Day 365

The impromptu Memory Wall that went up in Ezra's classroom today.
Art's sister looks on as other students add to the wall

Today

was

a

beautiful day.

I am

here.

At day 365

not just standing

but rooted

grateful

and

joyful to take the next breath.

The grief is not gone.

Do not be fooled.

It will lurk within me

surface at unforgettable moments

until I draw my last breath.

But today

T-O-D-A-Y

I am

I am

grateful to Art.

Grateful for the life we had together

and

grateful

for all those people

none and unknown

close to me

and distant

mean,

empathetic,

helpful,

hurtful.

I stand here

because of all of them

because of me

because of Langston, Pallas and Ezra

It's day

365

and the

sun

feels

glorious on my face.

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I'm OK?

Today looked like this....

I got up.

I laughed before the big toe of my left foot hit the floor.

I left at 8:15 for an 8:30 class that was a 20 minute drive away.

I drove giggling...my lateness, some things never change.

I didn't know anyone in the class.

I didn't feel like knowing anyone from the class.

At the class, I didn't eat the granola bar, tossed the too sweet yogurt and drank 4 little bottles of water (borrowed from my the table mates, the ones I didn't know.)

I drove home and sang till I coughed.

I made a semi-nutritious lunch for my kids out of food I already had in the refrigerator!

I made a really nutritious lunch for myself. (Spinach, yellow peppers, avocado, pine nuts and goat cheese. Tossed with more balsamic vinegar than olive oil.)

I braved Target at 2:30 pm shopping for clothes with my two youngest. We didn't run over anyone while we were telling each other jokes.

I put together a telescope. I saw the pink-purple flowers of the Morning Glory way in the back yard REALLY well.

I dropped off my daughter for her (as of this minute) first successful sleep over in over 1 1/2 years.

I was truly interested listening to Ezra's hypotheses about weapons, bombers, fighter planes and tactical ways to win over an enemy.

I paid attention as he went on and on and on and on and on and on and on.

Just he and I went to see Avatar. It was a 7:45 pm movie. He's usually in bed by 8:30. We didn't get home till 11:00.

Now at almost midnight, I am laughing again.

I'm OK.

His death didn't destroy me.

Didn't remove my essence.

Didn't consume me.

And I'm still standing

and I find my feet are encased, ensconced in this new earth.

I wriggle my toes and notice that I cannot move the earth that covers them.

I laugh so hard....I pee.

My friend said, "How are you doing?"

Today, I didn't lie.

"I'm ok." I told her

And I am.

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Ugly

“He’s in our thoughts and prayers.”

“We are sending a blanket of love.”

Those are words I read today about a boy, who like Art is

battling his second round of cancer.

He’s doing a better job than Art did

and I’m NOT doing a better job at begin gracious.

Instead, when I read those words of love

And support

Ms. Cynic thinks

“Save your breath!”

“Those good thoughts and prayers

Don’t work.

If they did,

I wouldn’t be writing this column.”

Silly, stupid, people.

-------

That boy died earlier morning on Friday, March 26.

The grief sucked me down its whirlpool, shame followed

And anger was fast on its heels.

Only this time, I bobbed to the surface

Before I got too much water up my nose.

The whirlpool didn’t take me down as far and I am not as disoriented.

I cry because I know where his mom will go

I know the journey of loss

and the idea of someone I know walking it

Makes me scream myself raw

and punch trees

and crumble to the floor and say

“Why her? Why her?”

Brooks….I’m sorry.

I wanted those silly, stupid people to be right.

I really wish they had been right.

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Cataracts

"You have cataracts" my eye doctor declares.

"I what?"

You have cataracts, she says, this time a little more slowly since I obviously don't understand her.

"But I'm 45 year old" I think.

Out loud I say, "Aren't I a bit young?"

She says "Yes but it was probably bought on by the low dose steroids you've been on for years due to your asthma.

There is silence.

