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January 5, 2013

Dream – Journey off the Edge – 1/4/2013

Posted by Mara Jevera Fulmer under beginnings, cancer, death, Education, Family, friendship, grief, marriage, mourning | Tags: , , |
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Peeking over the edge of the camera view, I am standing at the square near the river that runs through the center of Ekaterinburg, Russia, May 2012. Seems nowadays I am peeking over the edge of a new journey.

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Dreaming off the edge…

I woke this morning (1/4/13) with a start. My heart was still pounding from the last remembered scene in my dream. It was about 9:20 am, a little while before the alarm I’d set would go off, but about 90 minutes after I’d fallen back asleep after letting the dogs out for their morning constitution.

Although I cannot recall all the details of my dream, as with other dreams I’ve written about, I’ll try and share what I can here:

I was driving on an elevated highway heading towards a fork in the highway. I didn’t know which way I should go. Beyond the view of the two diverging ramps, all that was visible was blue sky. My speed was not in my control, and the vehicle – I think it was the truck for it felt higher off the road than my car – was moving at a very fast pace. I started to panic and reached out to both sides of the car, both hands outstretched could reach the door frames. I remember thinking “how is this possible?” I shouldn’t be able to reach both sides, am I in a covered motorcycle? No. I realized I must be both driver and passenger. As I was cruising very fast towards the split, I could finally read a green and white highway sign which said “I-75 North” and a curved arrow pointing towards the left. I remember thinking “Grab the steering wheel and turn” but when I reached for the steering wheel, it was too late and the momentum took me straight off the highway into thin air. I never hit the ground. I remember seeing it very very far away, as if falling from a high altitude airplane when the landscape below is still very abstract. It seemed to be rushing closer but remained very far away. I awoke with my heart pounding, still feeling the terror of the experience. But it wasn’t the same as a terror born of fear. It was terror from uncertainty, exhilaration, and fear of the unknown. Not fear of an impending death.

What do I think of this dream? Several things come to mind based on experiences going on in my life. First … the New Year means new directions. But I’m not there, and I am not quite sure which way to go. But I am heading there at great speed! I have committed to exploring building a new house out at Perry Road. Just the preliminary design stage first and potential zoning variances. Greg Mason is working with me on this. He had begun working with Keith on potentially renovating the farmhouse but we gave up on that due to its extremely poor condition. I also began to peek at dating websites to see if there are any understanding widowers out there in my age range who are looking for an occasional companion for friendship, dinner, a movie, maybe other shared interests. I was discouraged. But Stassia is providing some advice in this new dating style that didn’t exist the last time I was dating back in high school… in the 70s!

Another point of note is that I was alone in the car – driver and passenger were both just me, alone. Keith was not there as he had been in my previous “driving” dream. And as I shot off into the air in my vehicle, I realized I was in this liminal space – between spaces. Between control and uncontrol, between heaven and earth, between now and future, ending and beginning. It is that space when you’ve lost the momentum of the direction you were heading, but haven’t begun to fall to the ground yet.

Other memories to consider…
And one last coincidence that might have a connection: My last night in the USA before flying to Fiji the next day with the family, I was on an elevated highway, I787 which wraps around the city of Albany, NY, the family’s plane tickets on the seat next to me, the kids waiting with Grandma at the Hilton. Just a mile from the hotel, I narrowly missed being killed by a wrong-way driver on the rush-hour holiday traffic-filled highway. Following behind a gasoline tanker in the right lane, I saw him swerve and hit his brakes, and I followed suit. But then I saw the wrong-way driver heading towards me and the vehicle to my left. The errant driver hit the small truck right beside me instead, killing him in a swirl of spinning vehicles, flying parts, and eventual fire. I braked hard with my car stopping only 50 feet from where some of the wreckage finally stopped spinning. Keith and his dad were about a mile behind me in his truck and didn’t know how close I’d come. But they were stuck in the traffic for another 3 hours while police and firetrucks came. I was interviewed by police and newspaper reporters both who took my film from my camera – once I’d realized I couldn’t do anything to help the man who was dead under his car, I grabbed my camera that still contained the “going away party” photos on a roll and started taking photos of the scene realizing that it would all have to be moved to make way for the emergency vehicles (the journalist in me).

