MOVING INTO THE FUTURE …

… can be tricky.

And just plain scary.

New beginnings are hard for people, and moving forward is hard for all people. But, MPO, is that moving into the future is especially difficult for widows.

And bittersweet; because always a step forward involves a step back into the time we shared our lives together. That past is what catapults me forward.

Into a future without my husband – my life partner. My soulmate. My true love. My Forever Man.

My future is still connected to my past.

I do not live in my past … but my past still lives in me. And though I am not desperate (as in hysterical crying jags) to return to the life I used to live with Bob, there are times – like when I am packing things up to move into my future, and I come across tangible things that bring Bob’s presence in my life immediately and poignantly into my present that I do have a cryfest. 2 days ago, it was coming across the wooden ball & chains he carved while he waited for the punk whistles that would tell him there were logs hooked and waiting to be hauled out of the gullies onto the landings. I cried when I held them, and my mind’s eye clearly saw him. I wanted to reach out to him: but Bob was not really present. I cried harder. Then I packed them. Those pieces of my past will be going with me into my new solo future. Today, while packing up my knitting pattern books, one of them fell open and there were the hand trace forms I had made several years ago to assure I would knit a pair of hand gloves that would accurately fit his hands once they were completed: Bob worked the night shift trucking schedule, and I knitted in the evening hours; Bob was not around for me to “size” his hands for a perfect fit. Those sturdy hand forms had me crying like a baby this afternoon. I miss Bob – I miss Bob’s hands. His hands were gentle, and knowing in whatever he used them for. I miss him using his gentle and knowing hands on me. I will never knit hand gloves for my husband again. Those pieces of my past will not be going with me into my new future.

I have noticed all this week while packing up the house, that while I am constantly sorting through the life we built – examining, sorting, wisely discerning what goes, what stays to be sold, and what will be given away or hauled away – the life Bob & I shared together is still part of my life: and always will be part of my life. No matter where I live.

The past does not need me to stay here and be its permanent caretaker; I do not have to constantly tend to it in order for it to survive Bob’s absence. Our past isn’t going anywhere. Our past will always remain untouched and unaltered – it can withstand the ravages of time. Our past is always present … always “in the moment” whenever I need its soothing effects, regardless of the tears that will inevitably flow when I tap the past memories. I never want to forget Bob’s essence – those things that made Bob the man I loved. I never want to forget how he walked or talked.

THANK YOU YESHUA, for the camera, video and recording technologies too! Through these things I can STILL SEE my husband’s handsome face, his beautiful physique, and HEAR his precious voice. Whenever I NEED Bob, all I have to do is pull up a picture or a vocal video, or slip in a disc with silent film footage of his child/teen/young adulthood years … and SUDDENLY THERE HE IS RIGHT BEFORE MY STARVING EYES. Yes, I cry. But they are tears of happiness and joy because at one time this wonderful, kind, gentle, handsome, loving & pampering man was mine to love on, hold, cuddle, snuggle, and enjoy to the max. Those past pictures, voice videos, and silent film footage discs will be going with me into my new future.

The life we shared together is automatically suspended in time; untouched & unchanged. Our lives together ended last December, yet our past together still lives and fuels me. What we were to one another, we STILL ARE. Time and space … even physical death … will never change our past together. The love we shared didn’t disappear just because I can no longer see or feel my husband: his love still surrounds me because his spirit still surrounds me.

But, I am wise enough to understand that I cannot live in the past. I cannot heal and rebuild my new life there. That life is over. It will never come around again: I have accepted that fact.

And I have come to accept the fact that I am no longer alpha in our family pack. I no longer have a mate; and as with all hierarchy mating’s, I have now – since widowhood – been demoted. A new order has been established in our familial pack. I am not used to needing help; I was part of an established alpha couple for 45 years: WE were the ‘helpers’ … those everyone else in our familial pack looked to for guidance, help in whatever was needed that we had it within our power to give aide, support in times of life’s storms; the recent turn of events that took place last Winter has changed the order our pack operates in today. The kids are reaching out and want to help. I realize that, but the fact of the matter is that Bob is gone – he won’t be coming back: no one can “fix” that. While I am still fairly independent, I do recognize that I am seriously handicapped without my husband in my life. I am the one who is on the receiving end now. It can be scary. Trust is a major issue with me. I must trust people to be trustworthy now; and be careful in my reliance on them. I appreciate the familial help, but I do not want my life to be taken over. I am grieving … I am not yet ready to be tethered and picketed.

