wind. I ran along the shoreline spilling Glen out along the edge of the water. I looked up. A huge wave was pounding toward shore. My heart raced; I turned and ran. We all laughed, running away from the huge wave. Glen's spirit laughed, played with us. No somber affair this final release. Joy, laughter, freedom for Glen's spirit. I picked up a smooth, perfectly round flat stone, put it in my pocket. My heart no long ached. I was also free.
3/25/2012: I did it again. How many times will I repeat the cycle - doing not feeling, stuck in sadness, release my sorrow, move into living. Ah, Dubious Grief.
March 21, first full day of spring, except eight inches of snow fell. One week prior - March 14 - marked three years since Glen died. And what did I do - cleaned out the final space containing Glen's electronic stuff. Doing, doing, doing to avoid feeling my deep sadness, my sorrow. To my credit I donated usable items to a nonprofit and recycled the rest. I let his stuff go.
On that snowy spring day the local public radio music station went off the air. The heavy wet snow brought down power lines - (and the two plumb trees in my yard that always bloom in mid March). Eugene isn't well prepared to deal with eight inches of wet snow. The downed trees were heavy with blossoms, unable to hold up under the additional weight of the snow.
But I digress. Snowed in and without music on the radio I played CDs - "our music" - and memories once again flooded my consciousness. Waves of grief built slowly throughout the day. I wrote and revised the structure for Part II - Left Behind - of Dubious Grief. Many of the pieces are written - puzzle pieces I can now fit together. Themes emerged.
I wept without effort. Tears came easily. I did not hold on. I let go and sang along with the Cowboy Junkies...
3/18/2012: Wednesday March 14 marked the third year since Glen died. I had planned to go to the coast to release his ashes. Alas mother nature did not cooperate. Snow fell on the coast - and in the coast range. High winds blew. There was no going to the coast this week. I decided to live my "letting go" epiphany and tackled the final clearing out of Glen's electronic stuff. The front closet, stuffed with boxes, wire, books. I went through it all - boxed up books, magazines, and information sheets. Decided to keep a few science fiction books to read - found a collection of Ray Bradbury short stories - but mostly I recycled. I found two letters I'd written Glen in September 1978 - the year we moved to Santa Barbara. He'd kept these letters for over thirty years. It took two days to complete the task. Letting go is difficult, but necessary in order to move into life.
3/10/2012: I can't grow until I let go. Waves of my grieving - sneaker waves unseen, crushing tsunami waves, and finally letting go and riding the waves. How the waves come - sometimes I see them - others are unseen. But now I let go, ride the waves, let the waves take me wherever I need to go.
Approaching the third anniversary of Glen's death, I let my life with Glen go. Let go of the memories. Let go of the past. Not forgetting, just letting it go.
Memories will return but I will no longer hold onto them tightly. I will remember but not cling to those memories. I must grow. I will simply let go.
3/3/2012: It's been nearly three years since Glen died. A friend suggest we do something together on the actual day of his death. At first I thought, NO WAY. I wanted to isolate myself - not just from my friends, but from my emotions. If I am alone, I don't have to worry about "losing it." The more I've thought about her offer to be with me, the more I've come to realize how isolation is just another form of denial. And I don't want to go back there. I want to move forward. I want to release the remainder of Glen's ashes. The third anniversary of his death seems like a good time. So I will go to the coast with my friend and let the ocean take Glen's ashes out to sea.
2/25/2012: Mike gave me a happy birthday balloon. The balloon gift was a tradition. A mylar balloon filled with helium. One side decorated with purple, pink, and green circles. Happy Birthday emblazoned across the second side. A pink ribbon tied at the bottom of the balloon was attached to a red plastic disk. A weight anchoring the balloon four feet above the ground. The cats played with the balloon as if it were a new cat toy. Kitty, the small female tabby, batted at the ribbon. Made the balloon dance up and down. Marco, the large grey and white male, grabbed the ribbon between his teeth and ran off with it. A game of capture and run.
When I returned from my east coast trip the beginning of June, the balloon was flying high, touching the ceiling. Marco had chewed through the ribbon freeing the balloon from it’s red plastic weight. It soared in the corner near the electronic equipment. Nearly a month after my birthday the balloon still flew high.
