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 on the 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.