Bittersweet Endings

Yesterday, I went to see the final Downton Abbey movie. It was very bittersweet for me, not only because it was the end of a series I had thoroughly enjoyed, and the end of an interesting decades-long saga for the characters, but because it was the end of a journey I had begun with my husband and ended alone. 

My husband and I were surprisingly late to jump on the Downton Abbey train. I'm not sure why, but it took until his sister recommended it to him at the end of Season 1, and after watching the pilot episode, he announced excitedly that he knew I would love it (for the clothes, if nothing else), so we went back and watched the pilot together. And I was immediately hooked. 

The two of us didn't always have the same taste in shows and movies, although we loved finding things we could watch together. Most of the time, one of us loved a show and the other liked or at least tolerated it. 24, for example, was one of his favorites, and I thought it was just okay, but it was fun to watch together. The Great British Baking Show, on the other hand, was one that I loved and he thought was okay, but again, it was fun to watch together. Whenever we decided to watch a show together, each of us refrained from jumping ahead, waiting to watch an episode until we could do it together. Fortunately, we both loved Downton Abbey so much that we both eagerly watched each episode as soon as it was available. And when the series ended and the films were released, we went to see them together as soon as possible. Which meant that this final film was the only part of the series that I watched without him. 

It felt wrong. 

It didn't help that I went to a Tuesday matinee showing, which meant that the theater was nearly empty. I was as physically alone as I was emotionally alone. I was aware of every moment I would have leaned over and whispered a comment in his ear. I was very aware of every moment I would have put my hand on his knee. Near the end of the film, there is a lovely, tender moment between Lord and Lady Grantham where he tells her he loves her, and they reach for each other's hands, when I involuntarily lifted my hand to take his. But it wasn't there. He wasn't there. It was a moment of profound loneliness. 

And yet, it was also a moment of profound love, and of thankfulness that I had had the privilege of sharing so many years with someone who was touched by the moments that touched me, who actively sought out shared experiences, who was willing to spend time doing things he didn't love because I loved them. I saw some of us in every one of the beautiful love stories portrayed on the screen. 

I saw his loving tolerance of my awkwardness in Baxter's sweet smiles at Molesley. I saw his appreciation for my nudging him out of his occasional pigheadedness in Cora's standing her ground with Robert. I saw our romantic connection in Mary's memory of dancing with Matthew. I saw the sweetness of finding love at an older age in the relationships between Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes and between Mr. Mason and Mrs. Padmore. I remembered our early infatuation in the young love stage of Andy and Daisy. I thought of how I blossomed and developed confidence through our relationship as Edith stood up for opinions while Bertie stood back and watched with pride and affection. I thought of our hosting parties together as Cora managed things behind the scenes and Robert made a charming speech to their guests. 

And I saw myself in Mary, as she looked back at but memories of her past, recalling all the joyful moments she had spent in that house. And then the memories faded away, and she was left alone, facing the daunting task of managing Downton by herself. 

It was a bittersweet mix of happy memories and the pangs of loss. It was the ending of something we had begun together, but also the beginning of my learning to do things without him. I would rather have watched the movie with him, but I was still able to enjoy it alone. There are many things that I would rather be doing with him, but I am learning that I am able to do them alone. 

It's a bittersweet ending, but it's also a new beginning. Like the Downton characters, I can't see exactly where my future will lead, but I have confidence that things will somehow work out. I can look back and see all that I've overcome, and know that I can face whatever comes next. 

Even if I'm facing it alone.   

I Put It Away, Then I Got On With Things

Last Labor Day weekend marked the first event my husband and I participated in together as "Band Parents." Our son had joined the high school marching band, and they needed parents to volunteer at parades, competitions, and football games, to help with uniforms, serve as chaperones on the buses, and march alongside the band to help clear the way and provide water to the students. We dutifully showed up at the school and were given our official nametags and bright blue polo shirts with the band's logo on them.  