She continues, "In 2 - 3 years, you can have this surgery that will repair your eyes to seeing better than you did when you were 20."

I'm not listening.

Who is going to take care of the kids and me when I have surgery? Who is going to help us for the days afterwards? Who is going to drive me to the doctor's office, go grocery shopping, tell look over Langston's should while he's on the computer or do Pallas's hair is done.

And the rage punches me in the back.

In sickness and health, in sickness in health!!

What about my sickness Art? Huh!

I did your sickness, what about mine!!!

I leave the office deflated and feeling old and

full of rage.

"You @)(*#$! You skipped out on ME!"

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Happy )@*# Valentines Day

This is my grief support group.

Art hated Valentine's Day Every year, annoyed by the hoopla he'd say,"No darn card company or flower company needs to tell me how to tell you I love you."

So today I give the finger to Valentine's Day.
Who needs you.
Who wants you
And
I hate you for reminding me of the big fat hole that exists in my life this and every stupid day I draw a breath.

This fingers for you Valentine's Day

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Feb 2, 2010 And Then We Dance

Ezra at the end of our latest dance party.

I'm not sure how it starts.

I'm never sure how they start.

But there is this collective agreement.

A collective need to release the energy.

And so one of the kids turns the music on and we are having a ...

SPONTANEOUS DANCE PARTY!!!

We take turns recording our latest and most definitely, best dance moves.

We don't care if we are out of rhythm (which rarely happens because they inherited my dancing ability, not Art's...phew.)

We don't care how silly we look.

We watch ourselves in the reflection of the large, dark windows, calling to one another when we think we have done something really cool.

"Hey Langston watch this!" 

"Hey Mom did you see this?" 

"Hey Pallas, does this look stupid?"

We are laughing and moving and sweating. Are legs carry different loads of our body weight in brief moments, our hips gyrate, our belly's tighten as our minds focused on giving our bodies just the right command:

    jerk your shoulders back, but gently,

   wiggle your butt but only on the third beat,

   swing your arms to the left, then only slightly to the right.

We each try to imitate something the other one does.

And then ... 

I am playing mom again.

Time to get ready for bed.  We are panting and smiling and grateful for the trust, the intimacy, the freedom to express ourselves to music.

And in those dance moments, I see us as a family.

A whole family, not one MISSING A DAD, but one that is STRONG and LOVING (and has good rhythm).

I know this is what we do for each other.

We dance.

We trust.

WE RELEASE AND ALL IS WELL.

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January 29, 2010 Killing to Bring Him Back

Ezra is remembering his last day with his dad.

"I was so sad I couldn't cry," he says flatly.

"I was crying on the inside, not on the outside." come the adult observations in his little 7-year-old mouth which...

begins to quiver.

"I didn't get to say goodbye to Daddy!" he sobs, regret and anger in his voice.

I say a mommy-stupid thing, something like,

"You said goodbye in your head."

Hoping that this mother guess is dead on.

Hoping to avoid a lifetime of regret that my adult self is sure he will feel....

because I do with so many things.

"No, I didn't. I didn't say it out loud and I didn't say it in my head."

And his tears flow.

The next sound is my own sob.

"You can say goodbye now if you'd like. We can write a letter, or say a prayer. Daddy is still right here (I touch him in his chest). He'll hear every word."

Ezra declines.

"I would kill to have him back," Pallas says later


"I would too," I say and then I stop.


No, I wouldn't.


I couldn't bear to put someone else through this.

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January 25, 2010 Clearing Out

He says, "Mom, can you find money in the budget for two people to go to the movies?"

"Sure. What movie do you want to see?"

"Mom, not with you."

I fake cry which includes a snicker and a smirk.

"With who then?"

"A girl."

I act all casual, making my self busy picking up discarded tissues, socks, anything to keep the conversation going and to make him feel that we are NOT having a "talk."

"Whose the girl?"