Once the police gave me the go-ahead, I attempted to make my way to the hotel. The only exit was an on-ramp being used for the emergency vehicles. One came towards me lights and sirens going, and I stopped to the side again, shaking and beginning to cry. But I then started off again and made my way to the hotel. My mother-in-law and daughters were there, but Keith and his dad would be another 2 hours stuck in the traffic. When they finally arrived, they went on about the accident and I told them how close I was. It became clear it was not my time. The film loaned to the police and the newspaper was processed and returned to me the next morning before we left for our flight. That was August 30, 1991. Flying out on the 31st, we arrived in Fiji on 9/1/91, exactly 21 years to the day from when Keith would die on 9/1/12.

Symmetry and threads in the fabric of life

So there is symmetry in this story. In my dream, I am driving on an elevated highway that feels a lot like the one on I787. But I am the only car on the road. When we left for Fiji, we were leaving behind everything that was familiar to us, embarking on a journey that was new, exhilarating and frightening at the same time. And, when I was flying back from Russia last May, after cutting my trip short to be here with Keith when he got news from his liver biopsy, I remember trying to distract myself from thinking about why I was going home on this flight from Ekaterinburg to Moscow by snapping photos out the window of the abstract landscapes below. I still have these photos in hopes of creating new artwork from them.

I’m not sure of the meaning of all of this, but it seems obvious that I am at the start of a new and unknown journey. My psyche is frightened and a bit curious and excited, too. Like the threads that weave back and forth in a great tapestry, I seem to be heading back towards another destination, with details that sometimes echo of a previous path. I mentioned to my daughter that we had family who lived to their late 90s. So if I follow suit, I may have another 45 or more years to go, another lifetime ahead of me. It saddens me that I do it without Keith. But it also means I have another life to build. I hope to make it as fulfilling as the first half that I had the privilege to build with a very special and wonderful person.

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Above: View from the Aeroflot flight from Ekaterinburg to Moscow, May 2012, after cutting the trip short to be with Keith.

 

January 2, 2013

Endings & Beginnings

Posted by Mara Jevera Fulmer under beginnings, cancer, death, Family, friendship, grief, marriage, mourning | Tags: , , , |
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Above: Keith climbed the hill to the 4000 sq. ft. workshop. Facing the new year without him begins one step at a time.
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It was New Year’s Eve and I met it with intense trepidation. 2012 began so full of promise… we had just celebrated our older daughter’s wedding, bought property that would be Keith’s new shop, I had been awarded the Fulbright grant to Russia, and our younger daughter was graduating from the university. Yes, 2012 was going to be a good year.

And then, suddenly, it wasn’t. What a difference a day makes.

With Keith’s cancer, the world as I had thought it would be changed on a dime. From diagnosis to death… less than 3 months. And now Keith is gone.

This is that stage on the grief journey where I would get angry, cry, and doubt my ability to survive. Saying goodbye to 2012 was like saying goodbye to Keith all over again, like he was moving further and further from my reach, my daily experiences, my future.

This is what is most frightening to me. The future. A future further and further removed from Keith, the person with whom I shared two-thirds of my life. My entire adult life. And now, with my own life expectancy to be many years into the future, I face an entirely new unanticipated life.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. We were supposed to grow old together, two greying codgers puttering around our studios, bouncing ideas off each other, traveling on our bikes… or trikes … as we got too old to hold up the 2-wheelers. Visiting with our grandchildren, helping our grown children with their own journey as maturing adults. This is the part where I get angry again. It wasn’t supposed to be this way!!!

Getting through the end of 2012

I spent most of the last two days up to New Years Eve slipping in and out of tears, my voice on the edge of cracking, grief bubbling up to the surface even as I struggled to squash it from my psyche, all to no avail. I’d sometimes have to turn away when someone stopped by to ask how I was doing. Or during a call, I’d go silent as I swallowed back unexpected tears that threatened to choke me.

