My Tree

Hey there-

Father's Day, 2011.

Mike wanted to go on a bike ride before we grilled some fish on his new grill for dinner. I should say before HE grilled fish on his new grill for dinner. I thought a bike ride, in between the rain drops, sounded like a fabulous idea.

I watched him take off down our street, concentrating on clipping in his biking shoe to the pedal of the slick Trek mountain bike he rides.

It was Bob's bike.

They are Mike's shoes, apparently Mike has smaller feet than Bob.

I started laughing, belly laughing.

One of my favorite funny memories of Bob is the first time we went out on our bikes after he got those clip on bike shoes and so lovingly replaced the pedals. We were riding through SE Portland on our way to Ben and Jerry's for a little sweet treat. If you have never been to SE Portland you won't know how congested the narrow neighborhood streets can get with parked cars and how many bicyclist can be cruising these narrow and uncontrolled intersections. Portland is a bicycling city.

Well, a bicyclist came from the perpendicular street and we had to stop short. Bob, unfamiliar with his clip on shoes was unable to remove his foot from the pedal and tipped right over. It was in slow motion. He just fell slowly over, his feet trapped on the bike, helpless to stop himself.

I laughed so hard seeing this normally coordinated, sporty guy topple over, still trying to extricate his foot from his pedal.

Nice, huh? I'm so loving. It was just so hilarious. And he wasn't hurt or anything.

It's interesting how life stacks together all of it's parts on top of each other into one big whole. Like the circles of a tree that show it's age. The years stack on top of each other, wrap around and on top of the years before, some are wider than others and some have little bumps, each have their own story, each is an important part of the whole tree.

My live husband can unwittingly and unknowingly bring up a memory of my dead husband and I can laugh over a memory of Bob while making a memory of Mike.

This is my tree.

I love my tree.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Beautiful Dreamer

Hey there-

The other morning Henry came out of his bedroom and went to the cupboard in the kitchen looking for breakfast. His shoulders were bent forward and his head was hanging a bit and he didn't answer his usual "Good" when I asked him how he slept.

"What's wrong?" I asked him.

"I had a dream about Dad," he told me. Then he started sobbing, big shoulder shaking sobs.

Upon questioning he couldn't remember much of the dream.

"But I remember the emotion," he cried.

I attempted to comfort Henry by telling him my belief is that when you dream about the person who is dead it is the person visiting you, checking in, saying hi. So dreaming about Dad should be a happy thing. As I explained this theory to Henry I omitted the part that I never dream about Bob, never.

Last week Mike came downstairs one morning and told me he had a dream about Bob the night before.

Going with my theory, that is a little weird.

He said that Bob and I were together talking about the boys summer haircuts that Mike had given them and how much he liked them. Bob didn't say anything to Mike in the dream, no thanking him for helping to raise his boys or any encouraging words. Apparently Bob and I simply hung out on the back porch and watched the boys and their short hair run around for a while.

Rude. I thought to myself, but maybe I'm just bitter that Bob seems to be visiting everyone else in their dreams but me.

"He seemed very happy with the hair cuts, I think the fact that he's happy with what we're doing was implied," Mike said.

Very generous of Mike I think.

Well, if Bob visits anyone else out there in their dreams be sure and send him my way. I wouldn't mind if he came by and said HI.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

A House of Cards

Hey there,

Henry (10) had his first "health" class in school last week.

He came home chock full of information about adolescence.

"Mom," he asked me, slurping up his ramen noodles with a fork, "when did you start adolescence?"

"Excuse me?" I stalled, just exactly what was he looking for?

"What about Dad, when did he start adolescence."

Now there is a question I never thought to ask Bob before he died.

Henry went on to explain that when he was in adolescence he might be happy one minute and angry the next, his friends would be more important to him than his family (what!?!?), his motivation could be lacking, and he might have trouble focusing.

Hmmmmmmm........I think I am in adolescence NOW........

"When I learned about this stuff in school my teacher called it puberty, only he pronounced it pooooberty," I told him, still stalling a little, not sure why.

I have no idea what made me tell a 10 year old boy a story involving poo since five minutes later I saw him dancing in the dining room building a house of cards singing "pooooberty.....pooooooooberty".

Today the boys and Mike were leaving to go camping. I told my boys to be helpful.

