Re-upholstered?

Hey there-

There is a plant in the sunroom that is dying.

It is not the only plant in the sunroom, but it was given to Bob and me from some good friends when he was first diagnosed. A nice arrangement with a purple african violet and some philodendron. I am surprised it has lasted this long, but that african violet had the most gorgeous blooms and it just kept on blooming.

The african violet petered out a few months ago and the philodendron is now on it's last legs. It is sad watching something alive die, even a plant. Why don't I just throw it out and put it out of it's misery I wonder? Why do I continue to pick off the browning leaves and water it?

The other night I was on Arthur's bunk bed reading him a story. Looking over at Henry's bunk I noticed that the quilt that Bob's sister, Kathy, made for the each of the boys out of Bob's T-shirts was beginning to show serious wear. The "Freddy Jones Band" T-shirt was in threads and the "Paws Down the Best Beer in Town" is illegible, all that is left is a tattered paw print. Are there enought T-shirts to make another quilt? Can I ask that of Kathy?

Then I went in the kitchen to unload the dishwasher and I found one of Bob's All Clad Ltd. pots in there. I tried not to think about Bob, sifting in his urn once again, at the thought of one of his beloved pans being washed in the harsh detergent and agitating water of the dishwasher. The once clear black finish looks mottled and gray.

Then our dryer broke which led to the purchase of a new washer and dryer which led to memories of the last washer and drier I bought when Bob and I were living in Portland. We bought the pair used for $200. Without talking specifics let's just say Mike and I spent more than $200 on the new set.

To make matters worse, one of the new kittens has torn a hole in the arm of the big chair with it's tiny claws as it frantically jumps to the window to watch the children walk to school. Bob proudly brought that chair home from a second hand store one day soon after Henry was born. The big chair played a big part in the life of our old house and continues to play a big part in the life of my new house, even the step-children affectionately call it the Big Chair, and it holds a coveted spot in the sunroom across from the dying plant.

Mike casually mentioned at dinner last night that getting the chair reupholstered would probably cost more than buying a new chair.

"I can't emotionally handle getting a new chair at this point," I blurted as tears sprung up in my eyes.

Everything from my life with Bob is looking old and worn and breaking.

One of the hardest things for me to reconcile after he died was that one day I would talk about Bob as if he were just someone I knew once. One day I would be able to talk about him the same way I talk about a roommate I once had in college. This person who had been the most important person in my life, my best friend, the father of my children, and the person who I was to grow old with would seem demoted somehow.

Intellectually I know this phenomenon is required. One can't function for an extended period of time with the kind of heightened state of emotion I felt initially every time his name was brought up or every time the boys and I sat in the big chair for bedtime stories.

But it's sad. Call me foolishly sentimental.

I know that these items are just things and that the real memories live in my heart and mind. (while these things may be aging too they are not likely to be replaced) That being said, I am so grateful for the boys and the tangible evidence of Bob and my relationship.

Sometimes, if not for Henry and Arthur, I am afraid I might think our entire relationship was merely a dream.

A wonderful dream.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Strep Throat

Hey there-

Henry is sick, he has strep throat.

Knowing that the illness was coming on last night Henry decided a bath was in order. I like to put lavender and marjoram in the tub when he is sick so I offered to draw the bath for him. He politely declined my offer and plodded off to the bathroom with a serious look and hunched shoulders, focused on his task. I had to look twice to make sure it wasn't Bob plodding off to that bathroom to heal himself in a big tub of warm sweetly scented water.

I was suddenly flooded with flashes of Bob and his silent plodding through all of the treatments that were thrown at him during that last year. Bob was no complainer. He was simply perplexed by his body's failure to comply to the desired outcome.

Henry's independent and no nonsense approach to his health is so much like his dad's was that whenever Henry is sick I have the sensation that Bob is walking around on the earth. I love these moments of recognition, as if Bob has inhabited his body for an instant, offering Henry his contemplative nature.

When Bob first died I felt like he took the best of me with him. Now, when I see his traits alive and well in Henry, I am reminded that Bob left the best of himself with us.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Dusty Rainbows

As the winter of 2003 progressed, Bob’s health began to spiral downward. The pain in his shoulder spread to his knee and turned severe. One cold Saturday afternoon Henry and I were playing at the bottom of the stairs. The sun shone through the stained glass windows in our foyer, making small dusty rainbows that floated in the air.

Henry liked to pile his blocks on the patches of red, yellow and green that filtered through the pocket door and landed on the tan carpet. He was fascinated by the way the reflections changed the color of the wood in his hands.