Yesterday afternoon, when this stubborn grief threatened to overwhelm me, I decided to do what I had been doing nearly every day, but this time with more focused effort. So as the sun started sinking in the west, I packed a sandwich – leftover ham from Christmas dinner – picked up a fresh Starbucks coffee in my insulated mug and headed over to Perry Road. The gallery house stood before me, nearly done, final details with corbels and gable trim were installed and I couldn’t help but smile. All that’s left is a few little things outside, and finishing the paint and electric inside which should all be done by Monday.

I walked around this building that was originally going to house a showroom of Keith’s furniture on the first floor with older daughter’s photo studio upstairs. The latter will still happen. But downstairs will be a bit more flexible gallery studio space. A piece or two of Keith’s furniture might be on display until it finds a home with one of us Fulmer gals.

The snow crunched beneath my feet as I headed around back, the Himalayan wind chimes with the inscription to Keith greeted me with a deep resonating chord. I said hello to Keith’s chimes in return greeting. With work gloves on my hands, I dragged a couple of cinder blocks to the crest of the hill and piled one of Keith’s furniture blankets folded on top for me to sit. For the next half hour I sat and listened to the sounds around me, nibbled on my sandwich and sipped my coffee. It’s a beautiful space to meditate and I always have felt stronger for it. This night was no different. But when I stood up to move on and out of the cold darkening space, I said my goodbyes again, a prayer for peace in my life, in the girls’ lives, and in the next life Keith is in, somewhere beyond my reach.

Then, as I went into the old workshop behind the newly renovated gallery house, I started to putter, my usual activity here, familiarizing myself with little things I find in the many dusty corners. Then I picked up a broom and a shovel. The huge 4000 sq ft shop has piles of saw dust everywhere. It was time to begin cleaning it up if it was to become the real artists’ working studio I hoped (and Keith asked me) to make it. An overwhelming task, for certain. But having just seen the other building nearly completed, I understood a little more about what it would take to do this one. I swept up a pile of sawdust and scooped it up into the big trash can. It’s a big job. But it all begins with one step… One step at a time.

Next Steps, New Year, New Life

So what is it all for now? Yes, I have two beautiful daughters who I love with all my life. They are the reason I continue to look forward. Yes, I have my work. Yes, I have my studies. Yes, I have my art and even music and writing.

But, it can be very lonely at the end of the day. And frankly, as sweet (and sometimes noisy) as they are, my dogs are poor conversationalists.

As much as it pains me deeply, I am not sure I am meant to live the next chapter of my life alone. The pain comes from guilt… Am I being unfaithful? How can I think about sharing ideas and the day’s news with another “companion”? conversations that were meant for Keith?

And that’s where 2013 will begin for me… trying to find my footing in this new territory of widowhood. Boy oh boy has the dating scene changed since the ’70s. And, of course, so have I.

A close friend told me the other night, during a very late night conversation about our mutual grief, of people she has known who have created close bonds or even marriage to someone new after a losing their loved husband or wife. She said that they had found love in this new relationship, but that their new spouse (who may also have been widowed) recognized that there will always be this other love in their life who came first and who was taken too soon. They understood that they are second, sharing their new companion with this other ghost lover who holds their heart.

That gives me at least a little comfort that there may be a future not entirely alone, that there may be a way to balance these two competing dynamics – a positive future and the beautiful past. But it is heartbreaking when I think that I must even face this new future without Keith, my beautiful husband and best friend who never will see another New Year’s Day or welcome in another year.

I woke up New Years Day feeling so much better. One step forward, one swept pile of sawdust, one more day closer to the next chapter life has in store for this new widow.

It’s going to be a tough journey. And I guess I really have very little choice in this matter. But I have the love of my family and good friends to help carry me forward. I’ve learned that much in these past months and days. And if I’ve learned anything else from 2012, it’s that you can’t take anything for granted. I love and appreciate them all.