Several weeks after I returned home, Mike was diagnosed with thyroid cancer. It threw me for a loop - fear of another loss overwhelmed me. I sat in my chair in the evening after work and watched the balloon. It turned slowly in the air currents above the cabinet with Glen's electronic equipment inside.
“Happy birthday,” the balloon message said with each rotation.
The message was from Glen. He watched over me. I was sure. “Hi hon,” I whispered. Tears blurred my vision. An iron fist clamped around my heart.
I’d gone to Vermont during my visit to the east coast. I wanted to see Glen's family. I needed to talk with his brother who’d called the day Glen died. “I’m ok,” I said to the balloon. “I saw the babies. Mum’s ok. She’s got babies now...”
The balloon turned again. “Happy Birthday,” it said.
Glen’s turntable no longer sat on top of the cabinet. I’d given it to my friend and her husband. He was a audiophile like Glen. I wanted the turntable and records to bring joy to someone. I knew I’d never play the records. CD’s were easier.
“Sorry about your phase linear.” The white box with Glen’s ashes sat on top of the cabinet. Three rocks and eight candles surrounded it. A lump swelled up in my throat. “A balloon sentry guarding the rest of your stuff. I won’t give away another piece...” I promised. The lump dissolved.
The balloon turned. “Happy Birthday” appeared.
Mike and I went through the diagnostic tests, scheduled his surgery, and prepared to travel to Portland. The balloon swayed in the currents. "Happy Birthday," it still exclaimed. The balloon kept hope alive, quelled my fear of yet another loss.
I closed the door. “Goodbye,” I said. “See you when we get back...”
Mike and I returned a few days later. The balloon still floated above the stereo cabinet. It no longer touched the ceiling. It still rotated in the air currents. “Happy Birthday,” it announced.
The birthday balloon floated and turned in the air until the day after the drain tube in Mike’s neck was removed. In the living room the corner above the equipment cabinet was empty. Marco had captured and dragged the deflated balloon into the kitchen. I picked it up off the floor. “Thanks for seeing me thought this...” I said, depositing the dead balloon into the trash barrel.
2/18/2012: I struggled this week - sadness sucked me down into the dark depths once again. Three years ago Glen was loosing his battle with cancer. Brenda felt the loneliness and deep sadness also. Dubious Grief - will it ever end? I think about the adage "those who fail to learn from history are destined to repeat it." I write. I want to learn. I want to avoid repeating this history - grief crashing down on me like a sneaker wave - unseen until it crushes my spirit.
1/15/2012: Writing about my life with Glen and the pain of losing him is always difficult, yet a the same time cathartic. I read through my journal entries from the year he was dying and vivid images of the destruction of his body still haunt me four years after the initial diagnosis of lung cancer. In my mind I see his body disappearing, his mind diminishing, and his spirit fading as hope for more life fades. But this year it's easier, less physically painful, because I have learned to ride the wave of grief, allowing tears to flow easily, without holding them back. Yes, it's still painful - but I am now able to flow with my grief and not bury it deep inside.
1/8/2012: This week marked what would have been Glen's 65th birthday. This year was the first time I could actually think about it being his birthday. I baked a chocolate cake, his favorite, and my son Mike and I spent the afternoon sharing memories of Glen - As the day approached, I found myself weeping frequently - letting go of the pain, emptiness, and loss that still remains with me. Sometimes it is difficult to remember it's been nearly three years since his death and I still feel the waves of grief crash down on me. It was wonderful to remember Glen and not feel great intense loss - but instead to remember and smile.
12/17/2011: The holidays are fast approaching and sadness fills my heart. This is the third holiday season since Glen died. I still feel the emptiness that comes with loss, but don't feel compelled to fill the hole in my heart with busy - doing, doing, doing. I received a card from Glen's friend Larry and tears filled my eyes as I realized I'd not told him Glen had died. So I will write a note and send it off this week. Larry has retied and moved to upstate New York. Although I am glad Larry and his wife have retired together, it pricked my heart because this was lost to me when Glen died - no growing old together for us. Retirement is not the same without someone to share it with.
