Distracted Living

It is always a matter of perspective.

Within the first month after Larry died, my dearest childhood friend sent a kind, sensitive and wise letter about our shared experiences of widowhood. Her husband had died six months earlier. She simply offered her own reality, suggesting I, too, was having competing feelings. She named them this way:

confusion, relief, guilt for feeling relief, emptiness, questions about “what next?”, “where do I fit?”, “what do I want to do with my remaining years?”, uncertainty about how to wisely handle the huge number of estate decisions and legal requirements and the hope that you did all possible to facilitate a “good death” and to leave your life partner with certainty of your unwavering love.

I was defensive, certain I felt no guilt, no doubts about having done everything I could and expressing in every way possible my love for Larry. Until the end, he would ask me every day, “Have I told you today how much I love you?” Often, with a lump in my throat and through my tears I would respond, “I know. I love you too.” Until the last five days, those last hours.

My friend offered her heart and her support. For that I am grateful. Because we live across the country from one another, and haven’t the opportunity to sit face to face with a glass of wine, or a cup of tea, to cry and laugh together, to tell our tales of loss, I turned to writing this blog, and working through my process of grief and growth, healing and being loved back into life.

Recently I was also held in love by my sister, who, over the years has tangibly expressed her love and support by her presence—coming from as far away as Turkey, when Bill died in 1976, and again after Larry’s death. She came to celebrate my birthday last summer, and, though a self-declared extreme introvert, proclaimed to the gathering of family and friends, that she had loved me my whole life, from the day I was born. She has also become a traveling partner, joining me on trips I would not take on my own. We recently spent sixteen days in Italy and Greece. An adventure by plane and cruise ship and bus and train and on foot (some days marked by 15,000+ steps).

I remarked on our trip how different it was, not having Larry planning and making arrangements for the trip. I relied on AAA. When we were sightseeing and shopping, I could admire beautiful things, and think how Larry would have offered to buy them for me, and then often purchase what he  wanted me to have when I turned to something else. I bought very little.  The historical knowledge the guides shared reminded me how much history Larry knew, but I could not check with him if something was actually true, or if it was something he already knew. He was with me in spirit, but it was easier not worrying about his ability to walk or stay hydrated or have energy to participate.

In the days following my return home, my recovery from jet lag included moments of nodding off, sometimes startled while driving that I was actually behind the wheel.  News coverage of the hefty fines imposed for distracted driving coincidentally caught my attention. I heard it in a new way even though I have sometimes been irresponsible in sending a text or watching GPS maps instead of simply following the voice commands. I was feeling in the moment the challenge of accomplishing one task while my mind was somewhere else, mostly drifting off to sleep.

In this last week, with the news of the death of a younger colleague in ministry, who leaves a widow and three adult children; with the news that my only, older brother has had a stroke, is suffering from aphasia and frustration, and there are spots on his lungs; with my return to part-time, interim ministry which occupies my mind even on days I am “not working”, I realize that “distracted living” is as reckless as distracted driving. 

There is no more time to let Jon Short know my appreciation for his faithful service to the church with constant good humor and terrible puns. I am uncertain that I will have opportunity to let my brother know in ways he can receive and understand that he has my admiration for sustaining a marriage far longer than any of his sisters, that his pithy, sometimes corny wisdom was a touchstone for me. And, I do indeed have regrets that my intense focus on dedicated ministry to the church, my perfectionist work ethic, my need for support, my critical nature, and my fears distracted me from time to time from being as kind and loving and considerate as the one who gave me more than thirty four years of unconditional love and respect.

Though the penalty imposed for distracted driving is monetary, the cost of distracted living is much greater, a debt that cannot be repaid. Pay attention to those you love, and those who love you. Stay in the moment, it is all we have.

Adrift

I may be one of the few people disappointed when their week of jury duty is cancelled. I was informed that since there were no trials scheduled for District Court, my obligation was complete. I was looking forward to a week when I could spend my evenings with family in Puyallup, saving the time of driving from Olympia to Tacoma. Now, I suddenly have an open calendar, and had to create a different list of the things to do, take care of some delayed phone calls, reschedule some appointments, fill my time. If I was being graded on my life skills, I imagine being described as “surprisingly slow to adjust to unexpected changes.”

Whether or not John Lennon originated it or only repeated common wisdom, it is still true: “Life is what happens when you are making other plans.” Trying to plan my days is a way to regain control over what felt beyond my power for so long. The days of Larry’s illness required careful planning and specific routines. There were limited choices, little spontaneity, restricted freedoms, constant vigilance, and stress. It was my consuming reality. Evidently I am still working through the reality that I am dependent on myself alone, to take action, to meet my needs, to discover and create community. Obviously some days are better and easier.