So here’s to surviving this new journey in the New Year! Find time to listen to the wind, the rustle of leaves, the sounds beneath your feet… All of these remind us we are alive, here to make a difference in this world… One small step at a time.

May peace be with you in 2013. – mjf

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Above: the nearly completed “gallery” house. Keith asked me not to sell the property, but to instead prepare it for use by me and the girls rather than its originally intended showroom gallery for his furniture. Behind this building is a 4000 sq ft workshop (one section shown below) filled still with vintage woodworking machines and small tools and materials. Someday it, too, will become art studio space for me and my girls.

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December 21, 2012

Getting through the holidays at the 4-month mark

Posted by Mara Jevera Fulmer under cancer, death, Family, grief, marriage, mourning | Tags: , , , , , , , , |
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Photo: Family Christmas 1989, our first as a foursome after our youngest daughter was born. She recently graduated from university in April 2012.

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Adaptation Fight or Flight

A fellow who worked for the Peace Corp in the South Pacific office in Fiji once told me that they had done studies that showed a volunteer would have their toughest time at about the four-month mark. It was at that stage in their adaptation to their new situation in a foreign place where they were truly reaching the depths of homesickness. The strongest would endure, powering through it in spite of their emotional turmoil, forever changed by their new lives outside of their full control. While the weaker ones would give up and return home, soaking in their traumatized perceptions, refusing to accept life that isn’t fully predictable.

So here I find myself in a parallel space. That four month mark since Keith’s death where I am reaching that first major turning point in my adaptation to life without him. In thinking about this, I was struck by another parallel from our past. It was on September 1st, 1991 that Keith and I arrived with two very young daughters in Fiji. And it was in December 1991 where I found us on that pivotal moment where I would either run back to the states in tears and frustration, or tough it out and find a way to adapt. Back then, in Fiji, the holidays were an amusing attempt to create normalcy on the other side of the looking glass. In the end, we stayed six years, choosing to adapt, and even thrive. But it wasn’t easy.

And I find it just a little too synchronistic that Keith would die on September 1st, 2012, 21 years later. Five years before our arrival in Fiji, our first daughter was born two weeks late. She was due on September 1st but chose to wait a couple of weeks longer in the womb. Apparently an Emerson Lake & Palmer concert was finally enough to coax her out.

It’s funny (not haha funny) that I am only thinking of this now, that September 1st would be such a day of note in our family history. But then again, I was always amused by numbers and patterns. To this day (for at least the last decade or more), I find myself looking at a clock at just the moment where it reads 9:11. It’s almost as if life is not in balance if I do not see this time upon my glance at the clock. So when the World Trade Center was struck on 9/11/01, the date more than seemed significant. When Keith died, it was 9/01/12. Another dear friend and mentor died on 01/09/10, bit since he was overseas, it would have been written 09/01/10. So maybe there’s a pattern. Or maybe I just like playing with numbers. No meanings inferred here. It’s just interesting.

Now here we are on 12/21/12, or even as 12/21/2012.. Interesting rhythm to it. Not quite a palindrome, but a nice pattern nonetheless. Some believe it is the end of the world on the Mayan calendar. But anthropologists say it is what the Mayans say is the end of an “era”, a 13-round cycle of 52 years each.

For me, it is just another day. But the end of an era is already here for me. I feel it in my body, physically aching each night as I fight sleep. Days are long, but nights are longer still. Each night, after keeping myself busy with work, school, laundry, family, etc., I come to bed and Keith looks back at me from his photographic perch. In one picture he can look almost stern, mocking my lack of attention to him and my heart sinks. Reality hits me again, like a repeating torturous blow. I kiss my finger and place it on his lips on the photo. “I miss you,” I whisper as I sigh deeply with watery eyes before turning away.

And then I face the truth. No, he’s not coming back. No, he’s not out of town. No, he’s not going to walk into the room. No, you will never hold him again while you curl up in this bed.

It hurts.

