Henry's Return

At day twenty or twenty-one, we were pushing hard for discharge from the co-op. Bob’s low blood pressure was keeping us caged and pacing. He was clear of infection but couldn’t get his blood pressure up or his appetite back. We had hoped to be back at the apartment by the time Henry returned but it appeared Bob’s blood pressure was not following our plan.

Henry arrived back in Omaha with his Aunt Kathy, his blue eyes wide, giving us the Henry Stare when I opened the door and found them standing stiffly in the hallway. My nine month pregnant belly blocked the doorway and I was still wearing the latex gloves and yellow mask needed for the dressing change I had just performed on Bob’s central line. Bob cautiously stood up from the chair, careful not to get lightheaded from the effort, pulled his shoulders back, and raised his bony face toward his son.

Henry, standing in that dimly lit hallway, looked older than his three years. His eyes were weighted by all the thoughts swirling in his head, his body guarded, ready for the next blow. Henry looked at us as if we were apparitions. It had only been three weeks but a lifetime had passed since we last saw each other. We were surely different people now.

How could we come back together from these different lives we had been living and resume our life as a family? Were we still speaking the same language?

Connection

Hey there-

I find washing another person's hair one of the most physically nurturing things you can do for a person. A foot or hand massage comes in a close second.

Every Monday I "watch" my mother-in-law. She is 86 and has memory loss, bad eyesight, pain in her knees, and poor hearing. She lives by herself next door to two of her daughters. I like to think of it as the Milwaukee Wellenstein compound.

One of the activities we do together is a bath. (well, we don't do it TOGETHER....)I fill the tub for her and make sure she gets in safely and put in some good smelling essential oils or bath salts her daughter mixes up. Once situated she lays back, closes her eyes, and groans in utter relaxation.

"That smells great," I heard her say yesterday as I walked down the hallway. I smiled because I think aroma is so important and it was very satisfying to hear her appreciate the bath salts.

After she lingers in the tub a while I get to wash her hair. It can be a tricky task because I seem to have difficulty regulating the temperature of the water that comes out of the hand held shower;

"That's too hot.....now that's too cold!" she yells (because her hearing aide is out) at me as I try to rinse the soap out without scalding her scalp.

Even with the water temperature challenge I love to wash her hair. I give her a nice scalp massage and she moans in gratitude. But that is not why I love it. Something about washing her hair makes me feel so close to Bob. I can't explain why the action of washing Bobs mom's hair makes me think of Bob every time, but it does.

I miss washing the boys hair for them now that they shower and do it on their own. I hear some parents complain about bath time but it is one thing I really miss with the boys growing up.(It just might be the only thing I miss!) As long as we weren't rushed I enjoyed the frolicking and splashing and the smell of lavender and orange wafting up from the water. I loved rubbing their little heads, soaping up their hair and watching the bubbles run down their back as I rinsed them off.

Occasionally these days Arthur will ask me to come in and wash his feet. I sing a silly song and tickle him when I lather up the toes and he loves it. But neither of them ever ask me to wash their hair anymore.

But I get to do their grandma's hair, and I find it even more satisfying. I think it has to do with the fact that I can no longer nurture her son. While I did massage Bob's feet with peppermint oil right up until the end, I never washed his hair, and I will never have the chance to now since we aren't growing old together as planned.

My sisters-in-law act like I am doing them a big favor even though I am not spending time with my mother-in-law simply out of the kindness of my heart, they do pay me for my time. No one tell them but I think it is they who are doing me the favor,and I don't mean financially. I am the one who is receiving the biggest rewards from the situation. I get to do a little pampering for the person who was literally connected to Bob for nine months. Maybe that is why I feel such a connection to Bob when I wash her hair.

Every week I get to nurture the woman who nurtured the father of my children, I think that is pretty special.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Conference

Hey there-

Mike and I wrote a proposal to do a presentation at Camp Widow hosted by the Soaring Spirits Loss Foundation. (www.sslf.org)

It was accepted!