Over the last year I have been diligent about making plans. Aware of the triggers of holidays and birthdays, events and places that would be filled with sweet but sometimes hard memories, I have prided myself in finding new experiences, doing common things in new ways, creating new memories, banishing the lingering shadows and sadness. Jury duty would have been one of those new, independent things. Those who keep track of my life on Facebook remark what a great time I am having. Of course. What else would I want people to see?

Last week I drove over Snoqualmie Pass, enjoying the reds and yellows and oranges of leaves against the evergreens. I spent three days at Lazy F camp with other retirees. I was determined to make the hike to the cross at the top of the hill. It had been more than twelve years. I tell myself I was halfway up when it felt like work, and the trip down would have been rushed, and just as hard on my arthritic knees. I told my companions to go on without me. Instead, I turned and leisurely strolled down the trail and onto the camp grounds, following a creek and finding the labyrinth, giving myself time for the solace of nature.

 As always, a hymn crept into my consciousness and accompanied me on my course.  It was planted in my heart the night before as we worshiped. Our singing, and the location, reminded of the abiding faith of a friend I had visited daily (12 years ago) while he was hospitalized for three weeks. Each time I left, he and his family, keeping vigil, sang together “In the Lord I’ll be ever thankful, In the Lord I will rejoice! Look to God, do not be afraid. Lift up your voices, the Lord is near, Lift up your voices, the Lord is near.”

Words I need every day. Reminders. Gifts of faith. I will not be afraid. I am finding solid ground.

The Knot of Grief

Grief can be like a toothache, tender, sensitive, always in the background, waiting for something cold or hot, or the pressure of an abscess to wake it up and make it rage. The complications of doing nothing about it until absolutely necessary only make the pain worsen; the cost of ignoring it can be debilitating. 

Sunday was a day I felt my grief in tangible ways. Once again, sitting in church, I could not stop the tears. It wasn’t just the hymns of my childhood, reminding me of a simpler, safer time. It wasn’t only the morning message about home-coming, reminding me of the significance of the church as my home for my entire life, and the feeling of being displaced from that home, or the memories that surfaced about the rootlessness that comes with itinerant ministry and leaving communities of faithful people seven times in our thirty four year marriage. 

The flood gates truly opened as we began “I Was There to Hear your Borning Cry,”  even though it’s message is the promise of God’s presence in all of life. I anticipated the  familiar, cherished words “If you find someone to share your time and you join your lives as one, I’ll be there to make your verses rhyme from dusk till rising sun.” I grieved having no one to share my life with anymore, to write new verses.

The grief had already resurfaced the day before while I was visiting good friends, married for over 50 years, discussing the trials and inevitable losses of aging; holding the concern I feel for another dear friend facing heart surgery; my prepare-for-the-worst-so-the-good-news-comes-as-a-surprise mindset does not always serve me well. Yet, after nursing Larry for four years, worrying about his health for our entire marriage, I understand there is no way to shield oneself, to avoid the ache of loss.

I recently saw a description of grief as a tangled web of pain at the center of ones being. Instead of the web growing smaller and disintegrating, the premise offered that we feel it less as our lives expand and the pain takes up less relative space. As I have worked to clear the spaces in my home, and as I have run away from time to time for respite in changed scenery or to replace hard memories with new ones, I have not really expanded my life experiences. Even though others observe my full and busy my life through my FaceBook posts, no one ever reveals the full story there. The comments of my children assure me that "I am better than I was six months ago." And I am. Yet, I let the knot of grief fester, sometimes filling the center of my being, waiting to rage.

I cannot extract my grief like an abscessed tooth. I cannot wait for it to go away. 

Instead, I purchased a lovely cherry wood Secretary, creating a new space dedicated for disciplined writing. I am ready to give myself grace and space, being willing to love and enjoy my family, without hovering or interfering, to receive and offer forgiveness. I am eager to find new ways to engage my community and the world, to rely on others for support when needed, admitting my needs and uncertainties and loneliness. Most of all, I offer myself permission to dream,

 to create beauty, 

to engage, 

to love living enough to take care of myself, 

to thrive whether alone or in the company of others, 

to embrace and embody and fully accept my gift of compassion,

 to love and be loved, just as I am.

