The Daffodil

Hey there-

I was on a walk with my mother-in-law recently, it was a brisk, grey, early spring day. We had a dusting of snow the night before but there were still the first flowers of spring to be observed as we slowly made our way down the block. I pointed out the daffodils in the neighbor's yards as they bravely continued their final blooming despite the snows attempt to weigh them down.

Daffodils have always been a favorite of mine. The first burst of spring after the long winter. Their bold mustard yellow bloom and perky slim stem is so encouraging, almost brash, as if the daffodil is natures way of giving the old middle finger to winter.

I was reminded of a quote I found meaningful when I was in the depths of grief. You know those depths, when you are afraid you just might not make it out.

Spring does no refuse to come
because it is preceded by winter.

Judy Tatelbaum
The Courage to Grieve

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Tiny Spot

Hey there-

On Saturday I was sitting on the floor of the dingy hallway at the high school waiting for my boys to come out of the locker room after their swim lessons. As luck would have it a fellow widow friend was also waiting for her son and we were enjoying ourselves gossiping, eavesdropping on the pom pon girls as they flitted up and down the hallway preparing for their tryouts, and being entertained by her almost four year old.

When my boys emerged into the hallway with their wet heads and red eyes I introduced them to my friend's son, who at this point was lying on his side and spinning in a slow circle on the floor. He stopped spinning, looked at my boys and said;

"My daddy is dead."

I thought this was interesting since he had no reason to connect my boys with their dad being dead like his, and it's not as if his dad just died, it has been a few years. I told him I was sorry and that my boys' father was dead also, then we said our goodbyes and the three of us meandered down the hallway and out to our car, the promised donuts on our minds.

Later that same day, in the middle of a crowded and loud restaurant, Henry brought this interaction up and told me he didn't think "the boy really knew that his dad was dead, as in never coming back."

"Why not?" I asked him.

Henry explained to me that the boy looked about the same age he had been when his dad died and that he hadn't understood what it meant "back then" when Bob died.

"I thought he was coming back," Henry said evenly.

I have to admit this statement surprised me.

I know he was only 3 1/2 at the time but he seemed so on board with everything, as if he really got IT.

"Do you think that now?" I asked him with more than a little trepidation.

"Not really, kind of, like 92% I know that he's not coming back but 8% of me thinks that he's still alive."

Oh dear...................

"It's like when Dad first died there was this tiny spot in me that understood the truth," he says this cupping his hands in a tiny circle near his heart and hunching his shoulders and head forward, "and slowly the spot grew and grew and grew until there was only a tiny spot left that still thinks he's alive somewhere." When he described this last part his voice became quite theatrical and he lifted his head up, brought back his shoulders and threw his arms up in the universal sign for victory.

I was jealous of Henry's description of his tiny spot, which sounded more pleasant than my tiny spot. What I felt was more of an enormous dark stain that covered me in darkness with an occasional tiny spot of light fighting its way through. Then my tiny spot grew and grew too, until eventually I was mostly in the light with only occasional darkness.

What's interesting to me is that in the beginning Henry's tiny spot seemed to be the dark part and my tiny spot was the light part. But Henry's spot did not appear to get darker as it grew, not the way he described it anyway. Both of our tiny spots brought us into the light as they grew, each in our own way.

Henry's little body and emotions could only take on the enormity of what had happened to him in little bits, a tiny spot. I love the image of Henry opening up as his tiny spot of understanding grows, not shutting down with the weight of the truth but being lightened by it.

I also love that he still reserves a tiny spot where Bob still lives within him.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

The Age of Reason

Hey there-

I blame it on my dad.

He was the one who would announce above the cacophony of the dinner table;

"Do you know what today is? Today is the 20th anniversary of your mother and my second date."

Of course, there is a story about why their second date was more important to remember than their first, but that is not the point of this blog.

My point is that anniversaries are important to me. Not wedding anniversaries or birthdays necessarily, but random dates when you know your life has changed forever. Dates like a first date, or the first time you met someone, or a first kiss.

Or the day your husband died. OK, not quite as romantic as a first (or second) date anniversary, but a day I will never forget all the same.

The day Bob died, March 29th. A day my life changed forever.

Initially I noticed every 29th of the month. I could tell you exactly how many months and weeks he had been gone, similar to a new parent counting the weeks and months of their infant.

It has been seven years now.

Seven years.

That is a lot of months.

