Tag Archives: grief

Memory

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February 18, 2017

Our ship had docked in the harbor of the most beautiful island of our journey through the Aegean Sea.  Symi is tiny and hilly, with white and yellow houses rising up the steep hillside from the blue harbor. I wanted so much to swim in that blue sea, but doing so was unlikely. There seemed to be no beaches. So when our trip leader Alexander asked if anyone wanted to swim, I said yes eagerly. You, of course, did not want to swim, not sharing my passion, but you waited while I rushed back to our cabin to put on a swimsuit and sundress, and to grab a towel. I hurried back to the deck, and we joined another couple to descend the gangplank and thread our way along the narrow sidewalk around the harbor. Small shops formed a wall to our left, with the sea to our right.

Alexander turned a corner, leaving the curve of the harbor, and soon stopped by some benches.  He pointed to the sea. “There you go!” he exclaimed. I was dubious. The harbor was very close by, and I worried about the pollution from the ships. But the other couple had laid down their towels on one of the benches and were descending the steps cut into the stone wall and splashing into the sea. You sat down on another bench. My desire to swim conquered my worries and leaving my towel and sundress next to you, I held onto the cold chain next to the stone steps and carefully reached for each slimy step with my bare feet, taking care not to strike my misshapen second toe against the rocks.

At last I threw myself backwards into the cold sea with a whoop of joy. You smiled and waved at me. Behind you the white houses climbed the hills, and the sun shone in the blue sky.

I think of that moment now, as I descend the steps in this hotel in San Miguel de Allende, where the sun shines in the blue sky and the white and blue and yellow houses climb the hillsides. I remember that afternoon swimming in the Aegean Sea off the island of Symi, and I remember your smile.

Penelope

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February 5, 2016

And so every night, Penelope undid the threads of her weaving of the day before,
Carefully, delicately, pulling apart the warp from the woof,
Separating the yarns of sky-blue and sea green,
Yarns as green as the olive tree leaves,
Yarns as purple as the grapes,
Preparing to weave them together again in the morning

And here in the morning
I weave together this new cloth
From threads both old and new
Knowing that your ship will not return to the harbor
And that I must pick up threads from our life together

The yellow of the young honey of our early lives
The red and purple of the busy, tumultuous years
The calm blues of our lives as time slowed down

Weaving into the new cloth the cut threads of your life
Until they melt into the cloth and shine as richly

As the morning sunThreads

 

Five Years Later

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July 17, 2015

Dear Bill,

This past Tuesday July 14th was the fifth anniversary of your death. I would rather remember the happy times—your birthday, our wedding anniversary, holidays—but I spent the day thinking of you. My friend Sandra W—you knew her, too—came over at 9:00 am and we spent almost two hours weeding the shady part of the pollinator garden I had planted in your memory in the fall of 2010. Remember that you said, “Now you’ve got a problem!” when we had that area cleared of invasive Japanese honeysuckle right before your death? You were right; the native plants are slowly filling in the space, but the weeds still creep in and need constant battling. But you would be happy to see all the native bees and the many butterflies. I put one of the bird houses you built in the center of the bed, and the old garden bench sits under one of the red bud tree, with your memorial rock next to the bench.

You have gone, but that garden has moved on and grown. I have moved on, too, in a way, out of the deep grief that gripped me for the first few years into an acceptance of this new life on my own. You told me that I could do it, that I was smart and brave and strong. I think you would be proud of all that I have done these past five years. Here are some of them:

Dealt with termite infestation of the house and barn, with falling trees and broken fences, with broken plumbing and broken equipment.

Learned to jump start the pick up truck (because I don’t drive it enough to keep the battery charged.)

Improved the outdoor lighting, had solartubes installed, and got the house, barn and storage shed re-roofed.

Had an energy audit performed on the house and had the attic completely re-insulated.

Had the driveway redone with “chip and seal.” I don’t think you would approve of that, however. Our son sure doesn’t.

Bought an Apple computer, and an iPad and an iPhone.

Adopted a sweet old dog.

Underwent a dental implant, two wisdom teeth extractions, a venous ablation, and a total knee replacement—and I really dreaded the latter without you here to support me.

Drove solo to Minnesota and back, 3000 miles round trip, three times.

Traveled by myself to Ecuador, the Galapagos Islands, and to the Baltic countries.

Traveled with Marie Y (remember her from our Thailand trip?) to the Balkan coast and to Patagonia, where I landed on Cape Horn.

And I took Emma to Africa on a safari, as I promised you I would.

Now I look into the future, with more projects to keep this place together—-the pool to be re-plastered, the house to be painted, new shrubs and trees to be planted—and more places to travel—Great Britain with Emma Rose, the Orkney Islands, a return to New Zealand and Australia to see friends and family, maybe Japan.

And however much time may pass, my love for you will never fade. You are in my heart always.

Your loving wife,

Kristin

“That’s Where the Light Shines In”

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August 27, 2014

 A few months after Bill’s death from cancer in 2010, one of my ministers in her sermon told the story about a young man who was severely injured in a motorcycle accident and who lost his leg. He was very bitter and angry. During art therapy, he drew pictures full of darkness. One day he drew a picture of a large vase with a jagged crack down the center. But in time, he grew less angry, and he began to reach out to others who had suffered similar accidents. During one of his visits to the hospital, he stopped to say hello to the art therapist who handed him the folder of his drawings. He opened it and thumbed through the drawings, then stopped and drew out the drawing of the broken vase. “This one is not finished,” he said, and picked up a yellow crayon and began to fill in the crack with yellow. “There,” he said, “that’s where the light shines in.” 