And as another holiday looms, I know that when I come back from our annual service at the soup kitchen where we’ve been cheerfully taking photos of children on Santa’s lap on Christmas Day for 8 years, my home will be quiet except for the two dogs curled up asleep. Keith will not be sitting there with them asking how the event went. He will not be there, ready to open a few presents with the kids, or sit down with us for a meal of whatever we’ve decided to experiment with that year.

I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all. And what’s worse… there’s not a damned thing I can do to change it. So, unlike the homesick peace corp volunteer who still has the option of running back to the familiar, I’m going to have to push through it until I get to the other side of this holiday.

Grief sucks.

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The woodworking shop(s)

My husband was a woodworker. And a very talented one at that. I’m beginning to realize that more and more. I guess I took it for granted that others were as meticulous as he when it came to work they were hired to do. Granted he had his off days. But he knew it and more than once he would take a mistake and toss it out starting over again when something didn’t come out exactly as he wanted it to.

And, like any talented and meticulous woodworker, he had his tools… LOTS of them, admired by others for the over all completeness of his shop. What makes my role harder as his widow, however, is that not only have I inherited HIS very modern shop. But I also have the project of dealing with the shop and lifetime of items left behind by another woodworker, Mr. Maurice Reid, at Perry Road, the property Keith and I had purchased a year before Keith’s death. Mr. Reid left behind more than 100 years of accumulated tools, supplies, and various pieces-parts of furniture, etc. There were also albums, notes, letters, assorted artifacts going back to the mid-1800s left behind in the 1840s era farmhouse on the property. Fortunately, Keith and I had already gone through much of that, with arrangements made to donate these to a university museum. But the 4000-sq-ft workshop was still chock full of vintage machinery, tools, and supplies.

So it shouldn’t surprise anyone that I have begun to sell some items, if only to make way for the art studio that Keith wanted me to arrange for the girls and myself. I even wrote about the first round of sales in a previous post where it felt like a very positive experience.

But the more recent effort left me emotionally drained. And after they left, I went to my bed and cried. It didn’t feel right this time. And so, after talking to my daughters, I’ve decided to hold off with any future sales. Both shops are closed to any sales now, especially the kind where people wonder through as if at a garage sale in search of unrecognized treasures.

Frankly, it was one thing to see people going through stuff at Perry Road where Keith had only begun to play with the big giant vintage machines to make them his own. But it was quite another to see people I didn’t know touching and talking about equipment in the shop here at home. It was just too painful seeing them playing with knobs, etc. on Keith’s machinery, commenting here and there about it’s failings. I know there was no disrespect intended. And under other circumstances, I probably would have been just fine about it, maybe would have even cracked a joke about it.

But this time, as I watched and overheard their murmurings, it took every bit of strength I could muster not to break down in front of them. In the end, after thinking about it for a couple of days, I cancelled the sale of the last two items that would have been picked up in January. I couldn’t go through with it. And the girls convinced me that it was okay to just leave things where they were, even saying that they wanted to use these machines themselves.

This last part amazes me. For I often forget how much time Keith had with them working in the shop. They’re much more knowledgeable than I am about the operation of some of these tools. That’s a beautiful gift that Keith gave them… the confidence to handle these tools and make things with their hands.

Such are the precious gifts of memories and meaning that are the comfort I seek to get me through this holiday season.

 

December 3, 2012

Dream of Journey on the 3-month anniversary

Posted by Mara Jevera Fulmer under cancer, death, Family, grief, marriage, mourning, Travel | Tags: , , , , , |
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20121203-001739.jpgPhoto above: Keith and me on my college graduation day in 1982 and also the day of my bridal shower. I was 21 and he was 24 years old, both so young and at the start of a beautiful 30-year marriage.
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I haven’t dreamed in such a vivid way in quite some time. But as I awoke this morning after a brief sleep, I lay there stunned that my reality upon awakening didn’t match the dream I had abruptly left. I lay in bed nearly 20 minutes grasping at the threads of memory in an effort to return to the dream.