Where all are one

This buddhist teaching appealed to me when I heard it ten years ago. I am still intrigued by it:

In the realm of the god Indra is a vast net that stretches infinitely in all directions. In each "eye" of the net is a single brilliant, perfect jewel. Each jewel also reflects every other jewel, infinite in number, and each of the reflected images of the jewels bears the image of all the other jewels — infinity to infinity. Whatever affects one jewel effects them all.The moral of Indra's net is that the compassionate and the constructive interventions a person makes or does can produce a ripple effect of beneficial action that will reverberate throughout the universe or until it plays out. By the same token you cannot damage one strand of the web without damaging the others or setting off a cascade effect of destruction.

Growing up in eastern Washington, the daughter of a dry-land farmer who loved to fish, I  can’t remember a summer when we didn’t spend some time at “the lake.” Not always the same lake, seldom for more than a weekend. A jumble of memories of Silver Lake,   taking the Gifford Ferry across the smallest span of Lake Roosevelt, arriving at Twin Lakes, west of Inchelium, learning to Water Ski on Lake Curlew, being at Uncle Victor and Aunt Ellen’s cabin on Priest Lake for the Fourth of July. My sister burning the palm of her hand with sparklers facing the wrong way.  Sitting quietly interminable hours in the fishing boat. Major sunburns. Diving underwater. Swimming like a fish. Three years of weeklong true vacations on “the coast,” Long Beach, WA with the men catching the limit of salmon every day, the moms and kids building sand castles, hunting driftwood, horseback riding, visiting lighthouses, eating salt water taffy, playing in the frigid waters of the Pacific Ocean.

I continue, every summer, to seek solace from the water, from one sacred space, in the month of August. When I leave for the lake now, it is this place, Bead Lake, nine miles north of Newport, Washington, above the Pend Orielle River. A small, pristine, three fingered mountain lake, nestled in the Chinook National Forest, with only a quarter of the shoreline privately owned and developed. From the deck I watch Osprey, Merganser and Red Neck Grebe, Hummingbird, Tanager and Goldfinch, Stellar Jay, Kingfisher, and Wild Turkey, Deer, Chipmunk, Rabbit, Squirrel, and Bat. 

This year, the week after my 70th birthday, I made pilgrimage again, realizing this is the one place that remains, where all my stories merge into one. We celebrated with family and friends on Sunday. My daughters dressed in matching outfits, recalling the days I dressed them alike for Christmas and Easter. It was a day to celebrate survival; to say thank you to those who have walked through many years and shared a lifetime of experiences with me; to embrace life as it is for me, not as I might wish it to be; to know that I am glad to be alive, and to remember that I am not really alone on this journey. The “timeline” display of the decades of my life, had above it the picture my first husband took on Labor Day, 1968, on the top stair of the deck, after diving into the lake and swimming during a rain storm. My youngest daughter describes me as “shining.” I was newly married. I was happy.

It has been fifty years since that memory was created. Three husbands, each spending time here. Another jumble of memories, these more linear. Bringing Bill to meet Aunt Lois and Uncle Lawerence, who were the builders and original owners. Being here that Labor Day, coming again with our new baby on the Fourth of July, 1972, the final time we were together before he returned to Viet Nam to die on August 11. The pictures he took, framed and left on the cabin walls. Purchasing the cabin with Dave, my second husband, in partnership with my parents and my sister and brother-in-law. The crowds of cousins and grandparents, with laughter and squeals coming from the water. The summer of our separation, being here with my daughters, sorting out my future. The night Dave arrived, arm in a sling, contusions on his face, after the boating accident on Lake Couer d’Alene, where he had gone to drink and share his sorrows with a friend. Two summers more, here with the girls, and their friends, still considering paths my life might take. Bringing Larry, John and Anne, returning the summer after our move across the state, surrounded by the horde of cousins and step-cousins, unable to sleep with teenage and young adults up all night. Twenty-six people in a cabin that sleeps 15. The hardest of memories, with an errant sky rocket burning a hole in the sail of my boat, tempers flaring and harsh words spoken.

And then, more than thirty years of spending two weeks, often only Larry and me, with time to read, to watch the night sky, to kayak and swim, to entertain friends, to sew together quilt tops, to attend concerts at the Sandpoint Festival. The harder memories of three years on dialysis, trips to Spokane for treatments or supplies, restless nights, Larry being perpetually cold. 

Coming alone last year and this year, having time with my sister from Texas, my oldest and youngest daughters and grandchildren, and time with myself, to understand how my loneliness can be transformed with solitude.

Yet, August is the cruelest month (with a nod to T.S. Eliot). Every trip to the lake ends with a visit to the cemetery.  One gravesite with markers for my father, my mother, my sister, and a niece. Three funerals held in August, one in December. Their missing voices echo in this place, all part of the jumbled memories of time together. I like to think that Larry let go of this earthly coil in June to spare me one more loss in August. He always honored my wounded past, always knew that I needed lake time, to reconnect, reimagine, reengage those lives so dear to me.