Seven is the "age of reason" according to my dad. I'm not sure I am any more reasonable about Bob's death than I was in the beginning. I am grateful for the time I had with him, but I still think I was cheated. I am glad he "gave" me the boys, but I still think they should have had more time with him. Most days I couldn't tell you how many months he has been gone, but I know the years, I know the date.

The first year I plotted and planned all year for this date. This year it snuck up on me. I was feeling edgy and weepy and discontent. I was easily annoyed (OK, even MORE easily annoyed). And I wasn't sure why.

Ah yes, it's March, that's right.

Bob was diagnosed in March, he died in March. March is long and dreary here in the Midwest, still winter, still brown and cold. I guess I just don't like March.

But it has been seven years. The age of reason.

"Why does it feel like he just died last week?" I ask my friend over lunch, my voice cracks and tears spring to my eyes. "It has been seven years, seven years."

"Grief isn't linear," she tells me.

Neither is it reasonable.

OK, I'm off for my second chai now..........

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Necklaces

Hey there,

Last night I was trimming Arthur's fingernails before he went to bed. I sat on the toilet with the garbage can between my knees and he stood to the side of me with his little hand outstretched. We were in Mike and my bathroom since we couldn't find a pair of clippers in the kid's bathroom. (shocking, I know)

Next to the toilet, hanging on the wall is some kind of contraption I bought when Bob and I lived in Portland that holds all my jewelry. The earrings nest in individual indentations and the necklaces and bracelets hang from little posts at the bottom. Arthur gazed at the necklaces while I trimmed up his nails and babbled about my memories of my dad (his grandpa) trimming my nails on Saturday nights before church the next morning and how he would sit on the toilet, just like I was right now, with the garbage can between his knees to catch the fallen nails.

Arthur asked if he could wear one of the necklaces and I said "no", explaining the necklace had been my grandmother's and it had been a gift from my grandfather to her and after she died I got it and I wore it at Mike and my wedding. He wanted to know which necklace I wore for "his daddy's wedding" so I carefully removed the fresh water pearl necklace that my dad brought all of us girls home after one of his business trips to Japan so Arthur could look at it. Then Arthur asked me about the necklace I had made from Bob and my wedding rings, so we talked about that for a moment. Then he asked about a locket I have that a friend's mom gave me when I graduated from college.

Arthur began to rank the items in order of importance.

While he did this ranking and confirming with me which ones he could wear and which ones he couldn't he suddenly said; "When I have children they won't ever meet my daddy."

"No, they won't, unfortunately," I agreed.

"So, they won't have a grandpa like I have a grandpa."

"Well, they'll have Mike, and he will be their grandpa," I explained.

"Will I tell them that he's their step-grandpa?" he wondered.

"You can explain whatever you want to them, but this is a long time away, we don't have to figure out what your children will call Mike tonight."

"But my children will call you grandma, like I call my grandma, grandma, right?"

"Right."

"Will my children call my grandpa grandpa when he sees them, just like I do?"

Up to this point I was enjoying the conversation, thinking it was cute and funny and fascinating, but now I began to get a little melancholy. It's doubtful that Arthur's grandpa will ever meet Arthur's children.

Shit, more death to come, more grieving for myself and my children. Man, can't we get a pass on this one? Haven't we dealt with enough already? Can't everyone just live forever?

Well, as "they" say; grief is the price you pay for love. And right now Arthur isn't focused on his losses or his potential grief, he seems to be enjoying all the love he has surrounding him and how he might explain it all to his future children one day.

More power to you Arthur, live in the moment.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Picture Thing

Hey there-

I'm a bit on the sentimental side.

I like pictures and I save letters and ticket stubs from "important" concerts and shows and I collect little items from trips that I place around the house so they can collect dust.

When Bob first died my sentimentality increased exponentially and I became obsessed with keeping two of everything "for the boys".

Two bikes, two of his favorite recipes I framed, two quilts were made from his T-shirts......you get the idea.

As time has gone on some items that were deemed important have lost their importance, or I have completely forgotten what I thought was important about the item to begin with. I.e a certain canister of oatmeal, or a couch.

But the pictures remain around the house.

It's the pictures that can really trip people up when trying to understand our "situation" and how Mike "deals with the sainted dead spouse thing".

Now, I have been around many widow/ers and the picture thing is dealt with in as many different ways as there are for a person to die. Anywhere from total removal to continued prominent placing on a main wall seems to be the norm.

