My life has changed so much since December 2018. I remarried January 7th, 2023 ... we sold the house, sold our vehicles - and bought a new 4x, a puppy, & a 5th Wheel to travel the mainland States and experience life in the slow lane. As always I record e.v.e.r.y.t.h.i.n.g. happening in my life: I will share lots of pics & vids of our USA travels: I hope you enjoy our Blog.
Tonight, I finished the dehydrator dustcover I started a few days
ago (https://jeastofeden.blogspot.com/2020/02/memories-in-movie.html). I am using scrap
yarn to make these things and the larger countertop appliances take more yarn
that the smaller ones, and my yarn cache is depleted of large skeins of yarn. I
had this green, and this pink that was enough to make this cover, so though it
is somewhat garish, I went with it because it is “Springy” in color.
The trims, was what had me stumped for a few days. But I eventually
settled on Dogwood and Cherry blossoms:
While I was working on the trims and listening to music, I was
thinking how much our home has changed in the past 437 days. There is not much now left of my husband in my home ... the home we bought and reworked to fit our life – the life Bob
& I planned to enjoy together for many retirement years.
His clothes are gone from his side of the closet … and my clothing
has been shifted from my side to his side. I noticed his youngest brother Kerry
wearing one of his shirts at a family gathering a few days ago in
Calimexarabia. I smiled when I saw Kerry wearing that shirt. Bob got it when
his Dad passed, and Kerry got it when Bob passed from this life to the next. It
looked good on all of them :-D
In December of 2018, I cleared the master bath of his toiletries immediately after
returning home from the funeral home – I knew if I didn’t do it then, it wouldn’t
get done for months. Possibly years. I couldn’t live a healthy life unless they
were gone. I didn’t feel guilty: Bob and I discussed possible death for decades;
he knew what I would need to do to survive his absence.
His tools were portioned out to family members – I kept some;
things I knew I would need to use at some point around the house.
All these things are out of sight. But never out of mind.
By and large, people still speak his name: intimate friends speak
lovingly and kindly of Bob, and of us as a couple.
I love hearing his Name spoken. I love hearing remembrance stories told
about him – even if I occasionally cry. Tears are worth the sound of his Name
being spoken and heard; it is music to my ears, and balm to my wounded heart.
How I wish it were more than just memories.
A few people speak disparagingly of his memory, dishonoring
themselves and blatantly disrespecting me. Those people are no longer in my
life; either by self-removal, or by culling. Their choice, either way.
Looking out the LV window as I worked to complete the dustcover, I
wonder if he is watching me – he always liked to watch me design and create. He
always encouraged me. Does he know my thoughts; can he feel how much I miss
him? Or … is he sitting/standing next to me, as I work? Is he trying to find a
way to answer my anguished questions concerning our wayward children?
Where is he? What is he doing?
Perhaps he is riding on the clouds high in the evening sky …
Bob has been physically gone from this Earth for 437 days – but he
has constantly been on my mind and in my thoughts. And though this humble home
is my castle – my sole domain … Bob’s Name still represents {home} to me.
I woke up energized, so decided to drive into Castle Rock for an exercise class at the Senior Center there. There were 8 of us that were getting a 45-minute full-body workout – nothing too strenuous, just slow and steady for toning and strength building. I used weights when I went through the paces. I like exercise, I always have. A workout releases tension, burns away stress, and tones my body: I like that. The program was fantastic, the people were fun and welcoming, and I’m thinking this program will be permanently penciled in for Monday mornings ;-)
The Castle Rock exercise activity was the great part of my day.
The downhill part was an 11 AM phone convo that went south quickly. The call started out friendly and then morphed into a message of fantastical bullshit. When the call was blessedly cut off, I was so stressed out by what had been said to me, I was physically shaking and nauseous. The cruelty was premeditated and administered with gleeful gusto. One thing we both agree on … the bridge burned may not be worth rebuilding. It’s a spiritual thing fueled by hatred. I don’t know where people get off telling me I killed my husband, but that seems to be a recurring accusation from immature bitches trying to act badass. I don’t think I will be able to overlook that – I certainly will never forget that it was said.
It was an exercise in malice. It was said to deliberately hurt me. Nothing short of my death will satisfy this person’s need for revenge.
