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Tag Archives: grief

January Cure: Three Days in the Bedroom

16 Friday Jan 2015

Posted by Jean in January Cure

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

grief, home decor, January Cure

thecurefordust

My husband once conjectured that pens morph into clothes hangers when you need pens and clothes hangers shape shift into pens when you need to hang a sweater. I have evidence to prove his theory. I corralled all the pens into the pen and pencil basket during my frantic five minute desk sweep earlier this week. Today one of my first tasks in the three day bedroom marathon (not the fun kind) was to hang up and put away the mountain of clothes at the foot of the bed so I could find the bed to change the linens. I hauled out all the spare hangers in the closet, worked my way through Mt. Sweatsuitntowel in good time and ended up with two sweaters and a pair of jeans without hangers. There were, however, three pens on my now cleared bedspread. Proof that clothes hangers turn into pens and proof that if you don’t hang up your clean clothes they’ll protect you from spearing yourself on a Bic in the night.

The problem areas in my bedroom include everything. Thus, I started in the corner by the window and worked my way around the room counter clockwise, moving boxes, vacuuming where the boxes had been, moving nightstands, vacuuming under nightstands, cleaning and polishing nightstands, the TV armoire and the bookshelf. I had just dusted and polished the armoire and the nightstands a week ago. The picture at the top of this post shows how much dust I get in this house. Everyone does out here. It’s not just me, at least that’s what I remind myself daily. We live in the desert, along the edge of a dry wash, on a gravel road. Dust hangs in the air and often obscures the mountains ten miles to the south. It creeps in vents, windows, doors, and comes in on clothing. Forget taking shoes off at the door. You don’t know how lucky you are if that’s all it takes to keep your floors clean. We’d have to strip and hose off before entering to keep from dragging in dust, dirt and bits of hay and this wouldn’t stop dust from coming into the house. The upside is, I’ll know if anything is missing because there will be a dust free spot.

I purged more books, more movies, and dear lord lugged a 70 lb cardboard box filled with model magazines, modelling books, history books, space and science mags, and old games into the out room. I did this while dodging dogs, dog toys and furniture. In my manual wheelchair. Backwards. Eat your heart out Ginger Rogers.

redbeansBehind that giant box of yard sale goods I made several discoveries.  I discovered yet another box of DVDs from when I purged the closet last year and I discovered I’d not actually eaten all the canned red beans my best friend shipped me from Louisiana as comfort food after my husband passed away. I also discovered his favorite pair of beat up old sneakers and discovered I still can’t part with them yet. Keeping them feels like he’ll be back soon.

I think the toughest thing I did today was cleaning the bookshelf. It wasn’t difficult physically. It’s a cruddy little bookshelf we kept DVDs and his books and whatnot on because our real bookshelves were holding up his books in other parts of the house. I’d already purged most of his books from that shelf last fall. Amid the histories of various wars and how-to books on modelling, I found the last book he read. The Last Lecture by Randy Pausch. It brought me to tears when I found it and it did so again today. One day I’ll have the strength of heart to read it, but not today.

bookshelfbeforebookshelf before

tidybookshelfafter

I didn’t want to put too much back on the bookshelf as I hope to move one of the nicer ones into that spot by Sunday and fill it with meaningful, comforting things. Useful things can go wherever useful things go, but my room needs to be something that gives me warm hugs and reminds me of the good things in my life and in the world.

I had lots of help today even though John was at work. I had to get down on the floor to deep clean the nightstands and the instant I did…

sheldonhelping

Here is a before picture of my Addams Family ceiling fixture.

addamsfamilyfixtureI can’t reach it, John will have to clean it and hand me the glass to wash. But it will get done by Sunday night. For now, I’m just leaving the light off and not looking up while I’m in bed. This has worked since my husband became ill. I really haven’t given a damn about much since he got sick. My patio and backyard projects last year helped me care about the outside of the house. The Cure is helping me care again about the inside of the house.

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10 Months have passed

11 Thursday Sep 2014

Posted by Jean in Grief

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

death of spouse, grief, how to handle grief

I suppose it’s better. I still don’t think straight most of the time. I’m still tired all of the time. I still have to make myself get up and get busy. I still can’t get through a day without screaming “I just can’t believe you’re gone!” in my mind. I still can’t get to sleep at night without my brain replaying those final moments together. Tears still pour unexpectedly several times a day and no matter how I try to bring color back into this life, everything is still mainly shades of grey. Sometimes, though, a pop of color will burst through and for a little while life seems, if not normal, peaceful and acceptable.

