Stages and Anniversaries looking back one year

This is how it is and don't let others tell you any different.

It ebbs and flows back and forth in some sort of crazy unexplained fashion. One day fine, the next day I am gobsmacked with feelings I don't really understand.

We are at the end of August once again and I am having feelings of dread. Probably because I am fully aware of the dates and anniversary of last year's dash to the very end of his life.

My mind tells me to look at all the good we had for those last six months. My body relives all the sleepless nights and angst that went along with the overwhelming feelings I had for his last 11 days. 

The feeling when nurse Tim said on the phone to his supervisor, "He is now actively dying list." 

My brain knew that and understood that. My body knew because it felt panicky. Maybe it was because of all the cumulative sleepless nights I'd been going through since March. But now it was real, real. I could see it. I could touch it, I could feel it. The pit of my stomach felt loose and unstable. 

I wanted to collapse into self pity but I still had a job to do. BE by his side. Be by his side. Be by his side.

"Actively Dying" means the body is shutting down and the 'patient' is expected to live somewhere between 3 hours to 3 days.

I didn't know that at the time. I just knew that it meant.

Soon.

His family reaction to that was curious. I am not going to try and figure that out at all. 

I knew one thing. It meant I was going to do a whole lot of work after he was gone and I wasn't prepared for everything I was supposed to do. I started researching and making a list of to do's.

I also knew that I wasn't going to leave his 'side' until it was done. I called in favors to those who said "If you need me for anything".  I needed fresh milk and a few other items. Those good neighbors actually pulled through for me. 

Surprisingly, not his family.

So obviously, now I am going through the memories of that time again. That is what I do reanalyze, mull it over, and think about it while crossing off dates on my calendar.

The last time we fished together was the 27th. The day they proclaimed him as Actively Dying was the 30th. 

Day by day the Hospice Workers that came were calm, quiet, and gentle. Yet they all felt a certain disbelief that he kept going on until September 11th. They never mentioned the 'how long' it should have been. 

Time for me was in slow motion, or better yet, a slow fog. I was stoic on the outside. Only at night did I allow myself to grieve for what was to come. At night all the doubts crept in, all the invasive thoughts crept in. All the what ifs swirled aimlessly about in my brain.

All the while I was trying to rest and listen for sounds from Rich. 

Watching, waiting. 

Time stood still with the only difference being daylight and nights alone.

So this is what is occupying my thoughts as I continue on through to the one year anniversary. It is okay to call it an anniversary. No one should tell me different. I'm going to think about. I'm going to miss him. I'm hoping that the grief continues but it is less painful.

I'll be fine in the gym, on hikes, mowing the yard, doing the everyday things we all have to do.

But in the evenings and early mornings, I'll be thinking about this in the next couple of weeks and it will be on my mind.

Simply because.
That is how the heart and mind work.

I have been changed.

This month will be...

Difficult.

I'm doing the countdown to the events that led to Rich's final days that will mark a year. My brain says I shouldn't think about it, my brain then thinks about it and relives it anyway. 

August was our last month of being able to do things together. No, it wasn't easy. Friends helped in super human ways. 

We went out to lunch every Wednesday that we could. It was my treat since Steve was the one driving and assisting with the wheelchair, oxygen, and everything else we did.

We laughed and told stories. Well, the guys did. They travelled down memory lane together. Their stories of hunting together and fishing together were endless. I was the witness and listened intently. These memories and stories were before I entered the picture.

Steve's patience helped me when I got frustrated. He was the rock in the turbulent moments while we were out and about. Rich was happiest and full of spark whenever we went anywhere with Steve.

I know it was his friend's influence and gentle ways that convinced Rich he could be out in public and still enjoy himself.

Below is when Rich wanted to pose in Reserved Parking with his wheelchair. There is that look of devilish fun in his eyes! Being a smart-ss, he said he had to park right there!

Some days the fishing was horrible. I purchased a Stuffed Fish at a gift shop and Rich took it with us from then on.

The beauty of it all is that he often forgot that he was in the last days of his life. He looked forward to the Hospice visits from the nurses, the aide, and even the Chaplain. He didn't always connect the visits with the fact that he was dying. He enjoyed the moments and that is what mattered.

One of the things I learned was that this man who spent much of his last years self isolating really loved the company of others. He often said he didn't.

He did.

Severe Major Depression Disorder kept him lonely. 

In the photo below he was watching the birds and the driveway to look for Allie who came twice a week to give him a bed-bath. He would sit for as long as he could watching and waiting. Often he asked me to tell him the time. It reminded me of kids in the car on a trip asking "Are we there yet?".

