One Less Day

      Well...I survived a difficult summer, which unfortunately was harder than I thought it was going to be.   Which makes me even more nervous for the coming months.   I've reached a time where the memories of the difficulties of last year are intertwined with special days.  

      This week is my husbands birthday.   Oh how I wish he were here and we were celebrating.  However I can't help but also remember the events of last year.   His family in Montana and their efforts to fulfill his birthday wish by figuring out how to ship his favorite homemade enchiladas.   Early morning assistance from a friend and eventually emergency personnel to help him up from the floor.   A sweet niece arriving with another birthday request of homemade macaron's and a visit from his nephews.   Followed the next day by him pleading with me to call 911 as he crumpled to the garage floor.   Several of the same firemen and paramedics arrived and he was transported the short distance to the hospital, only to be life flighted shortly after to the main hospital.   Sepsis was terrifying but it was only the beginning of such difficult things to come.  Just as with the difficulties of his birthday, I'm trying to remember some of the tender things that happened as well.   To acknowledge the good and the bad, because they existed, forever intertwined together.    

     Birthday's always mark a the milestone of being another year older.   But even though it's his birthday, he won't get older this year.   

     My sweetheart had a brother pass away unexpectedly one cold January, 16 years ago.   A short time after his brother passed away he figured out precisely how old his brother was when he passed away, including months and days.   His oldest brother died at the age of 38, 3 months and 9 days.   He then did the math and figured out on what day in his life he would have lived longer than his brother.   Which occurred in December 9th, of 2012.   I often think of sorrow of his parents, who have had to bury two children.  I also think of his siblings who have lost two brothers.   Nieces, nephews, cousins, friends.   I like to think that he touched a lot of lives.   Loss is painful, but it's different when it's after a long life.  Mourning the loss of a life cut short, adds a different depth of sorrow.    

      He lived almost exactly 10 years longer, passing away at 48 years, 3 months and 3 days.  Ten years longer, but still much too young.  He found a song called "Dying Young" by Rob Thomas after he was diagnosed that we listened and talked about a lot.  We often discussed the question of... "At what age is someone no longer considered as dying young".  We never did come up with an answer.   Just as when you were a child and anyone a decade or two older than you seemed OLD.   It seems dependent on your current age.   He died way too young, and I feel way too young to be a widow.   

      I realized this week that I'm the age the he was when he was diagnosed with cancer.   A realization which hit really hard.   I know he felt much too young to be diagnosed with cancer, but even while he struggled with that, he was thinking of me.   

       With his birthday this week, I've struggled with what to do.   It's not for a lack of trying, just nothing has come to mind.   I want him to be remembered, but my heart doesn't feel like celebrating.   I've taken time off from work so my plans are to just do whatever feels right.   It helps to know I'm not the only one who will be thinking of him this week.  I've requested a couple things to other people, which has given me some peace.    The greatest gift I can think of is the gift of memories.   I likely will spend time reading his journal and looking at pictures, thinking of the wonderful life we had together.   While I'm certain they would make me cry, if there's anyone reading this who hasn't shared their thoughts and memories, please share.   I'm still collecting and eventually want to print them into a book.   

     Happy Birthday my Archangel.   

     

  

Golden Handymen

      A couple months ago a read a quick article about the needs of a widow.   One of the top things it listed was a handy-man.   It talked about how they were worth their weight in gold, and I completely  understood.   At that time, my toilet which had been slowly running  for a while.   My attempts to fix it were unsuccessful and I had made the problem worse.   In the past my brother in law from Montana has often come to the rescue, including lovingly remodeling our bathroom to make it more accessible when walking, standing and stepping were too dangerous.  Just asking him to help me know what parts to order was overwhelming and had me in tears.   Knowing I was in over my head, I was trying to decide who to ask for help with a neighbor also named Andrew offered to come help.   He not only fixed my toilet but a few other things around the house.  

       This week two neighbors came to the rescue, fixing something that has had me worried for at least a couple years.   Every time I would see it I knew it was something that I needed to get fixed and I'd tried to think of how to make it happen.   It was clearly something above my skill level (which isn't very high).   A board had warped on two different sets of windows.  Steve and Phil came and replaced the badly warped pieces.   One had become a shelter for spiders, ewww...   It took them a couple hours and it looks so much better.   However it's the peace of mind and one less worry on my plate that means the most.

      I know not everyone is quite so lucky to have a pool of good friends, family and neighbors.   I'm grateful for the many people in my life who help make life a little better.   

My Sunshine

      I've decided to take a break from thinking and writing so deeply about grief.     It's hard enough to live through it without constantly trying to evaluate how you are doing.    Writing has been helpful, but  takes a lot of work.   So instead today I thought I'd share a memory.  

     In 2017 we spent the first time in an ICU when we finally were able to get help for his airway.   It was a insanely difficult and we're lucky he survived.   While he pleaded with me prior to the first surgery to not allow them to place a trach, in order to be able to leave the ICU it ended up being necessary.   When the doctors told me that was the next step I was worried how he would take it.   But he had learned that being intubated, restrained and on a ventilator was worse.   They told him he likely would not be able to speak and the though of never hearing his voice again was hard.   But he proved them wrong and taught himself to speak.   It was a lot of work and often wore him out.   

       Sleeping through a plastic piece in your throat and on a ventilator at night, we spent most (if not all) of the summer sleeping on our couch.    As we would go to bed at night, he one day started singing to me as we would go to bed.   

You are my sunshine
My only sunshine
You make me happy
When skies are gray
You'll never know, dear
How much I love you
Please don't take
My sunshine away

 

    He would often change the lyrics up, my favorite one being "You'll never know dear, how much I love you, because I'll tell you everyday."   He was a sweet and tender man, who was never afraid to show his love.   Those who would spend time around us were witness to it as well, some would roll their eyes and complain that we still acted like newlyweds.   It brought tears to my eyes this week when my aunt Roxann talked about our love this week it reminded me of a card she sent us on our 20th anniversary.   She said "I admire both of you so much and I think you have a wonderful loving relationship.   You each strive to do all you can for each other, you are very selfless.   If I had been able to find someone to marry I would have hoped to have the kind of love you have."

     Looking up the lyrics today I discovered there is a second verse.      

The other night, dear

As I lay sleeping

I dreamed I held you

In my arms

When I awoke, dear

I was mistaken

So I hung my head and I cried

I miss my sunshine...

The Locked Door

     I was fairly young before I recall my first experience with death.   My paternal grandfather passed away when I was 10.   I was young and didn't really comprehend.   A journal entry of mine expressed sadness, but also excitement about being able to be out of school.   I remember small pieces of the funeral, including a song a family friend sang called "The Garden."   A couple years later a classmate name Yoshi Suzuki was killed in an accident in his backyard.   We weren't super close and I don't recall going to the funeral, but I've thought of him over the years and how tragic it was to die at a young age and of his family.  

      Just a couple weeks after my sixteenth birthday I remember bouncing up the stairs.   Summer was just starting and things were good.   My dad was sitting on the stairs with the long telephone cord trailing behind him.   Shortly after he called us into the formal family room which was only used on special occasions or for visitors.   Something was wrong.  I remember taking sitting in folding chair that was just inside door instead of on the couch.   He then told us that my good friend David had passed away while hiking in the Grand Canyon with his scout troop.   Our families were close and always spent Easter together camping.   His death hit hard and I remember how hard it was to accept.    I remember crying regularly throughout the next year and carefully trying to write down every memory that I could think of.  I also thought a lot about his family and how much harder it was for them to lose a son and brother.   The day of his burial was memorable, but I also remember the peace and assurance I felt that I knew I would see him again.   After the graveside service I remember walking behind some others (I believe some of his relatives) who were distraught and inconsolable because they didn't believe in a life after death.   I remember being was profoundly grateful for my beliefs.   I felt such confidence in peace in what I knew.   I would see him again one day.   Even so, his death hit me hard.   I've thought about him a lot over the years.   Of the experiences and milestones that he missed out on and the opportunities of memories lost.   Wondering how his life would have turned out and the things he would have accomplished.   So many questions that will go unanswered.      

   

     After such a profound experience at the age of sixteen, I thought I knew.   So, I was completely taken by surprise when over the past few months I feel like that confidence I had so many years ago vanished, seemingly overnight.  Plunged into a darkness I did not and could not anticipate.  I went from wondering what heaven was like and very cautiously trying to learn more, to feeling like it's all in our heads.  Does God even exist?  Or is it just some fantasy humans concocted to help us feel better and cope with death and the confusing world we live in?  

     So many others talk about the countless overwhelming experiences of peace and comfort after the loss of a loved one.  But I have not been so blessed and fortunate.  Instead I've been given silence and darkness...  and can't help but wonder... What have I done to deserve this?   I try to grasp onto any moments where I've felt that peace, but they feel like sand slipping through my fingers.   

     When I came across this quote from C.S. Lewis it described precisely how I felt.  While I wish no one had to experience the pain of losing a spouse or loved one, there is some comfort in knowing I'm not alone.    That someone who is clearly much older, experienced and wiser than I was plunged into a similar darkness after losing his wife of four years.   The quote comes from the book Grief Observed, one day I'll read it and find out more of his journey. 

    So that was a couple months ago... how are things now?   I don't know.   It's been a struggle to acknowledge and put into words how I've been feeling.   Plus I've just been trying to survive, so I have tried to not to think about it too much.   Not always successfully.   I still feel lost in the darkness, but it's not quite the same as it was in June.  My prayers still feel unanswered and I often wonder just who is in charge of chaos that is my thoughts.  

     Unfortunately July was also a difficult month for my parents.   My Dad was hospitalized with internal bleeding and needed five units of blood.   He's lucky to be alive, although recovery is a slow and frustrating process.   My mom said "Sometimes it's so hard to understand why this test has to be so hard."  I agree, it often feels so impossibly hard.