Today, I chaperoned solo. It occurred to me last night that I needed to find my polo shirt, which presumably had been hanging in my closet since the end of last marching season, and my nametag and lanyard, which....honestly, could have been anywhere. So when I got up this morning, I went through all the shirts in my closet and didn't find it. But occasionally clean laundry gets put away in the wrong closet, so I started going through my late husband's shirts, and I found his polo shirt hanging neatly, with his name lanyard carefully hooked around the same hanger. And I realized that he doesn't need it any more, so I should return it to the school. 

Doesn't sound like a big deal, right? And at first, it wasn't. But as I laid the hanger on the kitchen table with my purse so I wouldn't forget it, it suddenly hit me. Putting that shirt back in the uniform closet was a definitive statement that he was gone. He would never march in another parade, take another photo of his son in uniform, drum along with another cadence, ride another bus back to the school, pass out another water bottle. We would never again reminisce about our own marching band days or laugh at our nerdy high school selves. We wouldn't be going to band parent meetings together. I would be doing all of those things solo. 

None of those things are hard to do alone; I'm perfectly capable of doing all of them myself. I have done them all myself, on occasion. It's not the same as figuring out how to maintain the pool or who to call to turn off the irrigation system or mowing the lawn. It's the knowledge that part of the fun of all those activities was doing them together, and that part of my life is over. 

I will admit that tears were running down my face as I drove towards the school with his shirt and lanyard on a hanger next to me. When I parked the car, I took a moment to pull myself together, wiped my face, blew my nose, and brought the shirt inside. I hung it in the closet with the rest of the shirts, took his nametag out of the plastic sleeve, and returned the lanyard to the designated box. And then I took a deep breath, and marched out of the closet to start my pre-parade duties. I put it away, then I got on with things. 

It occurred to me later in the day that this could be a healthy way to deal with all of the reminders of him that I will come across over the coming weeks and months: cry over it, put it away, then get on with things. Dwelling on them isn't productive, hanging onto them only prolongs the pain, and life keeps moving along, so I'd better get on with it. 

Letting go of things isn't easy for me. I have definite packrat tendencies. But when I do finally let go of things, like weeding through my craft supplies or donating clothes that no longer fit or giving away toys that my kids have outgrown or tossing 200 of the 500 twist ties that have accumulated in the kitchen drawer, it feels really good. It feels like a weight has lifted from my shoulders. It feels like I can breathe a little more freely. 

Letting go of reminders of him will be a little harder. Okay, a lot harder. But I have the memories, so I don't need the stuff. The stuff just holds me back, keeping me in the past, in my grief. Maybe, just maybe, letting go of the stuff will let me move ahead to the future, out of the grief of loss and into the joy of memories. 

I just have to put it away, then get on with things. 

Good Enough

Yesterday, I sent my youngest off to her first day of high school. Today, I sent my oldest off to his first day of sophomore year. In keeping with tradition, they held signs and posed for photos on the front steps. 

 

But the difference was that this year the signs were a little less fancy and the photos were a little less polished. Because they were always a "Dad thing." Dad knew how to print a document with a fancy border and elegant text, and he had a photographer's eye that avoided shadows and lens flare and always had balanced composition. This year, it fell on me. I did the best I could, but I'm not Dad. 

My signs had a simple, rectangular border and a basic font without any shading or highlighting. I apparently picked a color that wasn't dark enough to show up really well in the photos. The photos are framed so the kids are a little off-center, the steps not exactly horizontal. There are weeds visible at the foot of the stairs. I deleted a bunch of the ones where they're both standing up because they have such a significant height difference that I either cut off the top of my son's head or I zoomed out so much that it just looked weird. 

But I got it done. We have photographic evidence of their first day. Years from now, when I put together the whole series of "First Day of School" photos, there won't have to be a gap. The difference in quality might be noticeable to some, but there won't be an absence. 

Except there will be an absence. We will always remember, when we look at these photos, that this was the first big moment when Dad wasn't there. When we had to carry on with normal life even though it was far from normal. When Mom stepped in and did her best, but it wasn't quite the same. 