12/4/2011: I am off to see my 91 year-old mother on Monday. I haven't seen her in six months and know her dementia has gotten worse as well as her physical health. I am going home to say good-bye, not for Mom but for myself. Last night I had a dream about Mom. She and I were sitting somewhere together. I was looking at her face - which was years younger than she is now. And she had on bright red lipstick. She wanted me to give her a kiss. I told her I wouldn't kiss her until she wiped off her lipstick. I've thought about the dream all day trying to make sense of it. I don't know for sure, but I think I wanted her to wipe off her lipstick because it represented a mask, as if she were hiding her age, her frailty, her closeness to death. And I wanted to kiss my real Mom good-bye.
11/26/2011: Lots of memories flood over me. Listening to "Alice's Restaurant" three times over the holiday - always makes me cry as I remember all the wonderful times shared with Glen over the years. I guess the third time through an "event" without Glen has distanced me emotionally and then wham! The wave crashes down but I ride that wave back with new understanding. Time moves, but memories linger...
11/19/2011: Mom turns ninety-one in a few days. I haven't seen her since my visit in June. Back then I worried because I didn't feel sad; I didn't really fee anything. Uncomfortably numb. Deep denial she was dying. Or perhaps denial of my impending grief. I struggled throughout the following months to understand why I didn't feel sad that she would soon die. Reports of her declining health didn't awaken my grief. I said, "She's old, she's going to die, she's had a good life..." Last year when Mom turned ninety the family gathered to celebrate her birthday. This year Mom's birthday celebration will coincide with Thanksgiving. Mom says, "I just want to live until my birthday..." At las sadness engulfs me, tears fill my eyes, I feel the pain of loss. I will go to visit Mom in a few weeks, not to celebrate her birthday, but for a chance to say goodbye, and to grieve.
11/12/2011: This morning I was overcome with an intense wave of sadness. I think it was triggered earlier this week when I heard what Steve Job's final words were "OH Wow, oh wow, oh wow" just before he died. I've been trying to remember what Glen's last words to me were, but I can't find them in my memories. I remember when our friends and their 3-year old were leaving the house the weekend before Glen died. He said, "Goodbye baby" in response to the 3-year old's goodbye to him. I can't remember him speaking again. So now I grieve for a lost goodbye...
11/5/2011: This week I've gone through four boxes of Glen's books. I found a paperback sci-fi I'd read a very long time ago - The Disappearance - by Philip Wylie. Originally written in the early 1950's and republished in the 1970's (when I probably read it) the book explores what happens on Earth where the men disappear from women's world and women disappear from men's world. As I reread the book my grief is sparked - because in my world now, there is no Glen. I have four more boxes of books to go through. Maybe I'll find other familiar titles and reread them too.
10/29/2011: This week I've been very weepy! My emotions are just waiting to jump out of me. Read "Zen in the Art of Writing" by Ray Bradbury, one of Glen's favorite sci-fi writers. Another way of knowing Glen - through the stories he loved. I'm preparing to go through the boxes filled with Glen's sci-fi books. Letting go of more of my life with Glen so I can move forward in creating my own life. I feel excited and sad at the same time. Very confusing. Hard to know how much of the "our life" to let go of in order to fully embrace my new life path.
10/20/2011: I've been feeling sad for several weeks and just couldn't figure out why. And then I realized the anniversary of the death of Glen's mother, Barbara was coming up. Earlier this week I called his sister and later that evening received a call from my niece. So I talked with them and felt their sadness. Today, marks the one year anniversary of her death, and I realize her death symbolizes the death of Glen for me. When Barbara died, she took all the memories of his childhood with her. So a big part of his life is gone, unknowable to me. Yet another piece of my grieving - the lost chance to hear stories from his childhood.
10/15/2011: Reading a book - Grieving: A Beginner's Guide and came across a wonderful concept. Grief as a circular staircase, not a series of "stages" but a spiral in which we circle around, passing through anniversaries, events, year after year, but with increasing insight as time passes. The idea comes from a poem - "The Five Stages of Grief" by Linda Pastan who writes upon reaching the "final" stage of grieving - "Acceptance. I finally reach it. But something is wrong. Grief is a circular staircase. I have lost you." It reminds me that my grief changes with each passing cycle, through each relived moment of my loss, how much I have learned.
10/8/2011: October - soon it will be the first anniversary of Barbara's death. Today I read my niece's Facebook post about missing her Nana. Barbara was the cement that held her family together. Without the mortar of Barbara's love, the family seems to be adrift. Everyone struggles to get through the day, each day, and sometimes we fall apart without knowing why. As our pain lessens we move on with our lives. We try to celebrate the good times - marriage, birthdays, time spent together - but struggle to keep living our separate lives. We miss her so much, sometimes we just fall apart.