We’ve crossed many things off his unfinished to-do list. He’d be happy with the changes. Does that help? No. Not really, but it’s better than not having done those things for him. I want to slap myself most days and yell “Snap out of it! This isn’t who you are!”, it may not be who I was, it sure as hell is who I am today, and I’m not at all happy about that. It is amazing to me that 19 years ago I was self-sufficient, happy, courageous (well, except for flying), and content to be by myself. It is amazing to me that I fell so easily into the comforts of two, as opposed to the contentment of one. I haven’t even seen a glimmer, yet, of the woman who was once completely comfortable with only herself for company.

Many years ago I read a book that suggested that in order to become who we want to be or make a change in who we are or our perception of ourselves, we should pretend to be the person we want to be. The more we pretend, the more the positive actions become habit. When positive actions become so habitual we no longer have to remind ourselves to pretend, we have made the change. This has helped to make moments of the day happier. I tell myself “I should be happy about that.” Then I pretend to be happy. Soon, I’m smiling. One day, I hope this will work long term, but for now it’s good to have some happy moments.

My brain isn’t completely frozen any more. Just muddled. I am able to read and understand most instructions, but I can’t keep them in my head, so I have to constantly reread. I can attain absolute focus on a project for longer periods, but will still often find myself suddenly holding a piece of wood and wondering “Is this a leg or was I working on the apron?” A friend of mine came to visit yesterday. She said it took her about four years for her mind to clear enough that she could think straight after her husband passed away. Suddenly paranoid about the drastic changes in my face, body and hair over the past 10 months, I wonder if I have four years to recover.

I have, on the whole, found friends to be more accepting, or at least more tolerant and supportive, than most family. Most friends refuse to let me hurt alone if I dare make my pain public. Most family politely ignores, probably not knowing what to say. Some friends will do the same, some family members offer as much support as friends. You just never know until it happens to you, who will be there regardless of their comfort level and who will hide their eyes. People will hide their eyes and this can sometimes feel as if they’re kicking you when you’re down. This isn’t usually intentional on their parts and they don’t even realize the effect they have.  Let yourself drift toward those who offer you support, comfort and encouragement on your worst days. Those who can’t take it, will disappear, but those who are willing to stand by you and comfort you during your nightmare will be counted forever as your most worthy friends and family. They’ll be the knights at your round table.

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Being Awesome

01 Tuesday Jul 2014

Posted by Jean in Grief, Uncategorized

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Tags

death of spouse, grief, how to handle grief

awesomecup

I know I am the least awesome person I know or have ever heard of, but today as I was reading Facebook posts from friends I saw a photo of a coffee cup with the inscription “I’m trying to be awesome today, but I’m exhausted from being so freakin’ awesome yesterday.” and instead of making me laugh, it made me shed tears. Tears for remembering the times I was exhausted and still called on to be “awesome”, called upon to exhibit real world super powers, 18-24 hours a day 7 days a week for a year, and again later in the three months before William died. I tried desperately to be awesome and no matter how awesome I managed to be it was never going to be awesome enough. There was no imaginable level of  awesome that would have been enough to save him, yet I still find myself screaming aloud “I’m so sorry!” to him.

When someone we well and truly love is desperately sick, we don’t have a choice other than to develop super powers. We have to rise to the level of utterly awesome. It’s a small thing really, to be awesome for your business meeting so please don’t wave your brief case around and bellow about how “awesome” you were and how you’re some sort of business “superman/superwoman”. You might have been cool, knowledgeable, and confident, but that meeting lasted what? Ten minutes? Thirty minutes? Get over it. People who are out there caring for those they love have to maintain superhuman awesome for weeks, months or years. They will never, not ever, puff up and brag over drinks nor will they ever feel like doing so because they know that even though some may think they not only hit but sustained the upper heights of awesome, they know it wasn’t and could never be awesome enough. It’s great to feel good about yourself and proud of your business or artistic accomplishments, just know you’ll at some point in your life need to reach levels of awesome that make your spread sheet presentation feel like a vacation in the Bahamas.

There’s a mother out there who has a child with Rett Syndrome who is running a house, a business and taking care of her other two children all while taking constant care of the daughter who has been having back to back seizures all day for days. She doesn’t feel awesome at all. She feels rather helpless most days, but it’s a job and a level of strength she can’t and wouldn’t even think of quitting. People like this aren’t doctors or nurses. These people are the true front line of health care. They don’t get to leave after a rough 12 hour shift. They don’t get days off, vacation time, or a salary. In many instances these people can barely take off ten minutes to take their own shower, much less a lunch hour. If they can find someone to come sit with their loved one for an hour, they can’t use it to nap, they have to go to the grocery, the attorney, the bank, or the post office. Doctors and nurses can be awesome, but they can also punch a clock and be gone.