Indeed, this place, this time in August, is necessary and sacred. I breath the past, I listen to my heart, I make resolutions and promises to myself and to this cloud of witnesses, to keep on living and loving. The great net of life holds us together. In this one place, in all places. What affects one, affects us all.

Full Circle

I tell myself the year’s cycle is now complete. 

The day of Larry’s Memorial Service, July 12,  was a good day. Long and hard and beautiful. My children had stopped hovering quite so closely. My sister arrived from Texas. Friends flew from Spokane and Walla Walla, rented a car, and found the coffee shop I requested for specific coffee and pastries. We spent the morning visiting, talking, laughing, and waiting together. 

Seldom early, reluctant for the hard part, we gathered up the picture displays, the frogs and the collection of black “daily reminder” calendars that were always visible in Larry’s shirt pockets, examples of Larry’s love for me, his organized mind and commitment to the church. Even an hour before the service, others had arrived. My children took charge, setting up the displays while I visited with friends and former parishioner, to be wrapped in love, receive hugs, hear stories, share my gratitude, 

I had carefully crafted a service to reflect the faith and the passion of a good, kind man with whom I had spent half my life. Outside the sanctuary, I had a moment. Maybe if I did not enter, it would all go away. Maybe if I entered, the tears would start and not stop. I was given a moment to breathe, square my shoulders, walk through the full church to my place with family in the front pew.

I held my breath again through the welcoming words, opening prayers and the first hymn, willing myself to be courageous, swallowing tears.

Our children began to speak, to tell their truth, to share their experience, to express their appreciation for the man who offered them love and acceptance, who was unwavering in his total support, who modeled compassion and care for family as well as community.

They got him. They loved him because he loved me, and all of us together.

I felt the angels soar around me, affirming love, extolling our covenant and commitment of 34 years.

He had included our pre-adolescent children in his wedding vows to me:

Bonnie, I come to pledge to you this day my deepest love and most tender caring.

I come not to promise, or contract, or predict; 

but to enter into covenant, a relationship of trust.

My covenant with you will involve both will and spirit; 

it will be larger than the words I say now could convey, for it will be lived out daily in our life together; 

not set in pen and ink, but alive and growing in our souls.

I will be with you to support and comfort in all times and places;

I will look to you, as the one God has given, to be my support and comfort.

I will be with you in sickness and in health, in joy and in sadness, and our riches will be in each other’s love, we will never be poor.

I pledge and covenant these things to you and each of our family, for although I marry only you, I love and cherish those who are a part of each of us.

Friendship is the most enduring, basic part of love, and the friendship we continue to share is our most precious gift.

I will not leave you loveless or alone, for you are life to me.

From that moment of acknowledgement, I felt my heart beat stronger, my breath come easier, my smile return, and the pain of Larry’s suffering begin to ease away.

This July 12th, the memory bank kicked in. Of course, I couldn't stay home. As I boarded the plane I felt that finally I was not only flying away from memories but toward embracing a new adventure.

I experienced this week “commemorating,” living life that brings to remembrance, honor, and respect. I spent time with dear ones, under new circumstances with the tables turned, sharing my love and presence, transforming my fears that my friend was dying from cancer to understanding, seeing for myself, that he is being treated for cancer.  They have always been truth telling, loving, supportive friends who saw us through the the early years of adjusting as a family. They have always been there to share experiences, staying connected through compassion and love.

It is good, one year later, to come full circle, to the place of shared grief, recalling memorial words which gave honor, acknowledging acceptance of the struggle to recover, and living life as a celebration of loving and being loved.

Dying is easy until given an alternative

“Heaven is a wonderful place, filled with glory and grace,

I want to see my savior’s face, heaven is a wonderful place.

I want to go there”

It was fun to lead the singing of that song, with soprano, tenor and bass parts, at Twinlow Camp. That was in the 1970’s, before professional ministry, before seminary.

I hadn’t given thought to the theology of heaven being a better place than this life. It must have felt appropriate to encourage preteens to live a good life because heaven would be the reward at the end. That sort of thinking remains (sadly) within much church teaching. The natural conclusion is that if it’s such a great place, we should not be afraid of dying, ready to go at any time.

Maybe this is why faith-filled Christians willingly assent to advance medical directives which preclude extreme measures to sustain life. When Larry first got ill, we updated our wills, we signed the directive, we made copies, we took them to our doctor’s office, we brought them with us to the hospital, we assumed they remained on file. The question was asked at every admission...