The photo reminds me of scenes I've observed while in Nursing Homes. A patient sitting in a wheelchair looking lost. 

It wasn't that way with Rich, he was always watching what was going on outside. The birds caught his attention or perhaps deer walking in the meadow. He couldn't help the attentiveness, it was how he survived his time in Vietnam. Being aware at all times of everything going on around him.

Do you see the little dog who is
sitting next to him? 

In these moments, I never thought about "What Next", I was in the present and the here and now every day. At night I lay on the couch and cried for myself and for us. I didn't want anyone to know. I was 'strong' and tough. I was and had to be the Rock.

I put on one ear bud in my ear and listened to music. I had to keep an 'ear' out for Rich too. 

So now it is August 2026 and I feel like I am going through the countdown once more. 

I've made some adjustments and I still have issues with being around others who can't fathom what I went through. I don't bother telling them either. The other day at the gym, someone who hadn't seen me in a while asked a simple question that threw me.

"You are doing so great! So what are your plans?" 

My plans.
I'm going to survive the next 8 weeks, I thought. Those are my plans. I'm on hold right now. I feel like I'm just keeping it together. 

I smiled. Tell the truth. "I'm just hanging in there."

Next? A look of pity. She didn't mean to look that way. But the eyes and facial expression was there.

Today? 
I don't know what I want. 

I do know this. I am not 'over' it. I have had more good days than bad that is a good thing.

One of the things about going through Hospice like this, you know what the end 'game' is. You know the eventual outcome.

But nothing ever prepares you for it until you've lived it. So now I want to reanalyze it to see if I could've have done better. It is a worthless exercise, yet my brain goes there.

I know that I did the best I could.

Hospice sent me a letter asking if I'd consider being a volunteer. Yes, I would. But not yet. I'm not in a place where I can do through this again even if it is someone I don't know well. 

My heart and mind are still trying to heal.

10 months and counting....

 When death brushes your soul, it reminds you that you are finite too. 

At 20,30,40, and so on, I was invincible as was my husband. We never thought much of the future and the old age thing. That was for someone else to worry about.

It has been 10 months to the day today since Rich died.  

I'd been busy socially and physically. Children, family, friends, the gym, riding, and phone calls from others that made me feel alive and I realized after a few days that I hadn't felt sorrow.

I sat on the porch with the dogs and watched the evening show of fireflies and I was perplexed. How on earth could I be feeling so happy? I almost felt guilty for listening the quiet music of the night coming in. 

I searched my brain. Nope. I didn't feel sad. In fact I hadn't thought about 'him' in a few days. I turned to the dogs. "Hey guys, I'm not sad today. I haven't been sad for a few days. I feel normal."

Hannah looked up from her chew bone and thumped her tail. Charlie sighed and found a more comfortable spot to recline on the bench.

"I'm sorry Rich, I've had an amazing Happy Week. Is that okay?" I whispered into the night air. "I'm sorry, I've been very happy and content this week. It feels so strange."

How long does the black cloud hang overhead?
How can I feel so clear?
Is this bad?
Is this good?

They say Grief can hit you in strange ways, a feeling,  something you see, something you hear, something you smell. There is no rhythm or reason to it.

Yep, I was hurtling along on the path to "I'm really quite okay right now."

At the gym, it was Country Music day during the workout.

I just finished a fantastic workout, sweating buckets of salt water. Coach told us to stretch out and ease the muscles we'd just beaten up.

An oldy came on the speakers.

I felt my throat close, the world dim, and fall apart.

I held it together until I got home.

WTH? 
We all know that sometimes a song will come on the radio and we will recall the memories associated by that.

Our Song.
OUR

S O N G

the song we played at our impromptu wedding.

James Bonamy 1996

I Don't Think I Will....

Hold it right there
Don't say a word
I hear a voice I've never heard
Calling my name
Saying this is the one
Oh my goodness, what have you done?
I could turn around and walk away
Saying this is too good to be real
But oh no, I don't think I will

Because I absolutely positively know without a doubt
You're becoming someone I just could not live without
I was so afraid I'd spend my whole life
Not knowing how this feels
But oh no, I don't think I will...

It even hurts just putting the lyrics here. Crushing.

But it is my hurt that reminds me so much as to how much I loved and was loved in return. And that is true. I was loved truly and deeply. It went both ways. We had something so incredibly special and no one else understood how it worked for us. 

The 4th means different things to everyone...

Each Holiday marks another one that we are not together although we never did much on the holidays. You preferred quiet and solitude.

I'll never forget the first 4th we spent together. I had a long weekend and drove 4 hours to spend it riding with you in what is now the Kickapoo Valley Reserve. 