People caring for seriously ill husbands, wives or children are dragging themselves into bed for what probably amount to no more than cat naps. They may never have lifted more than 50-100 lbs and suddenly they’re lifting up to 300 or more every hour. They may not remember where they left their keys, but they’re keeping track of 5 to 15 serious medications with varying dose times so that it is impossible to sleep more than a couple of hours at a time. They’re running around juggling thermometers, medications, washcloths, heating pads, fresh sheets, food, drinks, mops, Lysol spray and Clorox wipes, bank statements, multiple medical appointments, bills, insurance forms, financial forms, and legal forms as well as trying to be good, uplifting company for the person they care most about. They’re out there trying to figure out ways to get over, under or through obstacles the disease, the treatments, the multiple medical offices, the financial institutions, insurance companies and the bureaucracy erect solidly in their paths. Just as soon as they leap, climb, dig under or plow through those hurdles, the disease, illness or red tape changes the game and they have to start all over. They are Sisyphus.

If you’re a decent human being caring for someone you love who is desperately ill, no matter how tired you are you’ll will yourself be awesome today, you’ll exert that same will tomorrow, and you’ll claw your way to a whole new level of awesome later if it’s needed. You’ll be awesome when there’s hope and you’ll be awesome if there’s no hope left. It just won’t ever feel like it no matter what anyone says or how many coffee cups you own to remind you.

 

 

 

 

 

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Remember that silly thing

26 Thursday Jun 2014

Posted by Jean in Grief, Uncategorized

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Tags

death of spouse, grief, how to handle grief

billiampool

Remember that silly thing we used to do, keeping time to the point of outright conducting the Star Trek Next Generation theme with our feet, getting more and more raucous with the musical crescendos until the finale when we’d send our feet crashing into each other and giggling uproariously at our child play. Yeah, I still do that, just without the chorus of giggles at the end, and I see your feet.

We finally have Netflix. When you said you thought we’d like Star Trek Enterprise, you were right. You’d have loved it. They took the opening sequence straight out of your head. Long after you might have gotten bored with the episodes, you’d have still tuned in to see the opening. All the things you loved about the history of the space program and your dreams for the future are all there except one. I can hear you complaining “And WHERE is the X-15??” Thanks to you, I noticed that glaring omission by myself on the very first episode I watched.

I finally started getting back in the pool, but I find it’s about deadly dull in there now. I pretty much just do my exercises and cool off. I haven’t gotten out any of the pool toys and the noodles are still in the hall closet where we left them the end of last summer. It’s kind of pointless to have a seahorse race with just one entrant, or torpedo battles with no one to sink or be sunk by. The stealthy ninja tiger shark is still hibernating in the patio cabinet because there’s no one to sneak up on. Even the pretty pool disco lights haven’t been out this year because there’s no big back to swim under them to provide wide screen kaleidoscope viewing.

I finally started reading a little again. Remember how we used to fantasize about 24 hour book stores? Remember how I had a massive migraine one night while living in Montana and you read “Long Dark Teatime of the Soul” to me long distance? Yeah, AT&T loved us. Their stock probably dipped significantly when I moved down here. I haven’t been able to sit still long enough to read more than recipe or project instructions. I can get through a whole chapter, sometimes two, without the sudden urge to get up and wander. I still plug myself into my iPod at night to listen to Harry Potter books, but now it’s not because I want to be told a bedtime story, it’s to drown out my own internal screaming.

Did I just hear you say “Blattner”? I still call them Home Despot, Dead Robin and Ten Minute. You’re still in everything, every day and when I’m alone I find my outside voice saying “Oh god I love you so much!” to the dashboard, the ceiling, the walls and the sky.

billiampoolmonster

 

 

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Dreams

15 Tuesday Apr 2014

Posted by Jean in Grief, Uncategorized

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Tags

death of spouse, dreams of dead spouse, grief, how to handle grief

Generally my dreams of William have been joyful ones, at least until I wake up and realize I was dreaming. They consist of various versions of “Honey I’m home!” and last only a few seconds until I leap up in shocked surprise and grab him in a bearhug that would crush a car.

But yesterday, as I dozed resting my back, I dreamed that John and I had gone to Disneyland. I’ve never been to a theme park of any kind, and in this dream Disneyland was only about an hour drive from our house. Somehow, John and I got separated in this vast park and I spent hours rolling my manual wheelchair through miles upon miles of rides, restaurants, vendors, through maze-like corridors in beautifully appointed buildings, up ramps and down until my arms could absolutely do no more.

Lost, terrified, helpless, too exhausted to move, I burst into hopeless sobs. A hand grasped my shoulder, and I turned to see William there. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re alright. You’re fine. I’m here. I found you.” And for that second, it was indeed the happiest place on earth.

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