10/1/2011: This week I tackled cleaning out the closet in the spare room. This was my third attempt at completing this chore. I cried looking through all the paperwork stored on the top shelves - paperwork from the two business Glen started when we moved to Oregon. It felt like I was throwing away his life - so sad. It took me 5 1/2 hours to complete, four trips to the recycle bin, and two hours shredding the paperwork with identifying information. In the end, I felt satisfied because what I don't want to happen is when I die, for someone else to face the task of sorting through the mess of a lifetime. It has taken me 2 1/2 years to find the courage to face this task.
9/25/2011: I now face the task of putting together the materials for Dubious Grief. The most difficult task is simply reading my journal entries and deciding where to insert the story of Glen and my life together. This backstory is important and reading the journal entries will hopefully stimulate recollections about our life together. But it is still very difficult for me to read my words written as Glen dies and my days of deep sorrow following his death.
9/18/2011: Last weekend was the 10th anniversary of the 9-11 attack. As the day approached, the news media projected image, after image of the tragedy. Although I did not know anyone personally who died in the towers, the images triggered wave after wave of grief for me. I purposely have avoided these images for 10 years - and was unprepared for the waves of grief. I couldn't write - the pain was too much. I decided to write about happy times with Glen. Writing about these happy years helped life my spirit.
9/4/2011: When my husband was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer, the year of the DEATH WATCH was filled with contradictory emotions. Although it was the beginning of my grieving, it was unacknowledged grief. It was a time filled with alternating hope for a cure and increasing realization that the end of his life, our life, was immanent. I struggled, moving between fear of loss and unwavering support in his attempt to find a cure. I think this paralyzed me emotionally, leaving me unable to even talk with him about death. As his death drew ever closer, the pain of impending loss consumed me. How could I grieve when the person when the person I loved struggled to stay alive?
8/27/2011: This week I had a breakthrough - I've been seeking my authentic writing voice this summer and went back to my journal entries - and WOW - my voice jumped out. Read through all of my journal entries - cried a lot but I expected reading these would have this effect. I decided that the essence of Dubious Grief, as a writing project, lies in these journal entries. With that in mind I decided to use these as the heart of my book. Yea - I feel like this is a breakthrough in my writing.
8/22/2011: My first post on Dubious Grief was a year ago. I started blogging because I wanted to put my writing out - I wanted a public place to put my writing. Writing a weekly post on the blog was a challenge - but it helped me let go of my ego and simply write. It has helped me let the words speak for themselves. Writing about grief, my grief, has freed me to write, from my heart. Creative nonfiction is a wonderful place to begin writing from.
8/13/2011: This past week my son Mike had a second surgery to remove cancerous limps. This morning, nearly a week after his surgery, I was finally able to let go of my fear of being left behind, yet again, by someone I love. A wave of grief flowed over me and tears followed. Not painful, heart wrenching tears like when the wave crushes me, but tears of relief, as I rode the wave through my grief, effortlessly releasing all of that grief held so tightly by me over the past month since the initial diagnosis. It's comforting to know I have learned the way to ride the wave...
8/7/2011: My sister sent me a piece I wrote in 2007 reflecting on the death of my mother's husband. I started thinking about relationships from the past, the finality of death, and how once death comes, we can 't go back and "fix" those relationships. I'm reading - Death's Door - written by the literary critic Sandra Gilbert. One of the things she suggests about acknowledging the irreversibility of death is that we move away from the dreamlike past of thinking we might change the ending. Acknowledging the finality of the death is necessary before we can move forward with living.
7/30/2011: I read a lot - not simply fiction, but nonfiction. I started reading "Long, Strange, Trip" about the history of the grateful dead. I couldn't seem to finish the final 20 or so pages. This week I finished the book and realized my hesitation was not wanting to read about Jerry Garcia's death. After my trip to the coast last weekend, and releasing some of Glen's ashes, I was finally able to read the ending. I hadn't realized Garcia's ashes were released into the Pacific just off San Francisco. Funny how closure comes in unexpected places.