I will be moving in with the kids for a few months until I find a new home; this makes sense because I don’t want to make a hasty decision and have buyer’s remorse: the money gained from the sale of this house has GOT to COUNT. I can’t afford mistakes. Sacrifices will have to be made; secessions given. I am not used to that: it’s an adjustment. I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. I want to have an equal say in any decision making for my life, while abdicating the alpha role and trusting the kids to pick up the slack in the new familial role. I always knew this day was coming; it came sooner than anticipated. I am not truly ready. I am walking a thin line.

I am in a new place in my new life as I move forward into my new future.

It can be liberating.

It is always scary.

I want Bob – I WANT my husband; with Bob by my side I knew there was nothing I could not accomplish. Bob always had confidence in me. Man! I need Bob now! I want Bob to reach for my hand and give it a squeeze as I step out of this house and into a new one. I want that quick, quiet affirmation that I am doing the right thing. But I am astute enough to know that Bob & his assurances can only be found in my memories now. So, I draw on those memories to give me the boldness and confidence I need to move forward into the future of my new life.

Sometimes moving into my new life feels like I should have a passport and interpreter because 98% of the time I feel like I have embarked on a journey in a foreign country where the language is not clearly understood.

Widowhood.

It’s a trip.

10 months, 12 days & 12 hours later, I have found my sea legs and I don’t feel like I am drowning anymore. The thought of being a widow doesn’t nauseate me anymore. I am still getting used to it, but having weathered the worst of the journey, I feel more like a seasoned traveler than a bewildered grief grad. When I was first thrust into the journey, I packed a lot of baggage with me: it was heavy, it was bulky, it dragged me down wherever I went …

As the months passed and I learned, through rough experiences, how to carry my grief more effectively and gracefully, I pack lighter grief and it’s barely noticeable wherever I go. People who do not know me personally may not even see it at all; but I know that it’s there. It will always be there – it is a part of me now.

Bob completed me. His absence handicaps me in ways I still struggle to put into words. I know what I want to say … but the words seem inadequate. All I know, is that I have been left to create a purposeful life with what is left of our life.

My life now.

A solo life.

So, with baggage in hand, I stumble down an unrecognizable road. There is no reliable map for this journey.

This time, last year, Bob had gone back into the local hospital and would not be coming back home. Ever again. I had no sense of direction other than being with Bob – our life together was being disassembled, and my life had been put on hold. There were LOTS of misdiagnosis’ and frustrations. I cried where Bob could not see me. I needed to be strong for him.

After 8:05 a.m., December 14^th, 2018, I spend countless hours re-assembling my life in my head. For months I was stopped in my tracks as far as physical activity went – outside of necessary and demanded trips to the Social Security Office downtown. Bob, before he left, told me to live. I didn’t know HOW to live without him! I could barely think straight. It drained my energy reserves to sit and pay attention to the talking heads in the Social Security Office. SO MUCH change was happening at turbo speed, and my brain activity was sluggish. Everything was overwhelming. I felt stupid because even the most simple and basic decisions were suddenly monumental. Changes were taking place without my actual involvement.

I look back on some of the pictures taken during those months and I look haunted – I am looking at the camera and making a small smile … but my eyes were so sad they looked empty. I was frozen in time, on a journey I was not familiar with, trying to survive the changes coming at me with turbo speed. I did weather the storm with Elohim’s favor, Yeshua’s grace, and the memories of Bob’s love.

This year, I am sitting amidst boxes in every room of this house as I pack it up, trying to rise about the overwhelming emotions new changes are requiring of me. My eyes don’t look haunted anymore; they look apprehensive. My life is about to change again with this move. I am going into unfamiliar territory on every level in my life. I am in a new place in my new life as I move forward into my new future.

It can be liberating.

It is always scary.

Widowhood.

It’s a trip.