And the conversation continues. By the time we are done, his floor is clear of all debri and I have managed to dust but not to iron the curtains.

I kiss him goodnight. I leave the room, head to the kitchen, standing in it's stark light and begin to cry.

It's not that I miss Art. I knew this would happen. This life thing -- it contiues on, ya know.

I am crying because I am confused.

This week's events culminating in tears splattering on a white linoleum kitchen floor in desparate need of a cleaning.

I have spent the week cleaning out cabinets, tossing items that we no longer need. It started with the spice cabinet. "Allspice. What the hell do you use allspice for? And why do I have two bottles of it?" And "I am sure that brown is not the color of Paprika." I reach in and toss the jars, and then I move to the other food cabinets. I move to the kitchen. "Would love this pan, if I could remember to use it."

Then to the cabinets above the table where there are bowls and flower vases and plates that I mean to use but forget that I have. They are taken down and cleaned and put into a pile becasue I am going to have a garage sale.

I am shedding. Shedding our past life, shedding Art. I am growing beyond what we were.

Making room for me, no more us.

I had shed him already in my relationship with the kids. No more "Let me check with Daddy." or "What did Daddy say?" wondering if they are telling me the truth.

But now that I have been through the kitchen, the pantry and the living room I feel light and free and fucking terrified.

I shed more.

I stand in the kitchen, not sure what to do or feel or think. This is my life now. My life. The kid's life. And ... I have no idea where I am going.

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January 23, 2010 Ezra Update

Ezra came back to me again, expressing his lack of desire to live.

I called Our House where the kids and I receive grief support.

I spoke with Lauren who is in charge of children's support.

She said I need to get Ezra help immediately.

She said it's great that he trusts me enough to express his feeling.

She said it's good that I have provided him with a safe place to talk openly.

She said to call ________ (a therapist experienced with children's grief) and tell her Ezra needed a suicidal evaluation.

She said to keep her posted.

I said I need another massage gift certificate.

and then I said

"Fuck."

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January 22, 2010 Ezra's Pain

As my world stabilizes

As I look forward, instead of back

As I feel the earth rooting me,

it is exactly as the grief people said it will be.

"Many children hold onto their grief until the surviving parent is able to cope. And then...."

.....hell breaks loose.

I see them, beyond me.

They have changed from "one more thing to deal with"

to "how can I help them."

Ezra, in my room casually throwing himself aggressively on my bed in that boy manner says,

"Mom, have you ever thought about suicide?"

My heart does not skip.

I do not turn to him, startled. I have been warned.

His bereavement group leader called before the holidays. "He talked about wanting to die. This is not uncommon. Some kids long to see the dead parent so much they think suicide is a way to do it. However, Ezra kept repeating it. I told him this was very serious and that I would be talking with you. I think this goes beyond him just wanting to see his dad."

"Can a 7-year-old be suicidal?" I ask incredulously.

"Yes they can" she informs. I am silent.

I took in the information and let it swirl around in my head during winter break. Looking for any signs of depression.

Nothing till now.

Suddenly I have the mother-self-conscious awareness of the power of my words, aware that I have to keep this open. Oddly, I am not scared.

"Yes, I have Ezra. Do you feel like committing suicide?" my voice even.

"Yes" he says.

I turn to my closet, picking up a pair of shoes to put away. "Do not make this seem like a 'talk.'" I think. He is a boy, I must stay in motion.

"Why?" I ask hanging clothes in my closet

"Everyone talks about dad and I don't like it. I don't like talking OR hearing about him."

"Are the feelings that come up scary?" I can no longer resist. I sit on the bed and look at him.

"Yes, they are." he replies in a squished voice as he answers mid-summersault.

"For me," I say, "I sometimes feel like I can't possibly get passed them. I sometimes feel like dying would be better than feeling them."

And I swallow because every word I say is TRUE!

He starts into another summersault, but glances in my direction.