7/25/2011: Yesterday I went to the coast with several friends. I brought along some of Glen's ashes to release. My little 5-year old friend has struggled with Glen's death. She was 3 when he died. They had a very special connection. She talks about his spirit visiting her and how much she misses him. At the beach I gave her some of his ashes. She happily flung these into the wind and water, laughing. She said he could swim away into the ocean. Saying goodbye is hard, no matter what age we are.
7/16/2011: Last summer I didn't spend many evenings meditating near Glen's Remembrance garden. I had the first year spent lots of time in the early evening eating my dinner and finding a sense of calm near the garden. This year, the third year of the garden, I again spend many evenings near the garden. The first year I wept, grief so new I doubted the grief would ever end. Last summer, year two, I was still doing, doing, doing - not much time for feeling. This year I sit and enjoy the incredible beauty of the garden.
7/10/2011: For the past several weeks I have been aware of how my grief process is never ending. How new or potential loss ignites my grief journey, moves be back in time, forces me to examine my grieving again, and again. I became depressed, unable to connect with my physical, emotional self - in that place of grieving where I am paralyzed. I can't move emotionally and become stuck in the uncomfortably numb space I dwelled in during Glen's illness when we did not know what lie ahead. Uncertainty - anticipating but not knowing what to expect. News from Mike's doctor that his thyroid cancer is back but confined to three lymph glands. Surgery to remove the cancer is possible; this released me to move again. Loss or potential loss will alway stay with me; but for now I move on in my journey.
7/3/2011: The pain from loss - this is what I fear most. Fear starts with the tests that uncover the terminal condition - cancer. Anticipating the loss stirs fear. The pain is physical, mental, emotional - a ripping to shreds, one piece at a time, kind of pain. I startle at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. The face staring back is the same sorrowful one I wore for months following Glen's cancer diagnosis and death. My sad eyes filled with deep pain. I see these same eyes now as my son Mike and I await the results of his PET scan.
6/18/2011: I feel a transition in my grieving process. A few weeks ago I started looking at photos taken of Glen during the final year of his life as he underwent chemotherapy. I had not been able to look at these images before. Now I find I need to reflect on his dramatic decline. I am ready to face emotions long suppressed during this final year of our life together.
5/29/2011: This week I will travel to visit my 90 year old mother. Her health is declining and this may be our final visit. Another wave of crazy grief to confront. The worst thing for me is the distance between Mom and myself. Not just physical distance but emotional distance. I love her dearly but we are very different people. Sorting out my feelings at this time is difficult. So much to think about as I travel "home."
5/22/2011: Last year I received an unsigned birthday card from my sister. The note inside said, "You sent me this card last year on my birthday and didn't sign it..." What? I didn't sign the card? This is not at all like me. I'd sent the card two months after Glen died. When I received the unsigned card with the note something clicked in my head. This was the action of a person with impaired cognitive ability, a crazy person. And I began thinking about Crazy Grief. Am I crazy two years later? I don't think I am, but then what do I know? I sent the unsigned card off to my sister for her birthday again this year. It validated my Crazy Grief time.
5/15/2011: I seem to take two steps forward and one back. Creating a life worth living is hard. I move forward, writing, beading, gardening, living. Then suddenly, I'm stuck; can't seem to find a reason to move. Self motivation is a problem. I sit, think, weep. I desperately want to understand what deflates my desire to move. Maybe it's the date - Saturday, May 14, 2011 - two years and two months since Glen died. Now I write, write, write...
7/30/2011: I read a lot - not simply fiction, but nonfiction. I started reading "Long, Strange, Trip" about the history of the grateful dead. I couldn't seem to finish the final 20 or so pages. This week I finished the book and realized my hesitation was not wanting to read about Jerry Garcia's death. After my trip to the coast last weekend, and releasing some of Glen's ashes, I was finally able to read the ending. I hadn't realized Garcia's ashes were released into the Pacific just off San Francisco. Funny how closure comes in unexpected places.
7/25/2011: Yesterday I went to the coast with several friends. I brought along some of Glen's ashes to release. My little 5-year old friend has struggled with Glen's death. She was 3 when he died. They had a very special connection. She talks about his spirit visiting her and how much she misses him. At the beach I gave her some of his ashes. She happily flung these into the wind and water, laughing. She said he could swim away into the ocean. Saying goodbye is hard, no matter what age we are.