Bob was in the pantry rearranging our dwindling stock of canned peaches and pears, methodically moving the Ball jars from one side of the pantry to the other, the phone balanced between his shoulder and cheek. He was telling the on-call nurse about the pain he was experiencing, explaining to her that he had taken some Vicodin he left over from some earlier situation.

I suddenly felt uneasy, “My God, what is going on?” I thought to myself. “He sounds like a junkie on the phone, are we in trouble here?” I wondered.

Life Cycle

Hey there-

Some of you might notice (but probably not) that in the "About Me" section of my blog there has been an update. The snake, Pluto, died a few weeks ago and two new kitties have joined the family. The kittens were a family gift for the Solstice and have been a wonderful addition.

The sad thing is that the kids get more upset about feeding their WebKinz animals on time than they did when Pluto died.

I think Arthur's reaction was; "Pluto's dead? Oh, can I go on the computer?"

What compassion. I have actually had to remind the boys that they have real live animals in the house that need to be fed and cared for.

So, lessons on the life cycle are alive and well here at our house. Here's hoping that the obsession with WebKinz dies quickly.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

The KitchenAid

Hey there-


The KitchenAid has been born again! Bob would be so happy.


The KitchenAid was Bob's thing. He registered for it and he used it for anything from scones to pound cake, although it got the most use for his famous pizza crust which he made a few times a month. It is not that I don't enjoy baking, I just prefer stirring with a wooden spoon, it seems simpler somehow, and less mess to clean up.


After Bob died the KitchenAid got shoved from a place of prominence in the kitchen to a back corner behind cereal boxes. I pulled it out and dusted it off once a year on his birthday to try and reproduce his pizza as a way of honoring his memory with the boys and Bob's family. Inbetween birthdays we settled with pre-made pizza dough from Trader Joes, at least we could still roll it out and throw it in the air, right?


Recently, my 12-year-old step-daughter, Natalie, has discovered the KitchenAid and has brought it out of hiding. She delights in all of it's parts and has used it for cookies, cake, and now pizza crust.


The other night I planned pizza for dinner and instead of purchasing pre-made dough I decided Natalie could help me use the KitchenAid. She removed it carefully from it's hiding place and inserted the instrument I told her would be best for mixing dough. We carefully read Bob's recipe (he has notes in the cookbook where he fiddled with the best measurements) and followed them as best we could. Natalie kneaded the dough until it was "smooth and elastic" and the crusts turned out quite well.

After we finished up Natalie carefully unplugged the KitchenAid before removing the mixing instrument. Upon my inquiry she responded that the directions say to unplug the machine before removing any parts.

Ah, reading the instructions, what a novel idea, Bob would really be thrilled now. Not only will someone use the KitchenAid but they will use it the correct way. Nice.

Who knows, maybe the KitchenAid might come out of the shadows behind the cereal and regain a proud place on the counter? Since Natalie was not the one who cleaned all of these parts that she handled so lovingly I doubt it will be any time soon. For now, I will stick with my wooden spoon.

Thanks for checking in-


Irene

Holiday Wishes

Hey there-

Happy Holidays to everyone and anything you might celebrate.

A reminder that my support group, Walk It Out, will go as scheduled even with the piles of snow we may need to navigate. December 27, 2008 at 9:30am.

Grieving is not for the faint of heart.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Dead Again

Hey there-

Well, Bob died. I realize this does not come as a shock to most people.

What I mean is that Bob died in the book, finally. I am writing chronologically and it has taken me all this time to get to the point that he dies.

So, Bob died again, and you know what happened? I felt relieved.

When he died the first time I felt no relief. And I was pissed to put it mildly. At the time all I could think about was that scene from Terms of Endearment when Shirley McClain is crying at the hospital after her daughter dies and she makes some comment about how dumb she was to think she would feel relief.

I didn't feel dumb, I felt ripped off. After all we went through and how ugly things got in the end and how exhausted I was, I thought the least I deserved was a little relief.

I felt none. I was too worried to feel relief.

Afterwards people said things to me like; "At least his suffering is over" or "He is in a better place". All I could think of at the time was that I thought the better place was with me and the boys. Selfishly, I fixated on the fact that my own suffering was just beginning.

Many wonder how I can put myself through all the pain of Bob dying again. I have often wondered myself why I am choosing to relive this dark time in my life.

My goal was to tell our story. And by telling our story I hoped to help others who will walk a similar path, others who might see a glimpse of themselves in us and feel less alone, understood.

As the day of his death grew nearer in the story I found myself slowing down. The scenes felt heavy, my typing sluggish. I didn't want to lose Bob from the story. Once he was gone the story would be mine alone and I knew the reader would miss Bob. Could I carry the story without him?