I expect there to be a lot of moments like that in the future: Not quite the same. When they graduate from high school, we won't have the standard photos of Mom and Dad framing the beaming graduate. But we'll have photos, and although it won't be quite the same, it will be good enough. When they get married, Dad won't walk my daughter down the aisle or give my son "manly advice" and a fatherly slap on the back, but I'll be there. It won't be the same, but it will be good enough. When they buy their first house, Dad won't be the one sabering champagne to celebrate, but one of us that he trained will be. It won't be the same, but it will be good enough. When they become parents, Grandpa won't be there to hog the baby, but Nana Pott will have plenty of cuddles and lots of stories of the amazing, funny, wonderful, loving grandfather that they never met. It won't be the same, but it will be good enough. 

Nothing will ever be the same. But I think it just might be good enough. 

It's Nothing, and It's Everything

This morning started well. I woke up in the early morning hours and heard my beloved owls hooting in the backyard. I fell back to sleep for a few more hours, so I had gotten a decent night's sleep. It was a lovely morning, sunny and cool. I got up, patted the cat sleeping in my bathroom sink, got my coffee, filled my birdfeeders, watched my backyard bunny hopping around. It was a good morning. 

And then I started to cry. 

I don't know why. I hadn't had a sudden memory or thought, I hadn't suddenly remembered some task I didn't know how to do, or some new bureaucratic snag to add to my to-do list. I just, completely out of the blue, felt so very sad and empty and overwhelmed and lonely. 

Sometimes grief works that way. Sometimes there's something specific that sets you off, but sometimes it's really nothing. Or maybe it's really everything. 

I've been looking forward to school starting next week, giving the kids a schedule, a structure, a routine, things to do all day instead of just hanging around at loose ends. I've been counting the days since my husband's death, waiting for his final death certificate to arrive so I can start dealing with all the red tape, making calls, filling out forms, scheduling appointments. 45 days passed. 60 days passed. I was supposed to have gotten it in "45 to 60 days." I'm worried that the "deadline" has passed and I'm still waiting. I'm looking ahead to the change of weather, knowing there will be a whole new round of things to do around the house to prepare for the cold weather: close the pool, turn off the outside spigots and irrigation system, arrange for snowplowing services, make sure the furnace is working. 

It's a lot. It's...everything. It's not just one thing that sets me off, it's the weight of everything.  

I keep using the phrase "eating the elephant" to explain how I'm trying to deal with things. You know, "How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time." Do just one task, solve just one problem, do just one thing. But every now and then, you feel so full that you're sick to your stomach, and then you look up, and there's still an awful lot of elephant there. 

I wish I had some lovely resolution to close with, some words of wisdom to explain that now I'm okay and things are fine and everything is just ducky. 

But I'm not okay, things aren't fine, and everything is definitely not ducky. I'm still sad and empty and overwhelmed and lonely. I'm still terrified of how much elephant I have left to deal with. I'm still frustrated and furious at the bureaucracy I have to untangle. I'm still worried about how I'll deal with everything. Yes, I have lots of help and support, but it still falls on me, and it sucks. 

This feeling will pass at some point, I'm sure, or at least it will lessen. But right now, it totally sucks. And I hate it. 

But I'm going to let myself wallow for now, because it's okay to do that. Wallowing is cathartic. Wallowing for a moment will eventually make me feel better. The need to wallow will pass. It's nothing. But right now, it's also everything. 

This Was Just a Moment in the Woods

Much to my husband's chagrin, I have always been a fan of Stephen Sondheim musicals. (He was...not.) I often find Sondheim's lyrics to be particularly moving and heartfelt. Some of my favorite lyrics are from the song "Any Moment/Moments in the Woods" from the musical Into the Woods. Here are some of my favorite passages:

Days are made of moments, all are worth exploring
Many kinds of moments, none is worth ignoring
All we have are moments, memories for storing

This was just a moment in the woods - Our moment
Shimmering and lovely and sad
Leave the moment, just be glad for the moment that we had
Every moment is a moment when you're in the woods...

Must it all be either less or more, either plain or grand?
Is it always "or"? Is it never "and"?