7/16/2011: Last summer I didn't spend many evenings meditating near Glen's Remembrance garden. I had the first year spent lots of time in the early evening eating my dinner and finding a sense of calm near the garden. This year, the third year of the garden, I again spend many evenings near the garden. The first year I wept, grief so new I doubted the grief would ever end. Last summer, year two, I was still doing, doing, doing - not much time for feeling. This year I sit and enjoy the incredible beauty of the garden.
7/10/2011: For the past several weeks I have been aware of how my grief process is never ending. How new or potential loss ignites my grief journey, moves be back in time, forces me to examine my grieving again, and again. I became depressed, unable to connect with my physical, emotional self - in that place of grieving where I am paralyzed. I can't move emotionally and become stuck in the uncomfortably numb space I dwelled in during Glen's illness when we did not know what lie ahead. Uncertainty - anticipating but not knowing what to expect. News from Mike's doctor that his thyroid cancer is back but confined to three lymph glands. Surgery to remove the cancer is possible; this released me to move again. Loss or potential loss will alway stay with me; but for now I move on in my journey.
7/3/2011: The pain from loss - this is what I fear most. Fear starts with the tests that uncover the terminal condition - cancer. Anticipating the loss stirs fear. The pain is physical, mental, emotional - a ripping to shreds, one piece at a time, kind of pain. I startle at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. The face staring back is the same sorrowful one I wore for months following Glen's cancer diagnosis and death. My sad eyes filled with deep pain. I see these same eyes now as my son Mike and I await the results of his PET scan.
6/18/2011: I feel a transition in my grieving process. A few weeks ago I started looking at photos taken of Glen during the final year of his life as he underwent chemotherapy. I had not been able to look at these images before. Now I find I need to reflect on his dramatic decline. I am ready to face emotions long suppressed during this final year of our life together.
5/29/2011: This week I will travel to visit my 90 year old mother. Her health is declining and this may be our final visit. Another wave of crazy grief to confront. The worst thing for me is the distance between Mom and myself. Not just physical distance but emotional distance. I love her dearly but we are very different people. Sorting out my feelings at this time is difficult. So much to think about as I travel "home."
5/22/2011: Last year I received an unsigned birthday card from my sister. The note inside said, "You sent me this card last year on my birthday and didn't sign it..." What? I didn't sign the card? This is not at all like me. I'd sent the card two months after Glen died. When I received the unsigned card with the note something clicked in my head. This was the action of a person with impaired cognitive ability, a crazy person. And I began thinking about Crazy Grief. Am I crazy two years later? I don't think I am, but then what do I know? I sent the unsigned card off to my sister for her birthday again this year. It validated my Crazy Grief time.
5/7/2011: This week I found a photo of Glen and Brenda (his sister). It was taken in May 2008 when Glen underwent chemotherapy. I had not been able to put up any photos taken of Glen during his final year. I would feel so much sadness when I looked at these photos. The image I came across this week made me smile. Glen and Brenda, smiling at me. I don't see death in this photo, but hope shining from their faces. I framed the photo and put it on the mantle where I can see his smiling face even as he faced the end.
4/30/2011: Each day I remember Glen. I see his face smiling down at me from a photo. I hear a song and remember our game - whose the artist, the group, the song. I sit in the warm spring sunshine beside the garden. Grief lingers even as a gentle breeze brings the fragrance of lilies from the garden to me. I cry less frequently. I move forward in my life without the one I love.
4/30/2011: Each day I remember Glen. I see his face smiling down at me from a photo. I hear a song and remember our game - whose the artist, the group, the song. I sit in the warm spring sunshine beside the garden. Grief lingers even as a gentle breeze brings the fragrance of lilies from the garden to me. I cry less frequently. I move forward in my life without the one I love.
4/23/2011: I wrote a personal essay describing the day my husband, Glen, died. He died from lung cancer that spread to his spine then his brain. He chose to enter Hospice care only a few weeks prior to his death. I am grateful he died at home, surrounded by those who loved him. Writing the story of his final day was painful. Remembering all of the details, how he looked, what those who loved him did to provide comfort that final day, was difficult because it forced me to finally acknowledge, two years after his death, I had to move out of my grief and into life. I write. Writing moves me forward in life…