The camp is August 6-8, 2010 in San Diego and our topic is remarriage after widowhood. We are calling it "Plan B", the same as my new blog for milwaukeemoms.com

We are excited about the opportunity to share our story and inspire others in similar situations.

There are lots of other very cool topics that will be addressed during the weekend and good old fashioned camaraderie. If anyone knows of anyone who might benefit please send them to the website and have them check it out. www.sslf.org

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Perspective

Hey there,

I am working on perspective with Henry.

He has none.

If he forgets his lunchbox at school (which he has done exactly one time) he storms around the house throwing things and yelling about how stupid he is and that he does not deserve to be in the third grade. If he forgets his library books (which he has done exactly one time)he, once again, beats himself up, crying about how embarrassing it was and it was “all his fault” that his class didn’t get any cookies because he was the ONLY one to forget his library books. One time he forgot to do his math homework (one time) and the whole house had to hear about how much he hates to forget his homework and how stupid he is and now his teacher was going to SAY something to him.

The horror!

Come on. You would think I punish him with a branding iron if ever forgets anything. When in actuality I go the other way, trying to explain to him that these events are not that big a deal in the grand scheme of life. It is only third grade and it was only one time. Much worse things could happen; we could be living in Haiti and have no place to live or running water, we could be living in America and have no house and no running water, our house could burn down, your dad could be dead.

Wait, that one really happened. Oh dear.

Therein lies the problem for me. I believe Henry should have some built in perspective meter due to the fact that he has survived much worse. Forgotten library books and lunchboxes seem rather trivial compared to your dad dying. Am I right? Really, if Bob’s death has taught us anything let it be not to sweat the small stuff.

Enjoy the small stuff, but don’t sweat it.

But apparently that is not the way it works, at least not for Henry. Maybe the opposite has happened. He knows that bad stuff does happen, and for no apparent reason. So why not freak out about small stuff like forgotten homework or library books? Next thing you know your dad might be dead. Life is a precarious event.

But that is not the lesson I want to be taken away from Bob dying. I want the lesson to be that we should be grateful for what we have and enjoy people while they are here and that your lunchbox is not that big of a deal. There is always a paper bag.

I know I have lost some of the clarity that comes with being so close to tragedy. I have blogged about it before, that feeling of being stripped of everything but the most basic necessities, and the clear knowledge that nothing matters but love, affection, nourishment, and safety.

Over the last six years the layers have built up again and I find myself getting agitated about being late to swim lessons or to a dinner date with friends, pretty small stuff in the grand scheme of things. If I want Henry to gain some perspective I need to gain it back myself. I don’t want to be living another tragedy, but I long for that stripped down feeling that made it so easy to know what was important and what wasn’t. Where can I find that and how can I teach that to my children, without someone having to die that is?

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

TV Debut

Hey there-

I was on a local morning talk show April 29, 2010 regarding another blog I do for MilwaukeeMoms.com. The theme of the blog is parenting without the intended partner. "Plan B" I named it.

Below is a link if you are interested in viewing the six minute clip. The clip will be available for 60 days. I hope to offer understanding and insight into relationships post widowhood.

I apologize to those of you who have already seen this clip but I wanted to make sure I had hit all cyberspace avenues.


http://www.themorningblend.com/videos/91844584.html
(copy and paste into your browser window)


Thanks for checking in-

Irene

A Boy and His Dog

Hey there-


Yes, you are seeing correctly. Henry is walking our new puppy!!!

Meet Zeus, the newest addition to the McHoganStein clan. He is a lab/shar pei mix, they think, and is about 10 weeks old. He was found on the side of the road so it’s all just guess work.

I know, I know, I never wanted a dog. I never wanted kids either and now look at me, I ‘m responsible for five! Yikes! I know, I know, like I need any more responsibility, right?

I blame it all on Bob.

Bob always wanted a dog growing up but his parents both grew up on farms and believed that dogs were outside animals, not inside pets.