For Mike and I the picture issue came up rather quickly in our relationship. I know many of you know the story of Mike's struggle with the pictures and his wondering where he fit into my life. Then there was my "supportive" response that three months into our relationship was a little soon to be expecting lots of pictures around the house, ten years into it maybe, but not three months.

"You have to earn your spot on the wall buddy," I believe was my thoughtful response.

True to my word, now five years in, there are many more pictures of Mike and his children and us as a couple and family on various trips and doing various activities.

There are also many pictures of Bob, of Bob and I, and of Bob and the boys that remain hanging on the walls and tucked on shelves. (yes, we do have lots of pictures around the house. I said I liked pictures.)

And I have to say I don't get the problem people have with pictures of your dead spouse being around the house. I don't keep them above my bed, that might be a problem. No one seems to think it is weird that I have a picture of my dead grandmother displayed on the shelf, not a single person has ever commented on that fact being strange or wondered how Mike feels about that.

I guess it is the fact of the love relationship that confuses people. Mike certainly knows that I was married before, and that I loved Bob, it is no secret where the boys come from. Why should the past, their history, be hidden from them as if it were not valued?

I understand that one day the pictures of Mike will outnumber the pictures of Bob, if we are lucky enough that is. And if we aren't, and Mike were to exit before that happened, I would keep the pictures I do have of him up and expect that my next husband would understand just as Mike has.

Understand that I was loved, it's not a bad thing.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Milestones

Hey there-

Henry and Arthur learned how to tie a tie last night. (Well, Henry actually learned and Arthur was instructed)

Another milestone. Another milestone without Bob.

I saw Bob wear a tie about two times in his life, so it's not as if this was a milestone that I had visions of him doing with our boys. Yet watching our neighbor stand in a line in between the two boys while Henry and Arthur carefully mimicked his hand motions, I felt a little melancholy.

Yes, this is the same neighbor who helped Henry fix up Bob's bike earlier this fall. We have awesome neighbors, and I know it takes a village and all, but it would be nice if Bob was part of the village in body and not just spirit.

Now I will take Bob's spirit with me and walk across the street and watch Henry in his carefully tied tie play the cello for the holiday concert.

This one's for you Bob.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

The Urn

Hey there-

I love to dust the dining room. One would never know by the inch thick layer of dust found on the window sills and book shelves in this room, but I do. The shelves above the built in dresser behind the dining room table are my favorite to work on. These shelves are home to dozens of family pictures, my grandma's depression glass, a few framed poems, silver candle stick holders, and various other knick knacks collected from special people or special travels over time. I enjoy taking each item off the shelf and dusting it, thinking about the memory each one holds, before placing it back in its appointed place.

I am not very creative with the placement of these items. Everything goes back to approximately the same spot each time. I rarely change things up other than updating the 8x10 McHoganStein family photo annually.

These are the shelves that hold Bob's urn.

For the better part of six years the urn has held court in the center of the bottom shelf surrounded by a picture of Bob's family on one of their many camping trips, and a framed card that Bob gave me with the quote "The fabric of you is so familiar, it's as if we are woven of the same thread"....or something like that.

Yesterday I dusted the dining room after a visit from out of town friends made the dust too glaringly obvious to ignore another minute. Tonight the seven of us were eating dinner, consisting of a yummy Mexican spaghetti casserole and Pillsbury rolls. The usual dinner chaos was ensuing involving debates about cell phone usage and theories on relativity. Arthur (7) added his own lovely show that consisted of rolling on the living room rug and screaming for water because the spaghetti was too spicy.

As for myself, I was attempting to remain calm amidst the chaos with varying amounts of success. I sat breathing in and out and admired the nice clean shelves behind the bobbing blond head of a wound up Henry. Then I noticed that Bob's urn was no longer in the center of the shelf, it was in the back left corner surrounded by different photos than the usual.

Interesting. I have no conscious awareness of making that decision.

For someone who over thinks most things and actually kept a can of Irish oatmeal that Bob had bought in the kitchen cabinet for about five years before I would even let Mike look at the can let alone think about cooking the oatmeal I am rather amazed at the casualness of finding the urn in a less prominent spot on the shelf.

I don't know what it means exactly, but I'm thinking its gotta be good.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Layers

Hey there,

"When I finished the book I felt envious of the experience you had gone through."

One of my readers said this to me.

Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmm..........

I get it.

It sounds a bit odd, maybe, but I totally get it.

That live in the moment, don't sweat the small stuff, seize the day mentality that comes with great loss.