Just remembering you've had an "and" when you're back to "or"
Makes the "or" mean more than it did before

Life is, indeed, made of moments, some good and some bad. Grieving highlights those moments, emphasizing them, heightening them, and often flipping back and forth between good and bad with a speed that literally knocks the breath out of you. 

Yesterday I went shopping at Costco. This may sound like a routine, everyday event, and in some ways it is. Except that my husband and I frequently used Costco runs as an opportunity to spend some couple time together, like a daytime date. When he had a midday gap in his schedule, we'd take advantage of being able to shop during the quieter weekdays. In the car, we'd chat about his job, the kids, whatever was going on in our lives. We'd talk through vacation plans, catch up on news of extended family, review our weekly calendar. When we got there, he would grab a cart from the parking lot and "ride" it by jumping on the back and letting it careen, full-tilt, through the lot, often pretending to be out of control, flailing his arms and screaming comically to make me laugh. 

I'm at the point where that memory was able to make me smile, despite a little bittersweetness. It was a good moment. 

But then I got to the bakery section, and I saw that one of the employees was a long-time acquaintance. I didn't know if he'd heard about my husband's passing, and I couldn't bear to have him ask about him and have to tell him the bad news. I took the coward's way out and skipped that section. It was a bad moment. 

I bought a bag of birdseed - a 35-pound bag of birdseed. I never used to have to lift the heavy items; my job was to steady the cart while my husband did the heavy lifting. As I struggled to get the giant bag under the cart without the cart rolling away, I had another moment. Another bad moment. 

I was able to stay composed all the way until I got to the checkout, when I noticed the cashier in the next lane over. This particular employee bears a striking resemblance to actor JK Simmons, known for Broadway, television, films, voiceover work, and commercials, most notably commercials for Farmers Insurance. Whenever we saw him, we'd nudge each other and quietly sing the Farmers Insurance jingle: "We are Farmers, bum ba-dum bum, bum bum bum," and then we'd giggle. So without even thinking, I started to sing the jingle. And realized I was singing it alone. And that he would never be here to sing it with me again. 

I barely made it to the parking lot before I burst into tears. It was a bad moment. A very bad moment. 

But then I thought about the lyrics, "just be glad for the moment that we had," and "just remembering you've had an 'and' when you're back to 'or' makes the 'or' mean more than it did before." I tried to focus on not the loss, but the love. I tried to embrace the joyful memories of spending time together, of enjoying and celebrating even the mundane moments in life like shopping at Costco. 

What a gift it was to be a part of such a special "and." He and I, together, were the best "and" I could ever hope for or imagine. I had the gift of nearly 18 years of being part of the most wonderful "and." That is something to be celebrated. It was a time filled with so many good moments. 

Enough good moments, in fact, to carry me through the bad ones. "All we have are moments, memories for storing." I have stored many good moments in my memories, moments I can call on to remind me of the joy I had as an "and." 

The bad moments only exist because the good moments did. I couldn't miss our Costco trips if we'd never made them. I wouldn't miss having cocktails on the porch if we hadn't spent so many lovely evenings enjoying them together. 

I wouldn't feel a pang looking at our beautiful pool if it didn't evoke the joyous memories of designing it together and spending so many evenings relaxing next to it together. 

I wouldn't get a pang looking at his Scout hat if I hadn't seen him wearing it on so many trips with both of our kids, picturing his proud, beaming face under it. 

When I think ahead to my children's weddings and realize he won't be there to give away our daughter or pass on some fatherly advice to our son (bad moment), I can remember how joyful and proud he was to be part of his older daughter's wedding (incredibly good moment). 

When I have a bad moment, I will be glad for all the good moments that we had. And eventually, the "sad" will be outweighed by the "shimmering and lovely." But for now, there is still a lot of sad. 

And that's okay. Because it's still only a moment. And moments pass. 

Just be glad for the moment that we had.

The Fairies Don't Live Here Any More

The more time that goes by since my husband's death, the more I have become aware of all the small things he did that I never even had to think about. For example, I never thought about getting the oil changed in my car; whenever the display reached "15% oil life," a new Valvoline sticker would magically appear on my windshield and the display was back to "100% oil life." The Car Maintenance Fairies had apparently paid a visit. 