“Henry is going to have a dog,” Bob would say after Henry was born.

I thought that would be fine. I could keep my “I don’t do dogs” attitude and Bob could get his dog (for Henry) and any time the dog needed anything I could say; “You wanted it, it’s YOUR dog.”

Well, then Bob had to go and die on me and ruin my plans. You see, secretly I had begun to agree with him, I thought Henry should have a dog; he just seems like a kid who should have a dog. I started to believe that a child should have a dog growing up. What is childhood without a dog?

Now, I never had a dog growing up and I turned out OK. (Stop the snickering) I never felt deprived either. I did have a ferret but that is a story for another blog. But I just couldn’t shake my growing desire to have a dog in the house.

When I met Mike I assumed he would want a dog since he had one before. I was so happy I could continue with my master plan. But alas, Mike did not really want another dog and my plan was thwarted. If we were going to get a dog it was going to have to be my idea and my responsibility.

Ughhhhhh!

Well, I have been warming myself up to this dog thing for a long time. I even went so far as to check out some websites and talk to people about the idea. Then on Sat. we were going to the pet store to price a gerbil for the boys and on the way out the door Mike asked if we should ‘swing by the Humane Society and check out this puppy he saw on their site that morning’.

I won’t bore you with the details but we came home with a puppy, not a gerbil.

I think both Mike and I can take credit for this additional chaos in our lives, and we will both take responsibility, which is probably a better idea than my master plan. And it has been very fun watching the kids with the dog. Mike’s oldest, Aubrey, 16, even came home right after school yesterday. Now that is big!

Maybe we should thank Bob for all this dog craziness.

Check back with me in about a month when all the excitement has worn off and “dog patrol” becomes just another chore that I have to nag the kids about doing. For now I will enjoy the picture I have before me; a boy and his dog.

Thanks Bob, I couldn't have done it without you.

Thanks for checking in-
Irene

Acceptance

Hey there-

I just returned from the doctor with Arthur. It happened again.

"Dad's name?" The young assistant asked me innocently after taking Arthur's temperature and listening to his heart.

I just looked at her for a good 3o seconds. I am sure she thought I had some kind of hearing problem or was just dim witted. It isn't that hard of a question I realize. They just want a name. It's not rocket science. Just give the nice lady a name.

"Um, he's dead.......," I finally answered. "....but he has a name," I continued as if she were now the one who was dim witted.

I explained to this patient gal that I never was sure how to answer this question since I was remarried and my live husband carried the health insurance. So, did they want his name and did any of this information I was rattling on about even matter to her anyway? Too much information, stop talking I told myself, just stop talking.

"Well, we need it for a medical history.....," she told me hesitantly.

"OK, Bob, his name was Bob."

"Birth date?"

" 4/2/62.....no wait, that's Mike's year....'64, yea 4/2/64"

She waited a minute to make sure I was sure before putting it in the computer.

"Any health issues?"

"Um, he died, I would say that is a health problem," I laughed.

She chuckled, hesitantly. I don't think she thought I was dim witted anymore, she thought I was a nut job.

"Cancer, non-Hodgkin's lymphoma." I tried to get serious.

She typed the information in, closed her laptop, thanked me, told us the doctor would be right in and walked out the door.

Arthur looked at me, shrugged his shoulders, gave one of his half smiles, and went back to his book.

I know we aren't the only one's with a dead dad. There are so many family configurations, I am sure there have to be many with an unknown dad or an absentee dad. Or what about the adopted dad, does his medical information matter? It seems like such a loaded question these days they should send a social worker in to ask the question and not a 22 year old medical technician.

But I am not going to worry about all that today. I am not worried about what information the doctors office needs for their records or how they obtain it. What I am going to concentrate on is how good I was feeling this morning as Arthur and I waited for the doctor to appear in the room. I found the exchange between the med tech and myself to be humorous, another funny story. When I told her non-Hodgkin's lymphoma I didn't tear up and the words didn't stick in my throat, it was just information, a fact of life. And when I mixed up Bob's birth date with Mike's? That was funny too, I think it is a good sign, a sign that the two men seem equal somehow.

