Life happens while you are making other plans

According to a recent email, I have a deadline for planning a vacation before June 30, or at least a two or three day get away to one of the offerings of Vacation Internationale before some of my “points” expire.  Yes, there was a brief moment in time, and perhaps a lapse in judgment, when we purchased shares in a point-based resort vacation (time-share) company. Larry loved a bargain, and the idea of “free.” We were lured to one of those interminable 90 minutes presentations, rewarded with three days in Las Vegas (in one of the older, sleazier hotels, now demolished). They sweetened the pot with a week in Mexico, and because the company’s headquarters are in Redmond, we were given their lowest price. (Yeah, right!)

It was the summer following his retirement and Larry was in the rapid weight loss phase from his gastric bypass surgery. We had visions of a future when he would have more energy, better health, and time to travel.  We began to make 30th anniversary cruise plans, to imagine exploring the Southwest and Hawaii and Canada, returning to Las Vegas, with accommodations provided. 

Somehow Larry’s 40 year career in ministry had superseded the idea of time off and self care; his lifelong strategy of finding comfort in food had brought him to a twenty five year struggle with diabetes and morbid obesity and blocked arteries. The decision for surgery waited until he was ready to retire, to give himself permission and the time and effort required. He was told weight loss would relieve him of his sleep apnea and his diabetes, reduce his reliance on medication. Of course, the trade off was relearning how to eat--smaller portions, better nutrition, and taking supplemental vitamins.  Five years ago Larry did lose 80 pounds post surgery. His highest weight had been 360, he lost forty pounds on a liquid diet to qualify for the surgery, and managed to maintain at 235-240. 

Then his kidneys quit.

Within the year, I retired to be his caregiver, to make the most of the time we had, to live in hope that there would be a kidney transplant, knowing that a transplant was not a cure for renal failure, only the best treatment. I will always be grateful to the four people who started the process to become kidney donors. Each, for various reasons, was disqualified, but the gesture did not go unappreciated. 

Even though I announced my decision to retire was based on the need to give 100 % of my attention to my husband, several people approached me, asking me about my “plans”  for retirement. On the day we bought our time share, we had plans. The day Larry’s kidneys failed, all our plans changed. 

Today, I looked at the options for places to go--either mountains or beaches--considered the best time to do something new and different, in a new and different way.

Plans for retirement? How about a plan to get myself out of the house in the morning, and the morning after that?

Public Face, Private Grief

There is something about Euro-American culture that teaches us to hide our tears, to swallow sorrow, to grieve privately. In ministry I have stood at the open casket, witnessed sobbing family members, and been at the grave side of elderly Filipino parshioners, mourners wailing as the casket is lowered into the ground. One year later I have led memorial services to remember and honor their loved ones. When my daughter’s Native American father-in-law was dying, family kept vigil at the hospital for a full week, 24 hours a day, and for the next week, stayed together, making arrangements, telling stories, eating, planning a proper farewell, honoring life. And we can all learn from watching “Coco” with it’s accurate portrayal of the Day of the Dead.

Instead, we rush through. We plan services quickly and I have been known to tell people that getting through that time will be hard, will make death final, and after, they will be able to move on. And, yes, the first year will be the hardest. I have checked with survivors in the first month, and try to remember to see how they are doing a year later. I have harbored an interior judge who disapproves of widows and (usually) widowers who cannot seem to survive alone, and marry again quickly. And, after all, widowed twice, considering one of my gifts in ministry is being a “wounded healer,” I ought to know.

Somehow, January 1, my grief took hold, visceral, intense, fresh. The Rose Parade was a ritual for Larry. Parked in front of the TV for two hours, remarking on the intricacy of the floral displays on the floats, touched by the “Donate Life” entry, honoring those who had given an organ for transplant, remembering our three visits to Pasadena, even during the coldest parade on record, now watching alone, starting a new year alone, waking alone after sleeping alone, in an empty house. 

I recalled my resolve in November when I wrote these words: “I cannot ignore or deny or run away from the pain of loving and losing. I must live within the presence of this reality. I accept that there was fallacy in my belief that I was prepared, practiced, somehow ready, somehow this time would be easy, that I could stand up quickly and move on. The grief is here. It will not leave. It leaps from dark corners, it greets me in sunshine and shared spaces, it sneaks up with memories, it lingers in the shadows of his presence. I clean and discard and sell and give away, transform space with paint and furniture. I expect, I want to forget, to forgive, to move on to a new life. Grief is wild and dangerous. I live within it, I always will. We must learn to dwell together in peace. Is it possible to tame this grief?”

 It began the day of Larry’s Memorial, pausing at the back of the church, needing to be composed to enter the sanctuary, before eyes fell on me. I had even gotten my hair highlighted, cut and styled the day before. No tears for me. I was overwhelmed with love for those who attended, for what everyone said, how everyone honored him that day, for all that people have shared in the months since, for memories that inspire others. I had learned, preaching at my 21 year old niece’s funeral in 1986, that if you spoke while holding back tears, your nose would run. I practiced swallowing sorrow in 1972, not crying in front of my 3 year old when her father died in Viet Nam, not ready to explain why she would never see “Daddy Bill” again. I only allowed the tears to fall when holding my 3 month old, and I believe she absorbed my pain, feeling the loss ever since.

I declared peace for the holidays, for the first six months. I managed to be busy, to get away when I needed to. I had planned New Years’ Day with family coming for lunch, but grief took hold and would not let go. They came, but I felt anger that they would leave. The house was filled with life, but I imagined it empty again. There would be food left over, but more than I could eat alone. I cried for two days. Although they know, I hesitate to talk even to my family how terribly lonely I am, how painful this loss is, how much each loss is magnified by previous losses. There are days it feels like more than I can bear. I can honestly admit that there is a 1950’s housewife inside me, who only wanted to be married and have a family, to celebrate 50 plus years of marriage. I know I was loved, deeply, twice lucky. But there are days when the loss is too great, the pain too deep.

I am touched when my children check on me, asking me what my plans are for the day, for the week. I am invited into their lives, their activities, and I am grateful. I provide child care. I accept lunch, coffee, movie, dinner invitations. I have begun to get myself out to walk around Capitol Lake every morning. I would like a walking partner, a conversational partner, a hand to hold, a bridge partner, a shoulder to lean on, someone to dry my tears, someone to set a plate at the table for.