"Mike has three healthy young men with him and he better not do all the work himself. Be focused," I encouraged pumping my arms in the air.

"OK, Mom," Henry said, eyes trained on his house of cards, "unless I enter pooooberty, and then I might not be very motivated or focused."

Damn school.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Dead End

Hey there-

What is the statute of limitations on Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD)?

I have been having some health issues lately that have required Dr's. visits and tests and scary possibilities and waiting for results.

Last week I sat in the Dr's. office and listened while the very nice doctor lady told me she was sure everything was fine.

"No worries," she told me. "I just want to be thorough, I am sure we are leading to a dead end. You look healthy and your lung capacity is better than mine, I am sure you are fine."

This very nice, very thorough, youngish, kind of spunky lady had no idea why I sat in front of her with tears streaming down my face.

"That's what the very nice doctors told my husband too, and now he's dead," I told her.

"Oh dear, how long ago did your husband die?" she asked, with the familiar head tilt.

"Seven years."

SO NOT THE POINT!!!

I know she was expecting me to say six months or possibly last week by the way I was reacting. I know it seems crazy to be sitting in an office seven years after your husband died, remarried, and by most accounts happy and mostly sane, and be freaking out about a non-life threatening diagnosis and some test results for a possibility that will "most likely lead to a dead end".

I know this logically.

But apparently my body has not caught up with my mind on this one. Apparently, I am unable to sit calmly in a Dr's. office and listen to a very nice lady tell me that she is sure I am fine while she busily orders complicated tests to rule out scary sounding possibilities. Apparently I did not learn the first time not to ask too may questions and to NEVER EVER Google the scary possibility that your very nice Dr. is sure you don't have but insists on testing you for anyway, just to be thorough.

Apparently, I have a little PTSD.

Yes, seven years later.

Oh my.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Mace Pese

Hey there-

I was seven weeks pregnant with Arthur (now 7) when Bob was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin's lymphoma. I was eight months pregnant when we were in Omaha, NE for Bob's stem cell transplant. Arthur was just shy of five months when Bob died.

Needless to say, there were many moments of wondering.

Why am I pregnant right now? Is this really a good idea? Do I really need this right now? How can I handle two kids on my own? Is it OK to have a donut and Dr. Pepper when I am pregnant, because I am really stressed out right now! What were we thinking?!?!?!?!

Arthur came home the other day from school with an art project clutched in his fist. The assignment was to write something they could do.

I will mace
pese to the warld.

Arthur

Translation......I will make peace to the world. (I know, I know, we have some work to do on his spelling)

Well, I guess that answers all my questions, except for that donut and Dr. Pepper one.......

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Resilience

Hey there-


We got new carpet installed yesterday.

Sunday was spent moving furniture, ripping up carpeting, pulling up staples and painting. The whole project started with a bathroom remodel. You know how these things go, first the bathroom gets fixed up and then before you know it you're ripping up carpeting and taking the pictures off the wall so you can paint the living room.

Arthur (the 7 year old) has been loving all of it. From the demolition of the tile to the hanging of the new toilet paper roll, he's wanted in on all of it. You might think we were the only people ever to remodel a bathroom. Arthur would move his bed in there if he could. And just what was Henry doing while Arthur and I were on our hands and knees yanking out hundreds of staples from the floor? Henry was curled up on the love seat in the sun room amongst all the displaced furniture reading Harry Potter.

They are very different kids.

Later that night Arthur was just out of the shower, his skin all pink and glowing and his hair a big tangle. He sat down on the couch next to Henry and me so I could gently comb out his hair. As I slowly worked out the knots (both boys are growing their hair out for 'crazy hair day') I realized I had never combed Henry's hair like this, Henry has always been too busy taking care of his own personal hygiene to wait around for me.

Then, while getting into his jammies Arthur animatedly told me a story involving some bison (NOT buffalo!). Bison have been his obsession since our trip to Yellowstone last summer. The boy has at least 25 pictures of bison hanging on the walls surrounding his bed, compared to the maps and dry erase board with daily reminders such as "make pancakes in morning" next to Henry's bed.

The point of all this?

The point is that while I watched Arthur strut around the room brushing his hair back from his face with one hand and wildly waving the other around during his very involved bison story I was struck by something, something seemingly obvious, but still a bit shocking to me.