But something shifted on May 18, 2017. At the beginning his annual day-long reevaluation for a potential kidney transplant, Larry was told that IF he were to be given a kidney it was important to rescind his “Do Not Resuscitate” order, because the goal of a transplant was to be given every chance to live.

At the end of that same day, it was clear to me that the list of risks of survival was growing. This is what I heard:

1. He lacked strength and stamina. He had several falls since December, and being hospitalized for a week would weaken him further. He might end up in  nursing home.
2. The arteries they would use to attach the kidney were calcified, and may not provide adequate blood flow.
3. His constant low blood pressure may not support the flow needed to supply the new kidney.
4. His residual abdominal fat would make the incision harder to heal.
5. He may become diabetic and insulin dependent
6. He would have to comply with all medication--for ever.

I heard all the cautions, all the doubts, and all the obstacles. It validated the concerns about complications I had harbored since the beginning.

All Larry heard was he needed to rescind his DNR if he was given a kidney.

He was asked if he still wanted to pursue a transplant. He said yes. 

On the way home he admitted he was shocked, saddened, and scared.

A week later, the call came, not with the news Larry had waited for. He was suspended from the transplant list and needed to increase his strength, not have any more falls, and be able to walk a mile every day. He would be re-evaluated in six months.

The magical thinking of a transplant vanished. It was the outcome I had expected all along. This news, based on the evidence anyone could see, was devastating.

I tried to rebalance our lives by listening to the concerns of family for my own energy and well-being. 

In the final month of his life, I encouraged Larry to begin using a wheelchair when we went out. He refused, saying he only knew “Pops” (his grandfather) in a wheelchair. Once he got in one, he didn’t believe he would ever get out.

Based on my exhaustion and the stress of caregiving, along with the danger of a blood infection, his doctor decided he needed to return to hemodialysis. He was resigned but not looking forward to the four hours in the clinic, three days a week, with the side effects of severe headaches, lowered body temperature, the need to change his diet (again), and having less freedom, even less hope. 

The physical therapists, working with him in the hospital, talked about his need to spend some time in a rehabilitation center or nursing home--raising another great fear of never coming home.

And yet, when the hospital called Sunday morning, June 25th, to tell me Larry was on a ventilator after suffering cardiac arrest, I was surprised he had been resuscitated. I grabbed another copy of his DNR directive, feeling neither anger or sadness, only determination to let him go, as I believe he believed, to that “wonderful place.” 

Hospitals are very cautious about such decisions. Their job is to do everything to sustain life, unless told otherwise.They received my paperwork. The doctor needed to talk to me, to be sure. I shared with Larry’s nurse, and the family gathered, ready to say good-bye. Then, Larry was successfully weaned off life-support. While I was out of the room, he was asked about his DNR order. “No, it couldn’t be in place IF he wanted a kidney,” he said.

Those were gentle, hard moments when I spoke to him again about his determination to stay alive for that far-off, unlikely potential. 

He had no awareness of being already dead, without a heart beat for fifteen minutes. There was no light drawing him forward, no warmth surrounding him. He was afraid. He did not want to leave me. Yet, he knew. We agreed it might be time. The order was in place.

Perhaps his vision of the “girl in the yellow dress” standing at the edge of his bed during the last day of his life was enough to help him let go of this precious life. Perhaps he has discovered glory and grace. I know of no one more deserving of resting in peace.

I woke this morning at  five a.m. One year from the hour of his second death. I needed to remember, to sort through, to write. I needed to wonder again.

Good-bye to all that?

I used to love going to Annual Conference. I used to love the church.

Today I am conflicted about both.

Usually the third week of June, Annual Conference filled four days and sometimes late nights with hard work, evoked high emotions and conflict. We believed we were doing kin-dom work through legislation and resolutions and Robert’s Rules of Order. It was a time for reconnecting with ministry colleagues and former parishioners. There were times of inspirational preaching from our peers, challenging us to leadership, calling us to action, giving opportunities for service and prophetic witness on issues of the day--sexual harassment, gender identity discrimination. There were the years we engaged in Habitat builds, assembled Health Kits for UMCOR, and sat in plenary sessions warmed by a display of quilts for children at risk, encircling the room. Frequently there was time for browsing the book display, making unnecessary purchases for my resource library. In their teenage years, my daughters participated as pages, or as lay members, gaining leadership skills, making impassioned speeches on the floor of the conference. Youth from my churches followed later, growing into leadership positions; those that Larry mentored becoming ordained.

In 35 years I only missed Annual Conference  when I was at San Fransisco School of Theology working on my Doctor of Ministry. I never missed the ordination service, managing the choreography for eight years, being honored to preach once, and always affected and renewed by the affirmation of the commitment to the high calling to teach, preach, lead and serve the people of God called United Methodists. I never skipped a Memorial Service, giving thanks for the saints who proceeded us, who modeled servant ministry, nurtured us and left their legacy of faithfulness. I loved the grandeur of Sunday Morning worship, robed and processing with our clergy sisters and brothers, calculating the seating order to be able to sit between Larry and our friend Ellen Peach, home for Conference from her appointment in Kentucky. It always offered empowering moments, especially hearing my name read and being fixed and sent out for another year of ministry. (Thankful to see the practice return this year, even if not in its familiar setting.)

Last year I was aware when Conference was being held in Portland. I had pangs of missing it. Larry would not have been able to make the trip. I stayed home and preached to the congregation at First UMC of Olympia. It was a lovely day, with the surprise of Ron and Lois Hines in worship, on their way home from Conference, ready to make last minute arrangements for their move from Seattle to California. They treated us, and Virginia Berney, to lunch. It would be the last restaurant meal Larry enjoyed.

By the next Saturday, another infection sent Larry to the hospital, and Sunday morning he went into cardiac arrest. After 15 minutes without a heartbeat, he was resuscitated and placed on a ventilator for ten hours. He recovered enough to reestablish his DNR (do not resuscitate) order. The sore throat from being intubated, the broken ribs added another layer of suffering. He mostly slept. I kept vigil.

When the clergy gathered on July 12th for his Memorial Service, standing before me to sing “The Bishop’s Hymn,” it felt that though we had not been able to attend Annual Conference, the Annual Conference had come to us. My next thought was to realize that it would be this year that Larry would be included in the Memorial Service, and I needed to be there. After years of telling grieving families the finality of such a service would help with healing, allowing them to move on with their new normal, I wondered what Annual Conference would bring me.

Of course, I was there. The date of the service was June 23rd, the exact date of Larry’s last hospital admission, the day his heart could just as easily stopped beating while he was at home, twenty-two hours before his first cardiac arrest. As I engaged conversations with colleagues, the intensely sincere inquiry, “How ARE you?” began to grate. I tried saying, “I’m fine, just fine,” but it rang hollow. I changed to saying, “I’m alright,” hoping  a significant shrug of my shoulders would tell them what they needed to know. The way I felt was changing moment to moment. Nothing I could say would be accurate. I listened to those who made apology for not attending his service last year (not an issue, especially since they had expressed their care in the cards, the phone calls I cherished so much). I felt the shock of someone admitting that Larry’s death was a surprise, since they hadn’t known he was sick (when it had occupied my world exclusively for three and a half years I had forgotten that my trial was not the center of everyone’s universe). I remembered how practiced I was at deflecting conversation about myself and began asking leading questions so that they would talk about themselves (generally everyone’s favorite subject.) I left for the afternoon with a friend. I returned for the service, and was surrounded by my precious family.

The music began. I took a deep breath. I listened. Larry’s name was read. I checked his obituary (which I had insisted on proofreading for the most accurate picture of what a kind, faithful, compassionate man he was). I recognized the pain and loss of others whose spouses had died more unexpectedly and at the age of 69. Their deaths were all too soon. How long will they be remembered? How long before we will be able to forget?

I was not comforted by the sermon, telling me that help comes from unexpected sources, and that death is not to be feared. It was more than an ego thing, or that terrible critical thinking clergy are plagued with.  Perhaps I no longer need to be comforted. Perhaps my community no longer exists.

I found both community and comfort on Sunday morning as I stood outside the Federal Detention Center at SeaTac, offering morning prayer for migrants; those seeking asylum from life threatening situations, suffering separation from their children. I  was there to honor Larry’s memory, to experience the heartbreak he would feel, to remind myself and others that he was an advocate for justice, aware and informing others of this evil six years ago, but with no idea how horrendous what the current administration created would be. If I could say I am glad he is not here to see this, I would. But I am not glad. I am overcome today with sadness.

And yet, as I began to write this, a friend, a colleague of 30 years, listened to the nudging on her heart and called me. She felt I might be sad today. I let the tears fall. I talked. She listened. I was reminded how consistently I have been held in love. I am grateful. Always grateful. 