The clarity.

Amidst the disorientation of grief I also found great purpose. I knew what my priorities were. I knew what was important.

I was peeled to the core.

Now, six years later, I find myself sweating the small stuff sometimes, my priorities seem less clear, I fret about issues that are not all that important in the grand scheme of things.

At times I am grateful that I have the luxury to worry about issues like the refrigerator sounding funny or if I signed up to bring napkins or cupcakes for the school party.

Other times I miss that intense buzzing feeling of LIVING I had following Bob's death, as if the world went from black and white to color. When I am around people who are closer to a loss I can feel the energy around them, I see the clarity in their eyes and hear it in their voice, and I am envious.

So I get it when my reader tells me she is envious of me and my experience with Bob's illness and death. Stripped of my layers back then I felt lighter and lean, but I also felt brittle and bit airy.

Now I have built up layers of living around my core. These layers make me feel a bit heavier, maybe thicker, slower, but also a bit more solid.

Layers of living. The key word being living.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

PS...for those who might not have seen the newspaper article I have enclosed the link below.


http://www.jsonline.com/news/milwaukee/106833508.html?referrer=facebook

Safety Town

Hey there-

Who out there loves Safety Town? We did!

In case you don't know, Safety Town is a program for four-year-olds that teaches them about safety. i.e. crossing the street, bike safety, what to do for a fire or if you are lost, etc. They get to meet Policemen and sit in their cars and all sorts of cool stuff. I think it is a national program but I am not sure.

Arthur absolutely loved it. He still talks about it when we drive by the playground where it was held. Every summer when he sees the familiar orange cones set up on the blacktop he, rather wistfully, asks me if he gets to go back to Safety Town.

"Nope," I tell him, "you are all safe now." (how I wish that were true, right? If Safety Town was truly all you needed to get your kids through to 18)

This year as we drove by and saw the little ones trooping around on their bikes with their helmets and the tiny stop and yield signs Henry wondered aloud why he didn't remember Safety Town.

"Because you never went," I told him.

"Why not," he asked. "Didn't you want me to be safe?"

"Well, you were four the summer after your daddy died, we didn't do much of anything that summer, sorry sweetie," I responded simply.

Flashing back to that summer I suddenly felt heavy and sluggish remembering the effort it had taken me to get food on the table or take the boys out the door for the simplest trip down the street to the park. I thought that was the only answer that was necessary, it explained everything.

"I remember we went to the zoo that summer and there was a HUGE thunderstorm and when we got home there was a branch from our tree in our yard and you didn't know what you were going to do but by the next morning our neighbor had cut it up and taken it away and it was all cleaned up," Henry told me.

"Oh yea, I remember that storm, that was crazy. That was so nice of Franz to clean that up for us."

"And I remember we drove a long way to a farm, I think it is my Aunts farm or something, and there were lamps that looked like elephants and lots of other boys and your brother took me to a place with rides and we kayaked on a pond and there was a shower outside."

"Yup, that was a fun trip."

"And I remember Grandma and Grandpa being at the house sometimes and Grandpa read me "The Kings Stilts" and he did that sack of potato thing you do with Arthur sometimes when I got out of the tub."

"Yea, Grandma and Grandpa visited a lot that summer to help. We have that picture on the wall of Grandpa reading you "The King's Stilts" that summer."

"We did a lot that summer," Henry continued from the backseat. "We probably didn't have time for Safety Town."

Does Henry need to know that I cried the night the tree fell in our yard because that one branch felt like an insurmountable obstacle as I stood in the kitchen opening instant oatmeal packets for dinner with tears streaming down my face? Does he need to know that my brother flew in to town early to drive with us up to the farm because without him with us I don't know if I would have had the courage to drive the seven hours to the farm on our own? Does Henry need to know that Grandma and Grandpa were visiting so often helping me survive and get the house in order to sell because I couldn't handle the house without his dad? Does he need to know that I wasn't even aware that Safety Town existed because I was too busy trying to remain upright and simply make it through the day?

I don't think so. All Henry needs to know is that we went places that summer, we had fun experiences, our neighbors were thoughtful and our family nurtured us.

Henry might not have been able to attend Safety Town when he was four, but he learned a lot about safety that summer. He knows that in the worst of circumstances he was kept safe and loved by his own little safety town made up of neighbors, friends and family. That has to be better than little stop signs and cop cars......no one tell Arthur.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene