A Backup Plan

I am on my way to Virginia and will soon be back in my home state. Tomorrow is the celebration of my cousin's life. I am not sure how things will go, but I am glad to know that I can leave if necessary. I talked to his wife last night and she had been drinking. So if things get going too much tomorrow with the booze, I am prepared to drive away. 

I have learned over the years of dealing with alcoholism that having a backup plan is really essential in taking care of my self. I used to be caught unaware and endured endless drunken parties because my wife and I drove together. She would want to stay for more drinking, and I would comply, only to be miserable. Nothing good comes from hanging around when people get out of control with their drinking. So I know that I don't have to stay.

Tomorrow is going to be difficult for his wife. She misses him incredibly and was crying on the phone last night. She wants me to take a lot of family items back with me, such as the family bible and his mother's antique dolls. She kept saying "I have to get rid of this stuff from his family." My family revered antiques and family history. That reverence was passed on to me. I will gladly be the caretaker for these remnants of a family that has died out, except for me. And eventually all that has been passed to me will go to an antique auction or to the historical society in my home town. 

So my plan is to show up and be of help where I can. I feel compassion for the living who miss their loved ones. I am glad that she feels his spirit around her. I have felt that same feeling with recent deaths. And then, their spirit moves on when I have accepted their death and feel at peace. I am hoping for that acceptance and peace in the days ahead for her.

In a different state of mind today

Father's day came and went. No one mentioned it. My wife is away with her friend in Nantucket, enjoying one of her favorite places. I miss her.  I miss our talks and just sitting together without talking. I miss holding her at night, spooning and touching. But I am happy she is having a good time.

Tomorrow will be the one-year anniversary of Pop's death. When my mind goes back to last year and all the death that happened, I see now that no one could have helped me to move through it.  I simply needed to have grief run its course.

A Jewish friend mentioned that probably what I longed for was something like shiva.  I needed to have a supportive community around me. And since that didn't occur with visitors at the house,  I did what I needed to do which was to feel miserable without a time limit. To allow the feelings to be there and to not shut them off. To crawl back into bed and curl up into a ball.

I am in a different place now.  I miss those that aren't here, but I am not grieving. I am glad to know that for this day, so far, all is okay. I have stayed busy with the garden, picking blueberries, getting a new tire on the car, taking care of the animals, and working out.  At night, I am tired in a good way. A deep-boned kind of tired that let's me know that I have done a lot of things that needed to be done.

On Father's Day, I took the boat out and sailed for five hours.  It was a bright, summer day with good wind.  There were little sailboats in a regatta and a lot of other large sailboats on the water.  The time was peaceful.  I wish my own dad had been there.  He would have liked the sail.  But I was simply glad for the opportunity to be where I was, enjoying the "whump" of the genoa as I backwinded it and came about.  Simple pleasures. Summer in one of the most beautiful places.  A different state of mind from last year---thankfully.

A blur of days

We have been working hard to get the parent's house ready for listing with a local real estate agent. The time has flown by, with most days filled with packing up and moving boxes to storage. Yesterday was the culmination of getting it ready.  There was a showing at 3 PM so we had a blitz to finish "staging" the house.  Finally, it is done.  We can get back to some semblance of normality around here because all the effort has been going to getting the other house ready for sale.

Today is lovely.  The north wind came in overnight, so the temperatures are cool.  We've had breakfast on the porch.  I have read a few blogs and am now taking time to do a post here.  My wife is at home and not planning on going to her parent's house. Progress.

I told my story at my home group for my Al-Anon anniversary.  It felt good to share some about my past and where I am now.  The past year was one that has been so difficult due to the deaths of the parents and my cousin,  their sickness and terrible decline.

To be honest, there were times when I didn't even want to get out of bed in the morning.  I had no energy and realize that grief takes a heavy toll on me.  My wife struggled with her own sadness. Both of us were processing the losses in our own way.  She focused all her energy on packing up the house.  She wouldn't stop no matter how exhausted she was.  The handy man and I would carry the many boxes to storage. But she wanted to go through everything, sorting out those things that could be given away and those that would be saved.

I felt that separateness and loneliness returning, just as it had when her focus was on alcohol.  There was no room for me at the moment.  The difference now was that I let her be.  When she came home tired and exhausted, I would hold her close.  I would draw water in the whirlpool bath for her, pour in the bath salts, and sponge her tired body.  I cooked dinner, even if it was late in the evening.  I struggled with not asking her to stop for a few days, take a break, and relax.  I did tell her that I was concerned that she was overdoing it.

And now we are done with the house. There are a few things left to box up in the garage.  And somehow in the packing up of scrapbooks, photo albums, dishes, collectibles, linens, and all the other accumulation of 90 years of life, we have moved through grief to acceptance and joy.  We have turned the corner.

Today is beautiful so we are going to enjoy it by reading the paper, writing, picking vegetables, and going to the boat.  Emerging from sadness feels so good, like walking out of a dark cave into the light.

Just away

We had Pop's memorial service on Saturday.  A handful of people came. But I know that they were the ones who mattered:  M., who made sure he got to mass every Wednesday at the nursing home and said that he was her favorite, was there; R. who we both worked with for years was there; G. who is our housekeeper and also worked for Mom and Pop was there; P. who is a trusted Al-Anon friend came and did one of the readings; and Mary who is my wife's first cousin drove from another state to attend the service and spend the afternoon with us.

My wife gave Mary the little gold mesh rosary pouch that held one of Pop's handmade rosaries.  He would sit in his chair for hours, before he was sick, and make rosaries to send to missions around the world.  I gave the remaining beads to one of the Catholic senior centers that can use them.  All of Pop's clothes have been given away.

We kept one of the crucifixes and will be giving the large one to his brother who is dying of cancer.  Dear C. is leaving on Tuesday to travel to visit two of Pop's brothers who live up North.  Brother F. has just been brought under the care of Hospice and Brother J. has a bad heart condition.  It's important that she get to see them sooner rather than later.

I liked what Monseigneur had to say about Pop growing up on a farm where family members were taken in when needed. There was plenty of food and a large house to take in relatives who were sick or having a bad time of some sort. This was the essence of the nuclear family that cared for each other.  How fortunate Pop was to grow up where family mattered so much.  Sadly, people are scattered now and the family unit doesn't seem as cohesive. I liked that Monseigneur described Pop as a man of the earth and of the sea. He was both, carrying vegetables on a truck from the farm into New York City and then joining the Navy to be on landing crafts in the Pacific during WWII.

I feel a sense of time suspended because I think about the way things used to be before they were sick.  Visits, phone calls, dinners, holidays--none of that anymore. I know that we are still grieving.  Every day will get a little easier for us.  I talked to Pop's sister about the loss of a child and her husband as well as parents and now two brothers.  She said that she thinks of them as simply being away.  And that brought to mind a poem that I recall from school by James Whitcomb Riley:

I cannot say, and will not say

that he is dead. He is just away.

With a cheery smile, and a wave of the hand,

he has wandered into an unknown land

and left us dreaming how very fair

it needs must be, since he lingers there.

And you-- oh, you, who the wildest yearn

for an old-time step, and the glad return,

think of him faring on, as dear

in the love of there as the love of here.

Think of him still as the same. I say,

he is not dead-- he is just away.

Worn out

I am on my way to New York on business. I'm not enthusiastic about the trip. It's been a busy week, tiring in many ways. I would rather be home or spending the weekend on the boat rather than hassling with airports. 

The garden is doing well. We are still enjoying fresh strawberries. The blueberries are beginning to ripen. The flowers are happily blooming.

My wife has been sad lately. This appears to be some of her depression returning. She holds so much inside. Today, she has an appointment with her doctor to talk about what she is feeling. I know there is a lot of stress with settling her mom 's estate, getting the house painted and ready to sell, and going about her usual work. I want to help, but she doesn't seem to want help.

I have said before that being in a relationship with an alcoholic can be lonely. Helping each other and talking out problems are what I like to do. She seems unhappy and anxious. Yesterday, she was in tears because two birthday cards arrived for her mother from some old friends who didn't know her mom had died. And we both miss her a lot so there is the grief to deal with too.

I don't have much else. I am doing the best I can to stay positive, but somedays, I feel worn out.

Grief

Today has been much less strenuous than yesterday.  Death is one of those events that is still shocking, even when it is expected.  The memories seem to pour forth of all the things that person has done, the conversations that have been had, the stories told, the happy times when there was laughter and celebration.  And those memories which keep the spirit of the person alive, also remind me of the loss.

A lingering death is not pretty.  My wife and I wished so much on Tuesday evening that euthanasia was allowed.  If an animal of mine were in such a condition of wasting, surely I would have it put down.  And yet, so much suffering happens every day among humans who simply linger on with a terminal illness.  This isn't a political statement but one that I consider  reflective of love and caring.

As the Higher Power would have it, our fervent wishes to ease Mom's sick and suffering were granted.  Perhaps she knew that we were all there, telling her we loved her, assuring her that it was okay to rest now.  And so that's what happened.

Her body was still warm.  We put her sweater on her, covering up her nightgown that had the Sun, Moon and Stars on it.  And her cat, who had been sleeping on the adjacent bed, came to sit on her abdomen, no doubt sensing death had come.

I talked to my first sponsor last night.  He is on the other coast, but I was so grateful that he called.  Only a few people have called.  We have received a few emails. And the blogger community has been kind and caring with comments.

In the days when I was a child, it was de rigueur to visit the home of the bereaved and drop off something like a casserole, pie, or a flower. I told my sponsor through tears that I didn't want casseroles or cakes or any kind of food, but I longed for the human touch.  I wanted that for my wife.  I wanted her fellowship to surround her. Just to have a friendly face show up and sit for a while would have been wonderful.  No one has come.  Not a single AA or Al-Anon has asked to come by.  I don't understand this as we have entertained so many at this house.  Perhaps this is just the new order of things in which people are busy with their lives and their own problems.  I am working at letting this go, but it is gnawing at me because isolation leads to more sadness.

So this afternoon, I am leaving to visit Pop.  He is being visited by the priest today. He took the news with sadness yesterday but seemed to be accepting.  I know that it won't be long for him though.  Hospice called this morning to say that he is declining, and so morphine and Ativan are being prescribed.  I hope that he will still want to go out for a milk shake, but reality is that his body is also worn out.

We are both grateful for your thoughts and kindness.  All will be okay.  Our lives will get back to some kind of rhythm again.  Death is a part of the rhythm. Here is a poem that an Al-Anon friend sent:

For Grief

When you lose someone you love,

Your life becomes strange,

The ground beneath you gets fragile,

Your thoughts make your eyes unsure:

And some dead echo drags your voice down

Where words have no confidence.

Your heart has grown heavy with loss;

And thought this loss has wounded others too,

No one knows what has been taken from you

When the silence of absence deepens.

Flickers of guilt kindle regret

For all that was left unsaid or undone.

There are days when you wake up happy;

Again inside the fullness of life,

Until the moment breaks

And you are thrown back

Onto the black tide of loss.

Days when you have your heart back,

You are able to function well

Until in the middle of work or encounter,

Suddenly with no warning,

You are ambushed by grief.

It becomes hard to trust yourself.

All you can depend on now is that

Sorrow will remain faithful to itself,

More than you, it knows its way

And will find the right time

To pull and pull the rope of grief

Until that coiled hill of tears

Has reduced to its last drop.

  

Gradually, you will learn acquaintance

With the invisible form of your departed;

And when the work of grief is done,

The wound of loss will heal

And you will have learned

To wean your eyes

From that gap in the air

And be able to enter the hearth

In your soul where your loved one

Has awaited your return

All the time. 

~ John O’ Donohue

Magical Thinking

We are at the boat until tomorrow. The weather is warm so everyone is out and about in tee shirts.  It feels great to be back on board after a couple of months of sanding and painting.  I have missed spending time on her just relaxing instead of working.  I know that being totally land based is not what I want to do. I am drawn to the water and feel most content here.

Tomorrow we are having the parents and caregivers over for lunch. They seemed happy to be coming over. We will have the Christmas dinner early and have another one on Christmas day. I feel much better knowing that they will be coming over. Somehow it is comforting us to have them be present. This is all the family there is.  But it is okay.

I have been reading a couple of books that by many standards would be sad--The Year of Magical Thinking and Blue Nights by Joan Didion. Neither has been gut wrenching for me because somehow her narrative feels so distant and her writing so emotionless.  Perhaps I could identify most with her desire for seclusion when the apartment was filled with people after the death of her husband. Just knowing someone was there would be enough but having to interact would be difficult.  She writes something here that seemed so true: 

"The worst days will be the earliest days. We imagine that the moment to most severely test us will be the funeral, after which this hypothetical healing will take place. When we anticipate the funeral we wonder about failing to "get through it," rise to the occasion, exhibit the "strength" that invariably gets mentioned as the correct response to death. We anticipate needing to steel ourselves then for the moment: will I be able to greet people, will I be able to leave the scene, will I be able even to get dressed that day? We have no way of knowing that this will not be the issue. We have no way of knowing that the funeral itself will be anodyne, a kind of narcotic regression in which we are wrapped in the care of others and the gravity and meaning of the occasion. Nor can we know ahead of the fact (and here lies the heart of the difference between grief was we imagine it and grief as it is) the unending absence that follows, the void, the very opposite of meaning, the relentless succession of moments during which we will confront the experience of meaninglessness itself.” --Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking

The void is something that I have feared as long as I can remember. But I see that the fear of loss is not something so huge to me at the moment. I lived through my parents deaths. I have gotten through the deaths of friends and beloved animals. There are days when we each are brought to our knees. Yet, something within still seeks the positive, the light, if you will. I feel hopeful that all will be basically okay as long as I am willing to seek that light.