I don’t plan on dying anytime soon.
Around 1:15 PM, I met with my SIL, Merry at her house. The Park Office is updating their records and had Merry listed as the Emergency Contact – Bob always listed Merry as primary contact on anything requiring immediate contact. So, I drove over to her house to ask her if I should leave that in place now that Bob is no longer here; or would she prefer I find someone else. She said, “Of course, Val - leave it like it is. We are sisters, you & I. I haven’t been bugging you much because I wanted to give you space; but I am here for you.”I cried with relief. I told her that my self-imposed 1 year of grieving was officially over, and I am spreading my wings in trying to rebuild my life … and I am glad she wants to be included in my life. I gave her Bob’s spare house key & key fob – in case the Park ever needs to contact her: she knows my personal wishes. I plan on living a few more years, but life winds up when it winds up. We talked, shared, laughed, and remembered Bob; for 2 hours. Future chit chats are on the docket – not revolving around death per se.Where there was no solid family tie these past 437 days … there is now a confirmed 1. Merry is a fun person to know, and she has good memories of Bob to share. The memories she shared this afternoon were of Bob and me together. My heart sang when she said, “It was obvious he loved you, Val. You two went everywhere together – you did everything together. Don’t let anyone cast doubt on that.” When we hugged goodbye, I felt the day had been salvaged from its savaging.
Cheryl had called while I was visiting with Merry, so I returned her call when I got back home. Another 2 hours of friendship that further salvaged the day.
These 2 exercises of open-handed friendship soothed my frayed nerves, and backed the battle-weary nausea off sufficiently enough for me to enjoy my Supper.
14 months; 437 days – that’s how long I have been widowed. 1 year & 2 months without my husband in my life, in my arms, in our home, in our bed. Emotionally, it doesn’t seem like Bob has been in Heaven that long … physically, it seems longer. Sometimes it seems like only yesterday that I rushed Bob to the local ER against his objections. He was angry with me for taking him there – but I was scared. I made him go. He forgave me, telling me he knew I was scared; and he still insisted on a DNR: I honored that. He was even angry with me when he was taken to OHSU … he did not want to be in hospitals. I knew that. But I was scared as we faced his impending death together. My husband was dying and though he had a standing DNR, I wanted him to have every opportunity available ... and still honor his wishes ... if there was the slightest possibility of real hope. When the procedure at OHSU was a failure, all hope was abandoned – Bob made the final decision that led to his being placed on Comfort Care. That people would maliciously accuse me of killing my husband, and say that to my face, is wickedly evil.
Like I said, it’s a spiritual thing. And it’s obvious which type of spirit is speaking.
All I know is, one day we are happily going about our life … and the next we are shadow dancing with The Grim Reaper.
I am left, alone, to deal with The Grim Reaper’s imp, Grief.
It is an exercise that wearies me.
I am too soul-tired to deal with fantastical malicious bullshit.
I am past being hurt by the maliciousness. I cry for what was loooong ago, in an innocent and carefree past … and what will never be again because of bitter, vengeful angsts far removed from realities.
Bob was a good man. His memory deserves better. He would want his wife - the woman he loved - treated better.
A small bit of his cremains rest in a small Remembrance Urn that sits on the fireplace mantle when I am in the front of the house … and rests next to my head, on my nightstand when I go to bed. That small Remembrance Urn is my reality check: just like when Bob was physically present with me, and kept me grounded … the presence of the small bit of him in the Urn, present with me, keeps me grounded still. Even so, knowing that a small bit of him is still with me is sorrowful, painful – I want all of him with me: full of life and laughter, not in ash residue. I long for him in the flesh. I want the warmth of him next to me; in our bed, side by side on a walk, side by side in the car. Instead of his warmth, I have the cold reality of the small blue & turquoise Remembrance Urn. And although it brings me a painful peace, I do not feel so alone when this small bit of my lover is with me.
When I need comfort, my eyes … no matter which room I am in, in the front of the house … find their way to that blue & turquoise Urn, that matches perfectly the color of Bob’s eyes. When I feel afraid, stressed, worried, or overwhelmingly lonesome; the small Urn is wrapped with my fingers. And every night/every morning, I kiss that small bit of my husband and tell him how much I love and miss him.