This morning’s dream occurs just 3 months after Keith’s death and must have occurred during that brief hour between 8:30-9:30 am this morning. I know it was not from during the night because I had gotten up earlier after being awakened by Lenny, my husband’s 18-month-old Silken Windhound, who makes it known that he needs to go out to relieve his small bladder by whimpering relentlessly next to my ear.

Although some things are fuzzy about the dream, some things are quite clear. I’ll do my best to relay these details here:

The Dream, 3 month anniversary

In my dream, there was me, Keith, Sarah and Anastassia, with the girls both grown as they are today. We were preparing for long road trip. It was AFTER Keith’s death… yet he was there, speaking to me. It seemed that the trip was as much for him as it was for the rest of us. The girls were there, too, but not so much talking, just along, watching Keith and I as we busied ourselves getting things ready. Keith was wearing a yellow polo t-shirt with wide white stripes and thin blue stripes and a breast pocket. The shirt would have been one of his nicer ones, though he always preferred ones with the pocket.

During the dream, we were loading up a station wagon – probably my old Volvo, but it could have been Keith’s truck. It seemed more like the bed of a truck. Maybe like an El Camino if it had a back seat. An El Camino might be significant only because it was the car Keith had when we first met. But the car in this dream was somewhat ambiguous.

We were piling things on top of each other into the bed of the truck/back of station wagon. Not boxes, but lots of tools, metal, wood and other awkward-shaped items that didn’t really fit together so there were lots of open spots between the pieces. Gaps that seemed ready to fill with smaller pieces but lay empty now.

Then we were at a gas station, and it seemed important that I had to put air in the tires of my bicycle. Keith was telling me it was important to do this now and helped me by providing instructions. That was when a young female attendant with curly auburn hair asked me about Keith and brought to my attention that this trip was happening with him after his death. I know this because I recall the conversation in the dream where I say to her:

“Yes, this will be hard to explain to my mother. But it’s simple really. It’s like that DNA thing…”

I can’t recall explaining much more than that. But it made complete sense… in the dream. It was natural for Keith to be there, for him to be a part of the activity and conversations.

And then – as I had done all summer – I was driving us all, Keith in the seat beside me and the girls in the backseat watching. I remember at the end of my dream, just before I awoke, I drove up over the bump of a curb before pulling out of the gas station onto the road.

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Now for the analysis:

I like dreams for they are a place where the imagination and reality can collide, where nonsense makes sense, and where time is irrelevant. So when my dreams have been this vivid, I have tried to write them down.

This is not the first time I have dreamed of Keith. But it has been awhile. The last time was only a few weeks after he died. But I’ll save that one for another day.

A close friend who also has a strong interest in dreams and has been studying their potential meanings encouraged me to share this latest one. And I think his analysis is spot on:

Very interesting dream… The idea of taking a long journey is like moving to a new place or leaving a current state… The fact that the packing was not neat and organized, things won’t fit together well on this journey moving forward… Putting air in bicycle tires suggests the importance of managing pressure and maintaining balance… And finally, the curb is so suggestive that it will be a bumpy ride moving forward but you are not alone, with Keith by your side on the journey, and the girls close by. And no one is flustered.

Some might say that your animus has chosen the persona of Keith and is helping you to pack up and move forward.

It’s interesting to see the connections with my dream, my friend’s analysis, and some recent events. This week I was with another friend who turned a little close to a curb and bumped over it. I also took on moving the trailer with Keith’s truck for the first time on my own. Although I had checked and re-checked the trailer, it only took a half mile before I hit a bump and the trailer popped off the hitch, left dragging by the chains. Fortunately, nothing was damaged and I was able to get my daughter to come and help me get the trailer back onto the hitch. It was stressful, yes. So was backing the damned thing with that giant crewcab diesel truck. But I managed. Then I turned it over to others. That is the privilege I’m taking… choosing when I need to step back and let others take it on. I am trying to muster courage to do these things that I always took for granted that Keith did. But I am also mindful of my limitations, emotional and physical. It’s a self-preservation technique I am beginning to cultivate more intentionally.