Searching? Seeing if I'm telling the truth?

"When?" he asks.

"On Tuesday," I say reflecting how now my grief seldom side swipes me during the day. How long has it been since they've seen me cry over Art?

He looks at me

and...

yells "Pallas, do you want to play?"

He leaps of the bed as if he just remembered there's bread in the oven and dashes out of the room.

I am left on the bed in between, crying and feeling courageous and dumbfounded.

I am sure of only one thing.

I am finally grief-less enough to help him.

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January 20, 2010 His Wallet

“Can I have dad’s wallet?” Langston asked.

“Sure.” I said quickly.

And the sadness swept in on the sing-song 'ly.'

Like love-ly or

Simp–ly

Floating in, settling.

As the ly settled I saw that I knew, back in February....

I knew he would die.

February was his 44th birthday. He had wanted a wallet. Something I had failed to get him at Christmas.

I remember standing in the store trying to decide which one to get for him, a decision clouded at that time with no sleep, feeling thinned out and elongated from running back and forth between him, the doctors and the stress and the kids, their lives and the stress.

Back then I thought that my will alone could keep him alive.

I remember choosing a wallet.

I remember picking up the wallet. I remember it in my hand. I remember facing the cashier.

And I remember, before I placed it on the counter, I turned away.

Placing it back in it's place and whispering, quietly,

inside my head so even I could barely hear ...

"Let's wait and see what's gonna happen."

I remember leaving the store, facing the rest of my day as if I never thought those words.

If you had asked me yesterday if I thougth Art was going to die, the answer would have been "NO!"

I thought I was surprised when he finally gave up fight. I thought I was unprepared when I watched as his very last exhale left his body.

But inside, buried so I could not see it or hear it, I knew it would be a struggle for him to live. Inside, back when, I knew it was over.

So I never bought him the new wallet.

I'm sorry, honey.

I'm sorry I gave up.

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January 11, 2010 SPLAT

I am standing,

sobbing,

in the parking lot of Costco

in the arms of

a strange man.

The parking lot of Costco, my cart next to me.

I am unable to find my car.

It's not my car, it's the one I am borrowing.

And when I left the store, striding like a woman who knows

EXACTLY where she is going, I remembered what it looked like.

But as I neared the row, I forgot where I parked.

"This is stupid." I say out loud.

My strides begin to shorten, then they falter and I can't find the car.

And then I can't remember what car I am looking for.

Is the mini-van? No that's at home.

Whose car is it? What does it look like?

And out of NO WHERE....I am sobbing.

I can't find my stupid car cause I can't remember what it looks like.

Is this grief or am I losing it?

Shit where is the car?

Why am I so hysterical about not being able to find the car?

And then I stop, attempt to gather myself (which means I am telling myself to fucking knock it off, get a grip and calm the hell down.)

"Are you OK?" says a gentle voice.

There is a man standing next to me. And just like in the movies, I look down and shake my head.

And then I start to laugh AND cry AND sob.

"I can't find my car. I can't remember what I'm driving. My husband died almost 9 months ago and I really hope this is the grief."

And then he looks at me, knowingly and says,

"My wife died 5 year ago." he says "It's the grief." He smiles.

And then I swear to God,

I'm hugging this guy, and crying in his shoulder and with his arms around me. He doesn't shush me. He tells me about the time he landed at LAX 8 months after his wife died and wasn't even sure he was at the right airport.

And now I'm pulling away and laughing and then BINGO I remember what car I'm supposed to look for and

I

SEE

IT.

We smile at each other. I give him one last hug and we whisper a thank you to each other at the same time because it's our secret. He knows what he did for me. He knows the gift he bestowed on me and he is grateful I willing said yes.

He smiles and waves one last time before he turns towards the store.

SPLAT....grief undone.

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January 9, 2010 I Like Him

So there's this guy....

I met him at a party of another friend.

