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)