So maybe the dream was a culmination of these various adventures from the week. And maybe it was, as my friend suggests, a psychic effort to bring Keith beside me as I journey forward. And yes, maybe there will be bumps in the road, and my daughters will be nearby to help. But I also do need to put some air in my bicycle tires. The bike sits upon a stationary stand but the tires are flat, making it unusable for picking up for a ride outdoors. But I guess it’s not a bad thing since the weather now turns to the cold winter with its long dark nights.

As for the young woman with the auburn curls, I know who that is. It is me as a young woman, the girl I was when I first met Keith. I’d even worked at a gas station when I was 17, earning money that winter pumping gas and checking oil at a full service gas station in order to pay for a new exhaust system for my first car. Hmmmm…. so the young me was attempting to give the old me a bit of a reality check.

But each day, I try and make some headway on this journey. I visit our Perry Road project, wander around to check the progress, check the locks, and listen to Keith’s wind chimes in their Himalayan harmony as they echo over the hillside facing the setting sun. I think about what I can build new here, a sanctuary that seems remote facing down the hillside, yet part of the family’s journey with my daughters and yes, even Keith… in spirit. With that in mind, I know I’ll find ways to fill the gaps while bracing myself for those bumps in the road ahead.

 

November 29, 2012

Rotating through stages of Grief

Posted by Mara Jevera Fulmer under cancer, death, Education, Family, grief, marriage, mourning, Photos
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Photo was from 11/17/12 when we were loading lumber into a U-Haul. The windchimes on the left have an inscription to Keith. The moon seemed to be smiling on us as we worked.

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So the research by the likes of Kubler-Ross indicates that there are various stages of grief…Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression and Acceptance. But these are not necessarily linear. They can slide you down like rocks dropping into valleys deep within the peaks of outward “normalcy”. I think I have gone through all of these at least once, like a car whose brakes are slipping a bit, losing their grip on the side of the steep hill of grief that I’m trying to ride.

“He’s not coming back.”

The words popped into my head as I was rushing home from a long day to pick up a birthday cake for my younger daughter from her favorite bakery. Why did those words suddenly appear in my mind? I wasn’t thinking of Keith before then, at least not consciously. But there they were… stopping me in my tracks. I gulped. Hard. And then looked up at the darkening sky ahead of me, a large full moon emerging on the horizon. He’s there. He’s watching me from there, that same full moon that shone on the night he died, lighting his path to that other place, that “beyond” which is out of my reach.

No, he’s not coming back. And there in lies the issue at hand. I go about my days, keeping busy with work, with doctoral studies, spending time with my grown children, shopping, or whatever. Working late into the night, I resist the urge to sleep, unsettled by the empty space on the bed. Yet I go about these things in a normal way, the same way I would if Keith were out of town. But he’s not out of town, and he’s never coming back.

So tonight it was the return of the “anger” stage of grief… Angry over this gap and my inability to leap over it, or fill it in. Angry at Keith for leaving, angry (or is it disappointment) at myself for not being able to find that stable emotional footing. You know… that footing built from 34 years of waking each day knowing there was a partner I shared life with, and all those factors involved with it.

And then there’s this other aspect that came to the fore of my thoughts…

“Till death do us part.”

Those ubiquitous words we say when we wed our loved one. Do we really think about what that means? “Till death do us part…” What the hell? Certainly, I don’t think the average newlyweds really think of this. Forever seems infinite when you’re standing before the alter, pledging your love to your soul mate.

But forever has an ending. That’s the part I’m coming to terms with. Forever has an ending.

So, like all those other widows and widowers out there who deal with this, or any others who have lost someone close – father, mother, child, close friend, I have some figuring out to do.

I have to figure out how to step over that threshold and leap across that giant gaping hole of “forever”. And once across, I’ll need to find my way through the dark forests of these stages without getting lost. I’m looking forward to getting to “acceptance”, with the changing phases of the moon as my flashlight.

 

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