The Remembrance Urn with its bony bits of my husband’s body is both comforting and kinda depressing.
14 months.
437 days.
I wonder how many solo breaths I’ve taken where Bob’s breath was not mingled with mine in a lover’s kiss, a private moment with heads together sharing the same breath – and an intimate chuckle; sharing the same breath in my husband’s final breaths as I pressed my head closer to his mouth while he struggled to speak before he could no longer speak.
I wonder how I’ve managed to keep breathing at all this past year & 2 months.
I do not need hateful hecklers in my life making it more difficult.
My new ‘normal’ now is anything but normal. 437 days into widowhood, and I still wake up wondering where he could be, before my mind fully catches up to my wakening eyes. My focusing eyes then shift to the small Urn alongside my head, on my nightstand. Some mornings I smile as I kiss it – some mornings I cry as I kiss it.
Each day unfolds sporadically; I never know what to expect anymore. 1 minute I’m thinking ‘I’m doing real good today’ – the next minute, a sneaker wave hits; wiping out any progress I thought I’d made. Whole days can pass where I appear to be stuck in a grieving rut after a particularly upsetting upset; this can lead to weeks of recovery. Sometimes I wonder if perpetual grieving will become my new normal.
Everyone expects me to be ‘put together’ by now. I have become adept at managing my grief for the public, for the most part. It must be working like a charm, because I keep hearing people tell me, “You are doing so well!” or, “You are such a strong woman.” They are not looking very closely. I am on an uncharted journey; I am adapting, but I still have a long way to go. It is a solo journey, where bystanders gawk, and the mean-spirited squawk.
There are days of clear-sightedness where hopes and dreams are conceived. Then there are days where a fog clouds my mind – a fog of memories where I get lost for a few minutes, getting used to the grip of grief; becoming accustomed to it’s ebbs and flows, living over and over again the emotions that were present the day our life was altered … and the day Bob’s time on earth stopped.
Days of learning that tears do not change anything. Tears do not solve anything; and tears shed in front of people just make people uncomfortable, and they pull away.
So, I am learning to live life with a mask on.
Me – who hates dishonesty of any caliber, is learning to play at the game of masquerade when I engage in conversations with the public at large. Sometimes the mask slips and I watch their lips because I am only really hearing every other word they utter. My attention span is nearly non-existent when the fog rolls in and floods my mind with thoughts of my husband.
When I am alone and the fog rolls in, tears begin to well and roll down my cheeks. And my eyes go to his handsome face in the picture frame behind the small Urn on the fireplace mantle. I stare at his beautiful face, almost as if he were here, in the now, standing in front of me smiling that sexy smile – eyes twinkling, happy to see me.
I swallow salty tears, and whisper, “I love you, Babe. I miss you.”
Did he hear that 11 AM phone convo today? Were his eyes sparking flames at what was shouted at me? Did he see me so soul-tired, and tired of the same bullshit stories; and stricken with the new accusation? I do not think he was very proud of his princess’s tirade today.
Will this exercise in assumption eventually give my life realistic peace?
I do not want to question Elohim, but I do not want Bob gone from my life. For 3/4th’s of my life, Bob has been a part of my life … actively IN my life for 44 years of my 63 years of life: my anchor in life – he has only been absent for 14 months: 437 days. And though I am thankful for the buoyant floats (friends) that have kept me afloat in the stormy waters of grief, and given me a friendly berth; I miss my anchor.
Since December 14th, 2018, I have been adrift on this river called grief, with no firm footing in sight. Floating with no sense of direction away from a life that was filled with love, hope, and dreams. Blindly moving forward through the fog, struggling just to breath. This turbulent river seems as though it will never meet with calm waters. Periodically I am catapulted into treacherous rapids, and the thought of drowning seems like a real possibility. But at every crucial moment of the journey through the Shute, Yeshua calmly places His hands on mine wrapped around the oars; and safely gets me through the furious currants.
This is how I have lived my life the past 14 months.
Every day has been an exercise to rise above sorrow’s punishing assaults & accusations’ blinding stings. I still long to run into his arms and feel him wrap his long arms around me, holding me close to his chest where I can feel and hear his heart beat a comforting steadiness that soothes me.
In moments of exercises of futility, I long for his touch. His voice. His smile. His advice. His smell. His love.