The Car Maintenance Fairies were always busy, handling tasks like filling the gas tank, renewing the inspection sticker, paying the excise tax, detailing the interior, having the car washed. I never had to ask about it, or even think about it, it just happened. But yesterday my car's dashboard flashed "KEY BATTERY LOW" every time I got in the car. In the past, the Car Maintenance Fairies would have taken care of it without my even having to say a word.

But the fairies don't live here any more.  

Now it's my responsibility to notice when something needs doing, to figure out how to do it, and then to actually do it. 

The Bill Paying Fairies don't live here any more. 

The Take Out the Trash Fairies don't live here any more. 

The Pool Maintenance Fairies don't live here any more. 

Neither do the Modem-Resetting Fairies, the Grill Master Fairies, the Furnace Maintenance Fairies, the Contractor Coordinating Fairies, the Vacation Planning Fairies, the Money Making Fairies, the Social Life Coordination Fairies, the Remote Battery Changing Fairies, the Christmas Light Hanging Fairies, the Irrigation Management Fairies, the Spam Detection Fairies, the IT Assistant Fairies, and any of a dozen other Fairies. 

I don't think I was really aware of quite how many fairies lived in my house. 

I mean, I knew my husband did a lot, and I was grateful for everything he did for me. But as Joni Mitchell sang, "...you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone." Even when you think you do. 

I miss the fairies. 

Done is Better than Perfect

When I began working as a seamstress and costumer for a high school fine and performing arts  department, with limited hours and an even more limited budget, I quickly adopted the mantra, "Done is better than perfect." Stage costumes are rarely seen up close, so when you need to crank out 100+ matching pieces, you learn to take shortcuts, leave bits unfinished, and ignore minor mistakes rather than redo them. It's better for everyone to have a decent costume than it is for half the cast to have a fantastic costume and half the cast to have nothing. 

I have definite perfectionist tendencies, so this was a concept that was difficult for me at first. I wanted each student to have a beautiful costume that they loved. And let's be honest, I wanted people to know that I was talented. But what was most important was not any one actor or my own ego, but the cast as a whole. The big picture was best served by getting it done, not getting it perfect. 

I am having to remind myself of this concept lately. There is a lot I need to get done. Like, A LOT a lot. I can't do it all perfectly. And ninety-nine percent of the time, it doesn't matter if I do it perfectly or not. The neighbors will not picket my house if my lawn is not mowed in perfect parallel lines. My guests will not recoil in horror if I forgot to dust the side table or there's a smudge on the bathroom mirror or there's an unwashed dish in the sink. My kids will not rebel if I feed them burgers instead of the promised pizza because I forgot to make the dough. The lawn is mowed, the house is reasonably clean, and the children are fed. That's the important part.

It's hard to admit that I can't to it all perfectly. There may be times when I can't even do it all poorly. But I need to remember to give myself the same grace that others have given me, the same grace I would give to others in my situation. 

Once again, I am so grateful to friends and family who have stepped in to fill the gaps when I fall short. People who have fed my family, weeded my garden, fixed my screen door, given me technical advice, taken over my volunteer responsibilities, offered rides and coffee dates and prayers and shoulders to cry on. Words cannot express my appreciation for your help in getting it done. 

And done is better than perfect.  

When Grief Smacks You in the Face

The funny thing about grief is the way it sneaks up on you. You think that you're starting to manage it, that your emotions are on an even keel, that you're prepared for the difficult moments, but then some unexpected tiny detail smacks you in the face, and POW! The grief is back in full force. 

It might be a whiff of his sweaty shirt that didn't make it into the laundry yet. 

It might be drinking his favorite cocktail and suddenly being transported back to the taste of gin on his lips when he kissed you.

It might be finding a forgotten wedding photo. 

It might be going to a restaurant you haven't been to in a while and the waitress asks about him. 

It be getting a haircut at a salon instead of at Supercuts and remembering how excited he was when you finally treated yourself a little. 