These are all things I wondered at the time of his first death. I didn't want to lose him and I wondered if I could carry the family without him, carry on "our" life. What would be my story?

So, Bob is dead again, and the greatest thing about experiencing Bob's death again is that this time I felt relief. I felt lighter, less burdened. This time around I have the gift of insight, the knowledge that I carried on, the confidence that I made it through.

I still feel a "better place" would be here with me and his boys. But I do feel relief that Bob isn't suffering anymore, and selfishly, I feel relief that neither am I.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Fishing Wire

Hey there-

So, the Christmas tree went up the other day. Mike took the three boys to cut it down and after the usual confusion and antics of getting it in the house and in the stand it eventually was secured in the corner of the living room.

The preperation of the tree has never been my favorite part of the tree trimming ritual. As a child the wait was painful. We always had to start with cleaning the family room, incuding the fireplace for Santa. Then the kids had to sit around and wait with the ornament boxes overflowing next to us while my dad painstakingly placed the lights on the tree.

Now, the light hanging is really a mystery to me. It always felt like my dad took forever to get the lights on. Then Bob was very particular about the lights as well, making sure that the cords were tucked in behind the branches. And now Mike likes to carefully wind the lights around the trunk and feather out towards the edges.

Is this a guy thing? When I was on my own I simply threw some lights on the tree willy nilly, not worrying about the cord showing or if there were too many red lights in a row. I figured the point was to get some light on there and get to the real point of the tree, the ornaments.

As I sat watching Mike struggle with getting the tree straight and the lights just so I was reminded of years past when Bob would take fishing wire and secure the tree to a hook on the wall. I always thought this was a bit of overkill and chalked it up to some odd Wellenstein trait.

I said to Mike: "Now, why do you think Bob would have taken fishing wire to secure the tree, isn't that funny?"

A conversation ensued regarding children and animals and the lengths people go to so that their tree will remain standing. We mentioned how grateful we were to be past that stage. We chuckled a bit at Bob's expense regarding the fishing wire.

Later that night, after the ornaments were hung (or flung) on the tree by the children, Mike and I stood admiring the tree and plotting which ornaments we would move where once the children were in bed. That is when it happened, the tree fell right over. The two of us stood there, mouths open, unable to move as it crashed to the floor and lay in the middle of the living room with shattered ornaments everywhere.

Well, Bob certainly showed us! I guess we won't be mocking his fishing wire idea any time soon.

The tree is now firmly secured with twine to a brand new hook in the wall.

Next year, I will remember the fishing wire.

Thanks for checking in. Happy Holidays!

Irene

Premonition

I had a premonition.

It was early in the fall, 2002.

It was before.

I was standing on the second floor landing of our big old four square house, watching Bob whisper goodnight to Henry. Bob was on his knees, leaning over Henry as he lay in his bed. I could see Henry’s eyes, concentrating on Bob. Henry looked so small in his new bed, he had just turned two.

The primary colors of the helicopters and dump trucks on Henry’s new quilt jumped out against the freshly painted blue walls. The two blonde heads touched each other lightly as they plotted the possibilities of what Henry could dream about that night.

I stood watching the scene, frozen; I was overcome. I felt like I was being spoken to by a secret.

“Remember this moment,” it whispered. “Remember right now.”

I felt it swirling around my rib cage, a long forgotten secret.

“This won’t last,” it warned.

Obeying orders I quickly made a mental picture of the two of them in the bedroom with their heads supporting each other and stored it away in my mind. Being a planner, I figured I should keep the memory safe just in case.

The secret left, as quickly as it came.

Walk It Out

Hey there,

I have started a walking support group!

I read an article about a woman running a "vertical grief support group" somewhere on the East Coast and I thought to myself; "What a fabulous idea! Perfect combination."

So I started one. The information is below.

Spread the word.





Walk It Out

Not your average support group.

Anyone who has lost a loved one and enjoys fresh air,
Come walk and talk.
Combine the health benefits of walking with the emotional benefits of talking.


Group starts in the parking lot of the Hart Park Senior Center, 7300 Chestnut, at 9:30 am on the 4th Sat of every month. We walk three miles along the Menomonee River rain or shine so dress accordingly.

Favorite book suggestions on grief are welcome.

Coordinator: Irene McGoldrick, MSW, MT
MSDH, LLC
414-881-9818
imcgoldrick@mysaintedeadhusband.org
www.mysaintedeadhusband.blogspot.com


Thanks for checking in-

Irene