He's genuine, has a sense of humor, and thinks I'm funny. He's easy on the eyes and athletic. He fits my outline of what I was looking for. (Yes I have an outline. It makes it easier to find what I want!)

I feared that once I started a relationship (and this is not there yet), that every time my knee was caressed by a non-Art hand, I would find it uncomfortable, painful...something that I would have to "get used to."

I anticipated feeling like I was cheating. I thought I would compare... He does that. Art used to do this.

And I am surprised at how wrong I am.

I don't remember Art's hands. I mean if I really, really, really focus on them, I remember how it hurt when we intertwined our fingers, his large fingers making the spaces in-between my fingers stretch to discomfort.

I laugh at the memory of his "gentle" touch and how he mastered it after years and years of trying.

I remember the weight of him and how if he ever had a heart attack when we made love in a certain position I might actually suffocate beneath him.

I remember kissing him. I don't remember how he kissed, but I remember loving kissing him.

But I have to concentrate to remember. It's not a physical memory. It's an emotional one.

I miss the feel of a man. I miss the connection of having a familiar hand pat my backside or encircle my waist. I miss feeling that strong male energy. I miss having my body touched, sometimes gentle, sometimes not.

I remember in the beginning, just needing a man in the house. Didn't have to do or say anything, I just needed to sense the testosterone.

I remember month 3 or 4, the crazy, wild, do-anything physical longing that took over large moments, driving me to consider picking up a beautiful and willing young man just to feel what it was like to be touched.

Around month 6, I remember the craving, anger and resentment a hug from a friend's husband erupted in me. "I don't want to remember what I'm missing!"

And then the cravings died out, the hugs lost their power and my need to be touched both sexual and emotionally seemed to dry up.

Now, with this guy, I feel like an addict who's slipped; having worked a 12 Step program for affection. I had forgotten I needed it. We find ourselves in close proximity and all I want to do is crawl up in him and immerse myself. The smell of him that close, the touch of his rough face, hands on my thighs, on the small of my back.

And as I pulled away, I wanted to stay. I wanted to listen to the deep reverberations as he talked with my head on his chest. I wanted to remember what it is like to have my legs intertwined with another man's. I wanted to just smell his unfamiliar man smell. I wanted to bask in the rediscovered sun. I wanted to sing .... I love this! I love this!

Only I couldn't figure out how much of this drive was about him and how much of it was about feeling like those dandelion flowers you blow on, you give a short burst and the seeds scatter wildly.

Instead of reveling in my craving. I said good night.

And tonight, I remember that I'm lonely. I miss the knowledge that after I finish writing this post, there will be a man, in my bed waiting for me, keeping my side warm.

I miss being loved.

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January 3, 2009 40 Day Fatigue

The wall of my current situation has slammed me hard.

I am exhausted, bruised and sliced up (and proud) by what I have done and will do in the next coming months.

Want to tell all about the latest financial blow but can't do it just yet.

This break I bought myself a magnet that says:

"What If
We Just Acted
Like Everything Were Easy."

My compass is working on resetting to easy?

I feel it.

For now, though, I just need to rest.

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January 1, 2010 Sometime I forget...

Sometimes I forget that he is not alive.

Sometimes I don't remember

until after I inhale and breath begins to leave my mouth,

lips forming the beginning sound of a word.

Sometimes

I don't remember until I have turned my body in the direction I think he is,

to ask him a question.

Then I remember

that no matter what I say

He won't answer.

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December 31, 2009 Thank God.....

Tonight...I taught my kids to drink ... grape juice,

how to do stupid things, like trying to fit into a fridge,

and the art of revelry,

and how to take bad photos. (But not naked ones!)

Tonight, we entered 2010 (Eastern Standard Time)

together

intact

as a new family.

THANK GOD THIS YEAR IS FUCKING OVER!!!!!!!!!!!

Happy New Year!

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December 30, 2009 It's Working

All this blogging.