It might be driving your kids to Scout camp by yourself instead of with him. 

It might be scanning your texts to find some important bit of information and instead finding a flirty text exchange with him.

It might be your car needing an oil change and realizing you have to do it yourself this time.  

It might be putting on a dress that he bought for you. 

It might be putting on a dress and realizing that he always zipped it up for you because you can't reach the last bit by yourself. 

It might be struggling to open a jar and not being able to knock in his office door and say, "Oh, strong husband, I need you..."

It might be seeing an ad for a singing group you both love playing at a nearby venue and realizing that it wouldn't be fun to go to without him. 

It might be rolling over in bed and realizing the other side is empty. 

It might be cooking to the music of Michael Buble and not having a dance partner and a sous chef. 

It might be getting your own coffee in the morning instead of having him bring it to you in bed. 

It might be coming across a silly meme and starting to forward it to him before you remember. 

It might be having to make a decision and wanting to run it by someone but no-one is there. 

It might be watching the final episode of a show you were binge-watching together. 

It might be seeing your children be mature and brave and kind and wise and wonderful and wanting to share that parental pride. 

It might be mastering a skill you never thought you would and thinking how proud (but not surprised) he would be. 

It might be any one of a thousand things that you'd done as a team for the past couple of decades and now you're doing it alone. 

It might be nothing at all, except that suddenly you are struck by the deepest pain and sense of loss that you can possibly imagine, and you don't know how you can possibly go on, and yet you do, because you have to. Because your children need you. Because he would want you to. Because quitting is not an option. 

Emotions are complicated. They change constantly, they grow and shrink and rise and fall. There is love, there is guilt, there is pain, there is anger, there is hope, there is emptiness. They are all there all at once, and they are painful and overwhelming and deep and comforting and agonizing. They are cathartic and they are cleansing and they are hurtful and they are powerful. And they are confusing. 

I keep thinking of a scene from the television show Buffy the Vampire Slayer, an episode called "The Body." When Buffy's mom dies unexpectedly (from natural causes, a rarity on the show), each character deals with it differently. But one of the characters, a former immortal demon who has become human, gives a heart-wrenching speech as she struggles to understand the concept of death. 

Here is some of what she says: "I don't understand how this all happens, how we go through this. I mean, I knew her, and then she's - there's just a body. And I don't understand why she just can't get back in it and not be dead any more. It's stupid....And no one will explain to me why." 

And that's the really painful part: not knowing why. Why did God choose to end his life now? Why do cruel, hateful people live long lives but the life of someone wonderful and generous and kind and loving and giving, someone who makes the world a better place just by being in it, is cut short? I don't understand. No one will explain to me why. 

The only way I can cope by relying on my faith. I am comforted by Isaiah 57:1-2, which says (emphasis mine), "The righteous man perishes, and no one lays it to heart; devout men are taken away, while no one understands. For the righteous man is taken away from calamity; he enters into peace; they rest in their beds who walk in their uprightness." 

No one understands death. But we have to accept it, because it is part of life. Every life. This is not the first death I've had to deal with, and it will likely not be the last. But it is the hardest. And the most incomprehensible. And the path of grief I travel will be the most tangled, the most laden with unexpected blows and emotional regressions and dead ends and u-turns and detours. And grief will continue to smack me in the face. But I will go on. Because I don't need to understand, I simply need to trust. 

"Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight." (Proverbs 3:5-6)

Milestones, Yardstones, Millimeterstones

There are some milestones of grief and widowhood that I'm sure I will reach eventually. The first day I get through without crying, without thinking of Herb, without discovering something around the house I don't know how to manage. The settlement of his estate. Completing a tax return. Selling the car. Getting a job. Teaching my son to drive. 

But every one of these is still weeks, months, or even years away. So I need to set my sights on something closer, something smaller, something I can achieve in the nearer future. Let's call it a "yardstone". Mastering the pool is an example of what I would consider a yardstone. Buying a lawn mower and figuring out how to use it was a yardstone. Looking ahead, I would say that upcoming yardstones might be taking his name off our bank accounts, applying for COBRA coverage. taking down the lights along the eaves, transferring our mortgage, getting all the utilities in my name. A little more doable, but still somewhat significant. Which means also a little intimidating.