It may be a lot to take away from a short interaction and a few simple questions. But what it all says to me is that I might just be in that spot that I have been working so hard and so long for, acceptance.

It is what it is, no apologies, no excuses, no regrets.

At least for today.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

lov

Hey there-

Sometimes things work out better than you hoped.

I love that!

We celebrate Bob's birthday every year with pizza (a dish he was famous for making, with yeast and everything), a favorite dessert of his (varies from year to year), Sprecher soda (a local favorite) and balloons that we let off into the universe.

I am a person who believes in ritual and I feel it is important to continue to celebrate the day Bob was born. Even though Bob is no longer here to celebrate his birthday with us it is certainly still a day worth celebrating.

The first pizza and balloon party Henry and Arthur were just one and four and I had to drag the KitchenAid from the way back of the shelf, dust it off, and weed through all of Bob's cook books to find the correct crust recipe. Each year the boys have enjoyed the balloon tradition but it has grown in meaning. The first year Arthur just wanted to suck on the balloon and this year he picked out his own rainbow design. Last year I succumbed to store bought crust after three years of struggling to perfect Bob's crust. This year we had dough from a specialty shop that we still got to roll out and toss up in the air.

So things are evolving, but the heart of the event remains the same.

This year I was awoken on the day of the party to the tears of Arthur and a piece of paper being thrust in my face. He and Henry were writing notes to their daddy to attach to the balloons and Henry had told him his was "dumb". Arthur's note, written all by himself, said;

I lov you. Do you lov me. Lov, Arthur

Henry thought it was dumb because "obviously Daddy loves him", and there is an "e" on the end of love.

I thought it was the most precious thing I had ever read in my life.

Henry's note was much more Henry like; Are you happy in Heaven? I am doing good here. It has been hard and sad without you. Could you send me a note please? I hope you have the best birthday ever. Signed, Henry

Once I recovered from the emotions the letters brought up (it was way too early and I hadn't had my chai yet) we all went downstairs to make the cherry bars we were bringing for dessert. Once those were out of the oven we were off to pick out the balloons and then head to the aunts where we started making the pizzas. We all laughed when Henry threw that crust in the air as if he were in some kind of disc throwing competition, flour flying all over the kitchen and coming to rest on his eyelashes.

After the pizza was devoured we sent the balloons off with a "happy birthday, Bob" toast. Arthur's balloon with his note tied to it went sailing over the trees and into the universe. Henry's got stuck in the tree in the front yard and we all watched while the balloon valiantly attempted to free itself and sail off. Mike eventually got some long stick thing from the basement and hung over the porch railing trying to free that darn thing.

He was only successful in scaring us all, especially Henry who decided he didn't want to be sending balloons off for Mike on his next birthday. Stuck balloon or not it was a wonderful party all the same.

Last night I was thinking about what a great afternoon we had. I was so proud of the boys for writing those notes all on their own (although Henry could have been a bit nicer and they could have waited a little longer to show them to me)and remembering Henry tossing the crust in the air made me smile. The birthday ritual has turned out better than I had hoped when I started it five years ago.

Each year the boys understand a little more about the significance of the event and the note writing gives me a little window into how they are feeling about their dads absence. What do they believe? How are they feeling? Does Henry really think his dad can write him a note? Does Arthur truly doubt his dad loved him?

The answer to that last question is so obvious to me. It was so obvious when I saw Bob holding Arthur and bouncing with him on the big exercise ball to try to get him to sleep when he was first born. I saw how hard Bob tried to stay alive so he could be there for both the boys as they grew up. I remember Bob smiling at Arthur and holding his little thumbs and saying softly to him; "I love you little guy."

