August will always be a hard time for me: the
whole month – doesn’t matter which day.
August was the month we decided to get the
Marriage License.
August is our Anniversary month.
August is Bob’s Birthday Month.
Bob. August 30th, 1949
August was the month I took my husband’s cremains to the family cemetery.
Private moment before everyone started showing up.
August is a bittersweet month that juggles the
hard times that derail me; and the undying love that carries me forward.
Bob’s physical body died … but his love lies on.
My King Bee always treated me like his Queen; wrapping myself in that unending love keeps me sane.
Derailment all year long happens, and it
comes screaming around the blind corner of life at unexpected and unforeseen
moments – it slams into you before you even recognize it.
But, this month – the month of August is the
hardest for me to “ride it out”: SO MUCH happened in the month of August.
Too add more complications to
what I am already juggling; I am meeting
more and more people in my solo venturing’s, that either are going through
pancreatic treatments/know someone who is going through pancreatic
treatments/or have been diagnosed with pancreatitis. I do not know any of these
people … but I am intimately familiar with the language they speak, the symptoms
they describe, and treatments they are going through/facing.
This month I have met two.
And I am sure I looked like a startled deer
caught in blinding headlights.
That one word – pancreatitis – literally
causes me to freeze up.
Though Bob’s pancreatitis was a rare form of
the disease (his pancreatitis was stress-induced) – it is ALL familiar:
the word spoken aloud/the fear-tinged hope spoken/the bravery in the face of hovering
Death.
Heartbreakingly familiar.
And while I can talk about those 3½ months of
Bob’s ER ordeals, misdiagnosis’, major heart attacks as his shutting-down-body
went into shock, the crushing edema that led to starvation and dehydration –
Bob’s valiant fight to hang on for my sake, his heroic Faith and vibrant retelling
to everyone he spoke to of his testimony of salvation, his never-ending upbeat
personality in the face of impending death: while I can and AM talking
about those hard months filled with tamped-down anxiety, dark hope, bittersweet
laughter, hand holding, kisses, and eternal love – without falling apart, or
collapsing under the weight of missingness … I don’t let myself get involved
with these strangers’ situations.
I can’t.
I don’t want to be catapulted backward in time.
I don’t want my senses to recall the impact
of being told, “Your husband is dying”. I don’t want my senses to be
overwhelmed with the memory of the hospital sounds/the smell of the hospital ward/the
beeping and blipping of medical machinery/the muted sounds of hospital busyness/the
compassionate and sad tones Drs, nurses, surgeons, and medical staff workers
used when speaking with us/to me.
I don’t want to be pulled into their hard reality.
My reality is hard enough for me.
That may sound selfish and uncaring … but
that is where everything is right now, at this moment.
I am still dealing with the death of my
husband’s earthen vessel; I am still coming to terms with the reality of my widowhood.
I am barely holding myself together. I simply cannot take on someone
else’s heartaches right now. I have come a long way; but I have not
come that far.
Yes – Bob was placed in a hospitalized ‘comfort
care’ situation: but the comfort was still painful to go through – for him, for
me, for our kids, for his family members that were there. Bob did not feel pain
… but he knew he was leaving me in the pain of his eventual absence, and he
knew the kids would inflict pain on me. They always had. And they did.
We all (hospital staff included)
surrounded him with love. Bob was an easy man to love. He gave love while he
lived … and he deserved love as he was stepping off this planet. I am forever
grateful his leaving was surrounded by love.
Bob’s body died a good death – if such a
thing can even be said about a passing. While I personally did not experience
what Bob experienced (so I have no 100% proof that it was ‘good’), I
can say with authority … because I was there … that he was in a
peaceful frame of mind when he breathed his last breath and his spirit was
walked into Heaven. To me, he appeared to be sleeping. It seemed like his
passing from this life to the next was a good passing. I am thankful he did not
feel any pain; I am thankful there was no struggle to let go.
Bob knew he was loved in those final months;
weeks, days, hours, & minutes. I told him “I love you, Babe” 24/7
for 106 days – can it really be that everything wrapped up so breakneck fast:
and yet took so excruciatingly long? He was surrounded by family
members that touched him, kissed him, spoke to him, and was WITH him those last
few lucid hours of his life here on Earth. I am glad Bob left this world
knowing he was loved.
I miss him: my mind’s eye still sees his
smiling face and that sexy smile aimed at me. My heart, so full of the love I
was born to give only to him; still aches for his love in return. My body still
burns for his touch – a touch my body will never again feel. My thoughts, when
not reined in with a firm hold, incessantly screams; “I miss Bob – I miss Bob –
I miss Bob!”
I am still dealing with the loss of my
husband’s presence in my life. I am still coming to terms with the reality of
my widowhood. Upsetting that apple cart by delving deep into someone’s heartache
causes hot and stinging bile to rise in my throat, makes my nose and eyes burn,
makes my head spin with exploding anguish, causes my heart to race with pangs
of grief, makes my hands shake like I have palsy, makes me dizzy with spiraling
emotions, and makes my chest hurt as I struggle to breathe – my whole body literally
goes into shock with the fresh reality of Bob’s absence in my life. I am barely
holding myself together. I simply cannot take on someone else’s heartaches
right now.
Yes, I do talk about Bob. I do occasionally
talk about those 106 days that changed our lives forever. But I talk about
those things when I choose to talk about them: I don’t like being
blindsided; I try to avoid derailment that comes screaming around the blind
corner of life at unexpected and unforeseen moments – I actively go out of my
way to avoid head-on collisions with Grief.
It is ironic that we moved here, to Heron
Pointe to eliminate more stress from our life … and unforeseen stressors here, inflamed
a Pancreatitis flareup that killed the love of my life. Bob had only lived in
this house with me for 14 months before the neighbors paranoid bitching landed Bob
in ER following an egomaniac home visit tirade by the Park Manager, egged on by
the paranoid bitching – both the paranoia and home visit was unwarranted; and
my husband’s body never recovered from the damage inflicted. In 18 months after
purchasing this house, I was coming home to it as a newly made Widow. 19
months/23 days/14 hours & 23 minutes later, I am still trying to adjust to
my new status in life.
August started our life together; and August
started unraveling our life together.
August blessed me with unimaginable joy in
1974 – and August pricked me with unimaginable pain in 2018.
August will always be a month when hard times
threaten to suck me under … and triumphant love carries me through the storms
Grief hits me with.