Right now, what is making me feel like I'm making progress is more like "millimeterstones." Cooking a meal from scratch. Getting through church needing only one Kleenex instead of 5 or 6. Cleaning the bathrooms. Going to the grocery store. Some days, just getting out of bed or taking a shower or throwing in a load of laundry is an accomplishment worthy of being called a millimeterstone. 

One of the most unexpected struggles of grief is simply exhaustion, both physical and emotional. My mind is constantly racing, running a daily mental marathon. That's exhausting. My body is constantly physically tense. That's exhausting. Making all the needed phone calls sends a rush of adrenaline to my anxious heart. That's exhausting. I struggle to sleep for more than a few hours at a time. That's exhausting. I'm constantly trying to keep a list of short- and long-term tasks and prioritize them appropriately. That's exhausting. I'm concerned about my kids and making sure they're okay and getting all the support they need. That's exhausting. I'm trying to manage the day-to-day schedule of three people and making sure they get to wherever they need to be at the appropriate time. That's exhausting. When I look at my to-do list, it seems to be endless. That's exhausting. 

The best solution for that exhaustion is looking for a way to feel like I am making progress, however slowly. And right now, I'm measuring that progress in millimeterstones. At some point, I'll move up to yardstones, probably scattered in among the millimeterstones. At some even further point, I'll start to hit an occasional milestone or two. But that's all quite some time away. So for now, I'll be satisfied with hitting a single millimeter stone a day. Maybe two or even three on a good day. 

Eventually those little millimeters will add up to a yard. And the yard will add up to a mile. And the miles will add up to relief, and wholeness, and peace. But until then, I'll keep working to achieve those millimeterstones.

Like posting a blog entry. 

*Millimeterstone Achieved*

Don't Make Me Say It

One of the worst parts of losing a spouse is having to say the words, over and over, "He died." Or at least, "He passed," or "He's gone," or whatever euphemism you choose. But you have to say it. Out loud. A lot. 

The first, and worst, is when you first find out yourself. You have to make calls to let everyone else know. In my case, his daughter, his sister, my sister, his best friend, my pastor, my cousin, a couple of close friends. Maybe it's helpful to have to say it out loud, to let it become real in your mind. But it's like being caught in a nightmare, an echo chamber of your own voice repeating the nightmare. 

And then, when you start the work of untangling his affairs, you have to say it over and over again, but this time to strangers who may or may not be sympathetic: his employer, the kids' schools, the life insurance company, the car insurance company, the DMV, the bank, your financial planner, the credit card companies, social security, the electric company, the propane company, the irrigation company, the housecleaners, the landscaper, the pool company, the plumber, the electrician, an attorney, his doctor, your doctor, the kids' doctors... It feels endless. 

But worse than that, it feels real. It feels final. It feels. 

If feels like a dagger, not just in your heart, but in your soul. 

It is, for the time being, the definition of who you are. Most phone calls or conversations with strangers begin by identifying yourself: Hi, it's me. Hi, I'm your customer. Hi, this is MyName. But now, your whole identify is wrapped up in your loss: Hi, I've lost a spouse. Hi, I'm a widow. Hi, my husband is gone. Hi, I'm calling because the person I loved more than life itself isn't here any more. Is it any wonder that I dread making phone calls, or that most of my phone calls begin with me in tears and choked up? 

On several occasions of late, I've felt the need to reassure friends that I truly don't cry all the time. But I do often cry when I'm talking to people, because I do have to say the words. It's like I can push the pain to the side for a little while, I can compartmentalize the grief while I'm managing some task, but when I have to put it into words, all the pain and grief come bubbling back to the surface. 