Getting by with Help from my Friends

February 10, 2014, four days after Larry suffered total renal failure I began to consider retirement. My plan had been to complete thirty years of ministry. I was two and a half years shy. I knew I did not want to spend what might be the last days of Larry’s life “at the office.” His immediate response was typically filled with unrealistic hope of a healthier future. “We’ll see. We can talk about it.” He didn’t realize how debilitating dialysis would be, how dependent on the treatment he would become, how little “good” time he would have left; we couldn’t know how sick he really was.

When asked by my superintendent whether I wanted to be reappointed to the church for the coming year, I answered yes, I still had goals I wanted to accomplish, commitments I had made, a belief I could handle it all. That was May. I privately counted out 60 weeks until retirement.

The same month, I  visited my doctor for some personal symptoms--pain in my hips and legs, headaches and overall anxiety. She used two simple phrases that set off a whole cascade of reactions:

 “Sometimes it is harder on the care giver than the one who is sick.”

“You could retire. Plans can be changed.”

I began to accept that Larry’s medical care would not be a sprint, more like a marathon.

In June, I admitted my exhaustion to a close friend. I was totally honest with her about my fears and frustrations. She suggested I quit right then, reminding me that Larry is not the only one who is mortal. I argued with her, cried on her shoulder, talked it over and over and over, and knew she was right. She was wise and caring. She had come across the state to stay with me while Larry was first hospitalized. We had started ministry together in 1987. She knew me well. She helped me decide on a compromised timeline. I felt the anniversary of Larry’s illness, preparing for Lent and Easter while I was doubtful about God’s presence, God’s providence, even God’s love for us, was more than I could handle. I planned to leave February 1, 2015.

July 1, Larry and I began house hunting.  We walked through more than two dozen houses in Olympia. When we came to this house, we knew. Because of the light. Because there was a room large enough to accommodate my long arm quilter. Because  there would be office space and TV space. Because it was all one level. Because the yard was landscaped and well-maintained. (I once shocked a kind and loving Trustee of a church who was planning the remodel of the parsonage kitchen before we arrived, by telling him I had no opinions about what I wanted, that I only use a kitchen because it comes with the house. I’ve felt that way about yards...until now.)

We made an offer on this house the end of July and closed on it in September, before I announced my retirement. Keeping secrets, being less than transparent, holding out on sharing joy and our excitement are not in my nature. I knew, every day, every Sunday in worship, that I was giving less than 100 % to people I loved, to a church that needed nurture and care. I never doubted retirement was right for me, that the timing was essential. It was “out of season” for the church. It was my first effort to meet my own needs rather than acquiesce to my perception of the needs of others. I am now recognizing my needs are legitimate every day. The last eleven months, I have had time to learn what it means to be retired from the identity of career as well as figuring out life on my own.

Lately, I have spent time in my yard and garden, grateful for this home, thrilled that the perennials I have added are in bloom, the dogwood and the hawthorn trees have survived. 

It is a home I was ready to move away from last fall and winter, a painful reminder of our unrealistic, hyper optimistic plans to live here together for twenty years. The friend who walked me into retirement was here recently to help me plant beans and peas and tomatoes and peppers and spinach and basil and squash, and I am grateful for her constant love and friendship. She has made weekly phone calls since last June, checking up on me when I have isolated myself, hearing my sorrow into speech. 

I am learning that being alone doesn’t have to be filled with loneliness.  I have not retired from friendship.

Hitting Reset

On Mother’s Day, I needed to pack for my short cruise/adventure to Vancouver Island. Four days on board ship, with two stops. First, Nanaimo, then, Victoria. A simple process. Except that I began to feel anxious. Afraid I might forget something, unsure what I might need. I went to bed, but slept fitfully. Only in the morning, at the last minute did I realize that my heart was making a connection with the last cruise, one year ago. Last Mother’s Day, the family sat around the dinner table, quizzing Larry as to how he thought he could manage the trip to Alaska. I wanted him to change his mind, come to his senses, recognize the struggle of getting anywhere, appreciate the work involve, admit his weakness. I fretted over the complications and possibility of another medical emergency, concerned about his need for assistance to stand, his fatigue when walking. I wasn’t convinced that I could relax, even if he just stayed on the ship, watching the glaciers slip by.

Our concerns were valid.

We set sail on May 27. On the third day, another bout with peritonitis began. His temperature rose to 100.8. He slept through the day, he didn’t eat. He became dehydrated. He spent the night in the ship’s hospital. He was transported by ambulance to the hospital in Juneau, treated with antibiotics for three days, and flew home with John meeting his plane, and settling him into his own bed. My sister Susan and I continued the cruise. Juneau, Skagway and Victoria went by in a blur. I watched the glaciers we had come to see through tears.