All this thinking and pondering

and screaming

and crying

and ranting

and joying

and blaming

and elating

and sorrow

It's all working.

I got some devastating financial news two days ago.

Just devastating.

And it knocked me off my feet. And I cried and screamed and got pissed off and thought of
how to seek revenge.

And then I got calm.

And then angry

And then grateful

And then I panicked

And then I laughed.

Cause now I am free to be exactly who I am.

The money would have made me feel beholden.

Now I see the truth.

I am beholden to no one.

I have survived his death.

I have survived his idiocy (or the insurance company's idiocy) of lack of life insurance.

I will survive this latest blow.

It will be scary.

It will be empowering.

It will make me rise.

It will make me fall to the floor wishing it to suck me up.

I'm still pissed.

Gonna be for awhile.

But this time, I know all of this stuff I am feeling

Will pass

And I will keep finding my light over and over again

And keep moving forward.

Big changes to the blog in 2010.

Big changes to my life in 2010.

I am grateful 2009 is ending.

What a fucking year!

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December 28, 2009 Family

much of his extended family gathered at the house tonight
all of his siblings
one set of aunt and uncle
two cousins
all of their children

there was a sense of ease, of kindness, of caring I had not felt when he was alive.

I don't know if it was them or if it was me or it was all of us.

what I do know is that I love his family.
what I was reminded of is they are my family too.

----
My mom is here
sitting late night talking with her
i realize that this grief will leave a mark on me
i am surprised i hadn't thought about that before

my brain has shifted, changed, morphed
it will never function the same way it had before he died

so stupid
but I'm really, really sad about that
somehow to me
it signifies
my
own
mortality

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December 26, 2009 Miracles

December 25, 2009

Shared tears in the morning with my mother-in-law.
Sudden tears at the table.
Lonely tears at night.

Joy and laughter in between.

Merry Christmas, Sweetheart.
You were here and we all missed you.

------
December 26, 2009

From a song from the movie, Prince Caspian. I have heard it many times before.
Tonight I HEARD it.

i've got the memories
always inside of me
but i can't go back
back to how it was

i will leave now
i've come too far
no I can't go back
back to how it was

oooooooooo
oooooooooo
oooooooooo
i'm moving forward

so every day starts
with a magic spark
i've got my hopes high
with a second start
we are miracles
every breath is magic

so you give yourself away
with your miracle heart
ya just to be alive
is a magic art
we are miracles
every breath is magic

relief over misery
i've seen the enemy
and I won't go back
back to how it was

and I got my heart set
on what happens next
i've got my eyes wide
it's not over yet
we are miracles
and we are not alone

so every day starts with a magic spark
i've got my hopes high with a second start
we are miracles
every breath is magic

----

every breath is magic
his was
but I can't go back
second chances arrive every day

I'm so looking forward to it!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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December 24, 2009 Our Christmas Eve

We sat in church tonight, the kids scattered with relatives.

Ezra with Art's oldest cousin, Langston with his oldest cousins.

Pallas just two people away, sitting next to Nana.

As the church sang Silent Night, I cried. I missed hearing him sing next to me, the deep reverberations coming from his chest. I missed holding his hand.

I missed our family, the old family, the one where all our kids had to sit with us. I didn't have the energy to make them sit with me. I sensed they needed to find comfort in making it different than the last time we were in that church, together.

As soon as I finish this post, I will put the Christmas gifts out.

Last year we...well I did it, as he sat on the couch. The cancer already ravishing his body, making him weak. And to think, we didn't know it.

Our tradition was to put the gifts out over a bottle of wine, crackers and cheese and Christmas music.

We'd eat the cookies and he'd take a sip of the milk.

We'd laugh and giggle and he'd shush me, which made us laugh harder. We'd kiss.

I miss him, I miss what we were. All the good things we were together.

And in the next moment, I am ready to move on. Feeling well equipped to enter another relationship. Well equipped because of him.

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