But Arthur doesn't remember those things. Henry has some memories of things he did with his daddy; going down the "roller slide" at the park, going on bike rides to the lake, talking about what his dreams might be as he went to sleep, making pizza with him. Henry has concrete proof his dad loved him, but Arthur doesn't.

So the birthday ritual is turning out even better than I hoped. It gives me and the boys and Bob's family an opportunity to celebrate the fact that Bob was born. And we get to celebrate with many of Bob's favorite things that he enjoyed here on earth.

Two of those things, the most important things, being his boys. I will be sure to remind Arthur of that more often this year.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

2 ChaiDay

Hay there-

Well, another two chai day has arrived.

For those that might not understand that statement.......

The day that Bob died was established a "two chai day" by my friend, Mark, who was one of my support people with me those last days. I am oddly structure about weird things at times and I only allow myself one chai latte per day. But at seven in the morning when you are sitting around your dining room table with all your support people in the grey morning light and awkward silence and you have already been up for hours and you are waiting for the undertakers to arrive and your three year old is asking you way too many questions about his daddy who is still lying in the living room and your five month old starts making noise to be nursed and you are holding your coffee mug so tightly that your knuckles are turning white while you stare at the last remaining foam at the bottom of the mug thinking that you will probably never have another chai again since your now dead husband always made it for you and maybe if you stare at the foam long enough some of it might somehow burst into just one more sip of the delicious, spicy, warm, drink that makes you think of Thanksgiving and pumpkin pie and being cared for and nurtured.

And then a friend reaches out his hand and gently takes that mug from your clutches and as you look at him dubiously he says;

"Irene, I think it's a two chai day."

And why not? Why can't you have a second chai that day? No reason in the world.

I have declared every March 29th to be a two chai day. There have been other two chai days on occasion as well, days when I just needed a little bit of extra comfort, a little Thanksgiving.

I realized I was out of chai last night too late to get to the store. But have no fear, my sainted live husband picked some up early this morning and made me a perfectly frothed deliciously spiced chai. It was pure love and comfort that I could never have imagined would be mine six years ago.

Life is unpredictable, and it can be rough at times, and sometimes you just have to allow yourself to have a two chai day.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

March

Hey there-

I don't like March.

It has never been my favorite month. March has always seemed so long to me, longer than any other month somehow. The weeks stretch out with no holiday weekends. And by March I am soooo ready for winter to be over, but spring is nowhere close to arriving here in the Midwest.

The only time I have found March palatable was when Bob and I were living in Portland. In Portland March had the white petals of the dogwood trees, the pink blooms of the azalea bushes, the rich reds of the tulips, some yellow from late blooming daffodils, delicate purples of the early iris', plus the varied greens from all the ferns unfolding from the damp earth. In Portland March was an array of colors. Then we moved back to Milwaukee and March became brown and grey once again.

To make matters worse Bob was diagnosed in March, and then he died the next March, making March even more bleak.

Now it is March again. Another mourning march. I can recall so vividly the events happening exactly six years ago on this date. Last night was the night that I called my sister, Anne, the one who was going to come "when things got bad". I had my last lucid conversation with Bob that same night, just before I made the phone call. I was apologizing to him for following him around the house like a toddler. I tried to explain how worried I was that something would happen to him and I wasn't going to be able to handle it.

"Don't worry, Renie, you will," he told me.

Bob spoke so clearly, with that calm, thoughtful tone of his. He looked me straight in the eyes when he said it and I knew he was talking about more than just the next few days.

Well, it's six years later, and here we are, another March, alive and well. I severly doubted his wisdom at times, but Bob was right, as he usually was, I handled everything, just barely sometimes, but I handled it.

No worries. (HA! Well, I am glad he had none anyway)

It takes a whole lot of patience and confidence that there will, indeed, be new life coming out of that kind of darkness. I am thankful for the confidence Bob had in me, and I am thankful Bob died in March, when all the new life forcing it's way out of the cold dark earth is a reminder of the resilience and the undaunted possibility of the human spirit.


Thanks for checking in-

Irene