So if you see me and I'm not up for talking, please understand that sometimes talking is hard. Sometimes it's too much. Because even when I don't have to say the words, they're always there as subtext. I say, "I'm doing okay," but I mean, "I'm doing okay even though my husband is dead." I say, "I need to close this account," but I mean, "I have to deal with this alone now because I'm a widow." I say, "I could use some help with this," but I mean, "My husband isn't here to do this any more." I say, "I need to update this information," but I mean, "The person you have on file is gone, and he's not coming back." 

Please don't make me say it. 

Finding the Islands

The days and weeks (and, let's face it, the months and probably the years) following the loss of a spouse are like being caught in a storm at sea: everything is swirling around you, and you're caught in an eddy that keeps pulling you in opposite directions while somehow keeping you from making any progress. It's overwhelming, it's terrifying, and it's exhausting. The only way to survive is to find a moment to rest, to catch your breath, to look around you and make a plan. And the only way to do that is to find an island, something solid to grab onto for a moment to steady yourself. 

Different people find different islands. One of my islands is writing out my thoughts and feelings, putting them down in black and white so I can understand them - and more importantly, manage them. For other people, therapy might serve a similar purpose. Identifying your feelings can be an island. 

Another island for me is quiet. I am often doing work with my hands that doesn't take much conscious thought (cleaning, sewing, cooking), so I usually have music or a podcast or an audiobook or a TV show running in the background. Between that and having two teenagers around the house for the summer, chatting with friends, bickering with each other, or talking back to video games, silence is a rarity in my house. But the hour or two when I'm awake but before the kids get up, the world is quiet except for the birds chirping and the occasional barking of a dog, crowing of a rooster, or rumble of a passing truck. It becomes an island of peace before I am swept back into the maelstrom of life. 

One of my less healthy islands is comfort food. A butter pecan iced coffee from Dunk's, a piece of buttered toast, a cookie, a bowl of creamy mashed potatoes, ice cream with hot fudge sauce, a good cup of coffee, a favorite cocktail. As Ina Garten says, "You can be miserable before you eat a cookie and you can be miserable after you eat a cookie, but you can't be miserable while you're eating a cookie." This is true of a lot of foods. Immersing yourself in the very physical act of eating something enjoyable brings a very physical pleasure that overrides any emotional pain you are experiencing, if only for a few moments. That's an island. 

Hugging my kids, or a friend, is an island. 

Snuggling one of my cats is an island. 

Prayer is an island. 

Watching the birds and wildlife in my back yard is an island. 

Pulling weeds in my garden is an island. 

Listening to Chopin is an island. 

Baking a loaf of bread is an island, even though I couldn't bring myself to take off my wedding rings as I usually do when I knead dough. That loaf might have had a little added salt, but even as I cried I was on an island. 

Sometimes the island is the sense of relief I get after I do a task I'm dreading or fearing, like when I got a lesson on pool maintenance that turned out to be less intimidating and complicated than I had feared. 

Happy memories are an island. Looking through photographs and videos, reading reminiscences sent by friends, smells and sights and sounds that remind me of the past have become an island. 

Some islands you just stumble on unexpectedly, like a person on the other end of the phone who gives you compassion and grace when you were expecting hassles and red tape. 

Tears can be an island. I spend a lot of time trying to pull myself together so I can make a phone call, be with my kids, run an errand, deal with daily life. But I need to cry, so I find time to do it. For some reason, the car has become my "crying zone." When I am alone in the car, I let the tears pour down my face. I'm not crying over a specific issue or situation or thought, it's just a release of the built-up tension and anxiety and fear of the unknown. The relief I experience from letting myself go is very much an island.

Another way of looking at it is that anything that brings a moment of joy, however small, is an island. I recently saw this poster on Facebook, and I find it to be completely true: Micro joys are how we survive macro grief. 

There is no joy great enough to counteract the load of grief on my heart right now. But the small joys help to chip away at it, to give me a moment, if not exactly of forgetting, of balancing the grief. When I feel like I'm teetering on the precipice of falling back into the storm, every tiny moment of joy tugs me back from the brink. I'm still on the edge, my footing is still not secure, but at least I'm not falling. At least I can catch my breath before fighting the next fight. 

I just need to keep finding the islands.