We sat around the campfire with our mule friends at Mule Camp [it still retains that name after 30+ years]. You stated that you needed cigarettes. You were almost out. 

Since your truck was hooked up to the trailer I offered to drive you to LaFarge a few miles away to the ZZ Stop for them.  This was our third 'date' weekend.

I drove past the LaFarge High School as darkness fell and suddenly the skies lit up with fireworks, big bangs, the kind you could feel in your chest. 

In one instant you'd gone from a joyful date to a man who looked like he'd seen a ghost as you tried to make yourself small and contain whatever monsters took over. You muttered, "Oh Shit." By the time we got to the gas station, you were too shaken to get out of my car.

That was the first time in my life that I purchased cigarettes. 

We got back to camp and you went inside the camper on your truck without saying a word to those around the campfire. 

I said goodnight for the both of us and mentioned the Fireworks. His friends nodded and asked if you'd be okay. I nodded and followed you into the camper.

Right then I knew I had to help you through the moment.

I sat next to you on the bed and put my arms around you. "You are safe with me. Always."

This was my first experience with a full meltdown with PTSD caused by the trigger of fireworks. That was the last time we went anywhere on the 4th of July.

Everyone that knew you, knew that noises like that would set you off. 

That look on your face that night in the car introduced me to a different world that most people never get to see. I will never forget it.

I sat with you that night with my arms around you whispering that you were safe and that I was by your side.

My willingness not to judge you or fear your mental health issues was the glue that held us together. You were partly broken, but that was okay with me.

I do like fireworks, don't get me wrong. But each time I hear them on the 4th, it pulls me back to that night and how it solidified our relationship.

Until yesterday, we'd receive phone calls alerting us by close neighbors that they would be setting off fireworks or they'd be out target practicing. They all knew you and how you reacted to Fireworks. 

The silence of that was louder than the fireworks.

and then...

 

One is day good, some days are wreck. That's the new state of my daily life.

When you died, I sat with you quietly and understood what happened but felt numb. You had waited for this event for so many years and talked about how death would bring you peace and end the pain you'd lived with for so long. Your breath stopped, I was watching for that.

I got up and turned off the oxygen concentrator and the house was suddenly so silent and immediately it felt abandoned and empty and...final.

I thought I was ready to handle it all. I was prepared to proceed with 'the things that needed to be done' next. I had a list of things to immediately accomplish. I had a list of places to call for notification. 

It felt like a business 'to do' list. 

I dove into the funeral business first everyone knows all about that.

I went down my list sometimes running into issues and hitches along the way. 

I figured that I'd grieved for years through all of your illnesses and close calls.

When you entered Hospice care, I was on high alert for months on end. Sometimes I wished for it to happen right away for you to end your suffering and the next moment I hated myself for thinking about it.

I wanted you here, I wanted you at peace and without pain. I couldn't have both at the same time. I quit the gym, I couldn't stand spending time with others who experienced joy and laughter. I carried my personal suffering quietly and sometimes angrily.

I was angry that family didn't step up or come around. They had their reasons but I couldn't see them or understand them. I hid that too and concentrated on our time together. I found that your friend Steve was the rock I could count on. I cherished those days when we worked so hard to bring you some enjoyment. 

Now it has been what, 9 months? I am looking back at last summer's photos of our little fishing trips on Wednesdays and the joy that it brought to you. I now wish I had more time to tell you how much I loved you and how much your smiles meant to me. I now regret not holding your hand every day [even though you were not a hand holder]. I wished we'd hugged more.

At night with my thoughts I wonder if I could have done more and realize those were just night wishes. I had so many nights without sleep for over 6 months. I was running on empty just like you were. 

I was pretty sure that my life would be easier after you were gone. I could sleep, I could go and do things I've dreamed of. I would be just fine and not a wreck because I was prepared.

Until I realized I wasn't. Half of me was gone. Okay, not literally, but you read about it all the time. I felt like I was adjusting to that. 

And then I wasn't.

No one else knows me like you did. No one knows you like I did. These were our secret powers. 

So, I have days where I am stuck standing in the middle of the living room with no place to go, and feeling quite lost. I do have places to go and things to do. But my feet are frozen to the floor for some reason. 

I don't want to go to the grocery store. I don't want to do anything I am supposed to be doing. I am just stuck and now I understand that I have to wait until I am unstuck and my feet can move and my brain can make a decision.

That shouldn't be. But I guess I didn't do grief the right way, if indeed there is a right way to grieve. I didn't fall apart, I just took care of things and continue to do so. And I get stuck.

Then I find a goal to work towards. I need a project or a challenge.