Larry would have two more hospitalizations, dying one month later on June 29th. This is one of those periods of hard-wired memories. 

This year, it was a different ship, different companions, a different destination. I would travel with friends from our time at Renton, with friend Flora as my cabin mate. This time I did not have to pack a suitcase full of medical supplies for daily and overnight dialysis. I did not have to double check the list of supplies, or ask for assistance to manage three bags besides my own. I did not have to arrange for wheelchair transportation at the dock. Yet, I became anxious, unable to make simple decisions, a nagging feeling that something could go wrong, that someone was depending on me, a sense that I would not relax, didn’t know how to relax, a fear that there would be shadows following me.

Yet, I left, hoping to find the reset button.

I learned that traveling alongside friends was different than “traveling with.” Among friends, mostly former parishoners, was another recent widow. There was opportunity to empathize, to share memories, to accept my ongoing grief, to talk, to be heard. And, there was laughter, lovely, lovely laughter. Tears running down my checks laughter. There was affirmation and appreciation and acknowledgment of our ministry as a team, enjoyment of who I am becoming.

On our way to Tea at the Empress Hotel in Victoria, I entered a jewelry store. I told Flora about the ways I learned to guard my reaction to beautiful things. Larry, out of his unending devotion and desire to please me, to spoil me, to give me whatever made me happy, would hear me catch my breath, and offer to buy whatever I admired. Sometimes I was successful in convincing him it wasn’t necessary, but often, when I was distracted with the next beautiful thing, he would surreptitiously purchase it and surprise me later. We were often drawn to the fire of opals.

This time, I pointed to a ring in the display case. The saleswoman was happy to help me slip it on my finger, and walk with me out to see how it caught sunlight. I was thrilled by its brilliance, its perfect fit. It is the culmination of all the gorgeous pieces of jewelry I have admired over the years which I refused to let Larry buy for me because I felt undeserving, or because they were never precisely what I really wanted. This ring is unique, fills the indentation from my wedding ring. It reminds me to value myself as independent, self-sufficient, and loved.

 As it sparkles I see a sign of the formation of fire into life. I have no doubt that Larry considers me worthy. That alone brings me joy. 

Let the reset take hold.

Living in the After

Every night I am reminded. I am living without Larry by my side. 

Sometimes I sleep. Often I don’t. If I sleep, I often wake up with sadness. After spending half my life with this man, there are few activities, few places I might go to eat, few roads I might travel, few topics of trivia, few spectacular sunsets that I do not want to share.

Sometimes I am caught off guard. Last week I made the last entry in a journal, picked out another from the collection of blank books that were gifts from Larry, and as I settled the old one onto the stack of journals from the last four years, I took some time to review what was written on those pages. 
I knew better. I was taken back into nightmare scenarios, days of uncertainty, tough conversations, declarations of devotion, and endless processing of my feelings and my inner dialogue with anger, fear, and faith. I scanned passages for glimmers of hope, and read of discouragement and despair. I noted that three years ago I wrote: “What am I praying for? For suffering to end. For the fatigue and despair and hopelessness that is Larry’s life to be transformed.” On June 29 of last year, that prayer was answered.

These nights I have flashbacks of hospital rooms, machines and monitors, a constant stream of medical personnel and doctors who were specialists for specific issues, times of waiting, not knowing, asking, hoping. Watching him sleep. Listening to his breathing. This is a tender season of memories of constant vigilance, frequent calls to the paramedics to help Larry up after he had fallen, of increasing discomfort, fatigue, and discouragement from being taken off the transplant list.

I wish it would stop. I wish I could get over it. I know better. The only way over is through. I am getting through.

I am grateful for the words and wisdom of others. John Pavlovitz, whom I admire for his courageous blog postings that address our national struggles for integrity and compassion, has written about his own grief, and the universal commonalities in loss. This is an excerpt:

“Acknowledging our Grief Anniversaries”

In the wake of losing a loved one, everything in your life becomes a potential surprise memorial. Out of nowhere you are broadsided by days of the week or times of day or numbers on the calendar, or songs that were playing ... These seemingly incessant reminders force you once again to observe the loss anew.

And since these days and times and triggers aren’t obvious to most people in our lives (and since we don’t have the time or the words to describe them all), they are usually unaware of just how much and just how often we mourn. Even those who are closest to us and care for us greatly remain largely oblivious to our recurring sadness. Our grief can feel like a very lonely journey, which in many ways it is because it is specific to us and to the one we’ve lost. It is a customized but hidden wound.

When someone you love deeply dies, the calendar of your life is altered forever. It gets divided into the time before and after that moment. 

(johnpavlovitz.com)