My eyes filled with tears as my minister ended the story. Perhaps in time the light would shine through the terrible hole in my heart. I did not see how.

But four years later, I think it has. I like to think I have always been a compassionate person, but I believe I have become more attuned to others’ grief. One of my young friends gets angry when told that suffering makes us more compassionate. We do not have to suffer to be compassionate, but unless we roll into a ball of grief and never uncurl, in time our grief and loss softens our hearts. We better understand the pain that others carry, and we realize that everyone we meet is carrying a great burden of some kind.  

I just finished reading a Washington Post article about Anna Whiston-Donaldson, who has written a memoir Rare Bird about the loss of her 12-year old son in a flooded creek. “Perhaps, she says, her story will offer help and hope to those in mourning, and soften the hearts of those who cross their paths.”

 May all of our hearts be softened and may we reach out to those in need.

 

Stagecoaches and Roller Coasters

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January 23, 2014

Almost everyone has heard of the stages of loss and grief: denial and isolation; anger; bargaining; depression; acceptance. This model was introduced by Elizabeth Kubler-Ross in her 1969 book On Death and Dying and was meant to explain what terminally ill patients experienced as they faced their own impending deaths. Later the model was expanded to include other losses, including the loss of a spouse.  These stages were not intended to be linear, as though we are riding in a stagecoach, stopping at inns labeled Denial, Anger, etc., but that is the way many people think of them. Another way to look at grief is the roller coaster image: we are on a rollercoaster that drops into abysses of sorrow, but gradually over time the drops are not as severe and there are more spaces between. 

I know for me the first year after Bill died really was The Year of Magical Thinking, as Joan Didion titled her book about her husband’s death and the year that followed.  I read that book the second month after Bill died, and found myself saying aloud, “Exactly! That is exactly how it is!” From the outside I think I appeared strong and calm and highly functioning, but on the inside I wailed.  And at night when I was alone I wailed aloud. All I wanted was for Bill to come back. A friend who had been widowed two years earlier said to me sadly, “We think if we do everything right, they will come back.” Widows are advised not to make any major decisions in the first year, and that is good advice. In fact, make as few decisions as possible. I had a memorial garden created for Bill on one side of my driveway, with native plants to attract butterflies and birds. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but in reality it cost much more than I had budgeted and is very difficult for me to maintain.

 The second year is almost harder than the first, because by now we realize that the one we love is not coming back. It is going to be like this forever. At about the two and a half year mark I began to wonder if I had lost not only Bill but my essential self, the woman who was happy and optimistic, who made silly jokes. I felt as though I was wrapped in a gray mist. I knew I could not get Bill back, but what about me? Fortunately my church for the first time offered a grief support group that met for eight sessions. It was for anyone who had suffered a loss, so there was a mix of people, some very recently bereaved. I realized that I was further along the path of sorrow than I had thought, and I could reach out and help others. Before the third anniversary of Bill’s death I could feel myself whole again….as whole as one can be who has lost her beloved life partner.

 Denial, depression, acceptance…and a tumultuous ride on the rollercoaster of grief.

“Grief turns out to be a place none of us know until we reach it.” Joan Didion

“Time Spent with Cats is Never Wasted”

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December 28th, 2013

Yesterday my daughter had to euthanize her beloved cat Roo who had been born of a feral mother in my daughter’s back yard. She rescued the little black kitten and he lived a full and wonderful life in her home with the other resident cats, occasionally catching the reckless mouse. Roo was a beautiful sleek black cat, very suspicious of strangers but loving with his family. He lived for fourteen years before the tumors of oral cancer invaded.  I know the pain of losing a beloved cat, whether to natural death or to the saving grace of the veterinarian’s drugs, and I grieve with my daughter for the loss of her beautiful and loving cat.

So what do we learn from cats, besides the certainty of heartbreak and loss when these small creatures that we love are destined to live much shorter lives?

We learn how to relax and how not to hurry, how to stretch out and luxuriate in the sun, how to be utterly at peace with the world.

We learn how to walk in beauty, every step a lesson in grace.

We learn how to launch ourselves without hesitation into the world in one mighty jump, and how to curl up so that our backs create a circle that echoes the globe.

We learn how to focus, until the molecules of our bodies form an arrow of concentration on one small sparrow.

We learn that the pat of a velvet paw, all claws sheathed on our wrist, and the tiny lick of a raspy tongue on the inside of our elbow can signify a salute from one small nation to another larger one.

And we learn how to give our love and grieve and give our love yet again throughout the longer days of our lives.

Time spent with cats is never wasted.

 

Sudden Sorrow

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After three years, I mostly have my sorrow under control, but sometimes it springs out in the most unlikely places and surprises me. This morning on my way to the garden center, I stopped at McDonalds to grab an egg McMuffin. As I was exiting, I held the door for an older gentleman to enter. “Good morning,” I said to him. He smiled, seeming a bit surprised, but returned my greeting. As I walked to the car, my eyes filled with tears. Such a simple thing, saying “Good morning.”  And I will never say good morning to Bill again, or see him again.

Angel Messenger: A Poem

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Angel Messenger

My friend who died of cancer in January

Believed in angels

And said her angels sent her messengers,

That the goldfinch tapping on the window glass

Brought word from her mother.

 

I am not sure about angels

 

But perhaps the red-tailed hawk

Who sits on the garden fence post

Carries a message from you

(You were so sure that the hawk knew you)

 

And when the hawk soars in circles in the sky

Perhaps he is surveying the house and the gardens and me

To take back a report to you

That I am here

and that all is well.