The months going by haven't really gotten easier. I've just been able to distract my brain.

I haven't found the answers to the questions I don't even understand yet.

But that is okay. 

I still think about you. I still see you. I still love you.

The Cowboy way

 Hi there. 

I thought I'd better check in with you. I don't know how this happened, but I am getting into my old groove again. By that, I mean I am doing sociable things. Hiking, riding, going out for coffee, joining a photography club, and learning to be alive again.

But every time I turn around, I find some wonderful memory popping up. 

You were standing next to the horse trailer with my mare, Cheyanne, saddled up and waiting. Your mule, Fred, was tied up next to her.

In your hand you had a cold beer waiting for me. You were casually leaning against your mule with a crooked grin on your face. 

I knew then as a 'newlywed' that I had died and ended up in marital heaven. 

You laughed and told me to grab my boots. We were going riding. I sipped the cold beer as we rode out.

Forget supper, this was cowboy romance.

The evening sun was pleasant. We rode through the neighbor's pasture gate and past the herd of beef cattle.

We found a scrub apple tree and tied up our mounts. 

You tossed a your shirt on the pasture grass.

The sunset was amazing. We watched the moon rise as our mounts munched on grass. You blew clouds of smoke into the air and leaned in...

You can guess the rest. Cowboy courtin'.

I only have those memories now.

Tonight this one smacked me right in the face as I sat on Siera and watched the sun start to fade.

I blush, remembering it.

No, I haven't met anyone. Hannah is helping fill the big aching hole in my heart. Puppies. What can I say? She demands so much, it keeps me busy.

Charlie keeps me grounded. He keeps me on track.

The mules? 

They spark the memories of the cowboy-muleman romance. 

Tonight, while riding Siera in the forest, I felt something like joy. I felt my heart warm.

That engaging memory flowed through me.

I hadn't felt like that in years. I gasped and then smiled. 

My my cheeks turn red. I sensed your presence.

Somehow I am having a joyful week. I should feel sad or perhaps guilty. But I'm going to take the joy and embrace it.

The pain will hit again, but I'm smiling when I think of you and your cowboy ways.

And that shirt on the ground. 

Healing a bit at a time.

I finally found something I could put on our headstone. I'd been looking for a hanging basket of
fake flowers, but settled on this.

 
Friday while at the gym, I partnered up with a gal named Charlene. She is super quiet and doesn't speak out much during our workouts.

After Rich died, I got quiet. I don't even speak most of the time during my gym workouts except to answer questions.

His death took away some of my spunk and attitude.

Don't get me wrong, I am not mute. I just don't see the point of gossip and other nonsensical conversations that don't impress me. Things feel so much different. Sometimes I feel like I am walking about in an alternative reality from others. 

Charlene and I were sharing a barbell doing Thrusters and other variations of strength training. 

In casual conversation, I mentioned something about taking papers to the bank to prove that I was the surviving spouse with right of survivorship to Charlene. 

Charlene was my 'gym' partner on this day. 

She quietly told me that her husband had died two years ago in June. She admited that Widowhood was difficult, even after nearly two years, she had to deal with things she never thought of.

I stood, probably with my mouth hanging wide open. I said, "Oh, I'm speechless, I think. I've never met another widow. Thank you for telling me." 

I immediately thought JEEZE, that was dumb! Stupid, stupid, stupid!

What I should have said aloud is that no one walks around introducing themselves as a widow.

We did another round of lifts.

I turned to her and said, "Thank you, you have no idea how alone I feel being a widow. It is like nobody else really gets it."

Charlene nodded. "They don't. I am glad we spoke. We have something very real in common."

"We do, we are different but we have this." We both looked at each other as we got ready to leave the gym. 

"Thank you."

She nodded.

Her eyes told me everything I needed to know. She still had pain behind those eyes. She still mourned. But she didn't broadcast her mourning or her pain. She kept it to herself because, unless you have that loss, you 

cannot

know 

the pain

endured 

each day.

And you are expected to get over it quickly.

Except is doesn't happen that way. Grief bombards you in the strangest of ways and places.

We smile, we go on. We work at living a life. Some days are good. Some days suck. We continue to explore who we are now that we are not the other half of another.

I waved as I left the gym. "I'll see you next week! And I promise not to lose you on that hike!"

She smiled. The smile nearly reached her eyes and she nodded.

"See you!"

~~~~~

Charlene had told me that she was joining me on the B-day hike. She was worried that I'd hike too fast and leave her behind. I assured her that no such thing would happen.

When I hike with others, it is at their ability and speed. When I go solo for time I never invite others. I am competing against myself. ~~~~