Arthur is becoming his own man.

Somewhere amongst the backdrop of his dad dying and his mom falling apart and his older brother demanding lots of attention and his mom getting married again and older step-siblings coming and going, Arthur is becoming this individual, this person, this man-child with his own voice and opinions and interests.

Despite everything he's growing up, thriving.

"Kids are resilient," a friend told me at Bob's memorial.

Considering there was a time that poor boy practically needed to be bleeding out his eyeballs to get any attention from me, resilience is a good thing.

A quick thesaurus search for the word "resilience" finds these synonyms.....flexibility, pliability, spirit.

That's Arthur.

Thank goodness for resilience.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Expectations

Hey there,

I opened the refrigerator the other day and one of the many magnets I have with pictures or quotes or lists or instructions came crashing to the ground.

It was the 8X11 one that holds the list of Expectations for the household. You know, the list that includes making your bed every day before sitting in front of a square box, clearing your dirty dishes from the table, and no rough housing on the main floor of the house, just to name a few. (there are only 10 in case you are wondering just how nutty I am) It's a list that is sometimes adhered to and sometimes not depending on the day, the child, and how much I feel like nagging. (I mean gently reminding :-))

When the frame fell to the floor the Expectations list fell out and revealed the list that had been in the frame prior.

Courage
Patience
Resilience
Perseverance
Capacity to Distance
Sense of Humor

From now on I want to.........

Ah, a very different list from a very different time. I used to have this list posted on every mirror of the house along with the refrigerator. It was a list I found in the book The Courage to Grieve. According to the author, Judy Tatelbaum, these are qualities a person needs to successfully grieve. The last line is a mantra for yourself, a little reminder that you are moving forward. What was is no longer, what do you want to do NOW.

My first thought when I saw the list was how glad I was to not be back there, back in that place when I needed that list every day to remind me of how hard I was working, how far I had come, and that I was, indeed, no matter how slowly and painfully at times, moving forward.

Then I began to realize how appropriate that list was for right now. I need all these skills to successfully parent, step-parent, run a household, write with honesty, present with passion, be a good friend, be a good partner, etc.......

Heck, we all need these skills to make it through the day.

Maybe it is time to think less about expectations and think more about the qualities I want to teach my children. Skills they will need to be a successful adult, able to handle life's disappointments with grace and guts.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

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

Trapped in Humanity

Hey there-

Henry, Arthur and I decided it was a good thing we aren't lions.

We went to see the movie "African Cats" yesterday. The story follows a cheetah mother and her cubs and a lion pride during a year in their life on the African plains of Kenya.

Note to reader, there could be some spoiler information coming up.

Cheetahs are solitary animals so the mom was on her own raising her cubs while lions are more family oriented and had several women, lots of cubs, and one man protecting them. I won't get into the discussions that followed the movie about how bothersome it was that the females hunted and killed the game and then the man came along, roared at them to get out of the way, and proceeded to lay down and eat his fill. Never mind that the ladies are caring for all the little ones AND they made the meal, I guess the guy eats first no matter what in lion world. Plus, just exactly where was the cheetah dad, huh?

Mike kept telling us we had to take human emotion out of the equation.

At the end another male lion and his three sons drive the dad lion out of his pride, kick out all the cubs, and take over the women. The women hardly put up a fight before seemingly abandoning their current cubs and happily begin to raise new cubs with the new leader dude.

The boys and I agreed we are glad that we aren't lions and Mike didn't force me to abandon them before I took up with him and began raising his kids.

I know, I know, separate human emotion.

After Bob died people had lots to say to me, words of comfort they were supposed to be I am sure. Statements about how I should be happy that he was no longer in pain, or that he was in a better place. I was told that this was the plan we had agreed to so why should I be sad?

But I was sad, very. Did this fact mean I wanted him to still be in pain? It certainly meant that I thought we had agreed to a stupid plan. My sister-in-law told me some words that I actually did find comfort in, she said no matter how glad I might be that Bob was out of pain I was still going to miss him because I was trapped in my own humanity.

We can't separate from our human emotions.

Do we even want to?

Still, Henry decided that given the choice he would be a cheetah, better to be on your own than have to deal with all the drama and emotion and abandonment of the pride.

Hmmmmmmmm......

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