Enough is Enough

Preaching was my passion. One of the first things I learned about the effect of preaching was that what people heard was not always what you thought you were saying. As carefully as a preacher may sort through historical texts and biblical criticism and engage hermeneutics (don’t worry, that is  a fancy theological/philosophical term that is a way to talk about interpretation), the intended point (or points) in a sermon are often usurped by the heart and mind of the listener. Preachers preach to themselves, often saying what they need to hear, and assume it has similar value and meaning to others. The hope is that somehow in the mix, people will hear a word from God. A wise colleague once lifted that promise before me, (thanks Jack Olive). This is an attitude of open receptiveness that I attempt to practice now that I sit in the pew.

My passion for preaching, my desire to be informed and inspired and challenged, is still with me. I carry my high standards for theological integrity and intelligent inquiry as expectations for other preachers. On Easter, though distracted by wiggly grandchildren, and displaced from my normal, comfortable place in the third pew from the front on the left side of the church, I was not disappointed. One phrase, one sentence, one idea grabbed my heart, and I received what I needed to hear. 

“With grief and death come things that require change.”

My own personal season of grief and death has been enlarged in the last month with the deaths of two more colleague/friends and a nineteen year old son of clergy couple friends. My love and concern has been stretched and magnified by a diagnosis of advanced colon cancer and life saving surgery for another dear one. Our collective outrage and despair over gun violence that targets children has sent me to March alongside them and cry out, “enough is enough!” Many days the reality of lost innocence, the brutality of public rhetoric, and the sense of despair, the contagion of fear, is more than enough to bear.

I want to embrace the battle cry, “Never again.” It is a plea and a prayer, a dream and a desire, but in my experience, in the mortal nature of humanity, our protests against death are futile. Death is our common end. The means, the timing, the circumstances are not within our control. And yet, we live, we love, we expend our resources and energy, we protest, we resist.

The change that is happening in me, on this day, April 9th, which would have been our 35th wedding anniversary is that I have come to the end of anticipating with dread those “first-holidays/events” since Larry’s death, and have turned to remember the last times, the final times that last year, those painful final six months. At the end, I could accept death as a blessing.

Today those memories began to give way for the deep memories from times before that, 35 years worth of tenderness. 35 years of kindness and shameless adoration, of always having someone in my corner, supporting and cheering me on, tolerating my moods and idiosyncrasies, infuriating me with his patience, loving unconditionally, always, never-the-less, never less, always more.

Today it feels selfish to miss him, to grieve so deeply, to feel my sorrow in the midst of seemingly greater losses, fresher pain. And yet, as I have been held, I hold others in love, and leave myself open to listen, to be present, to walk alongside. We are not alone in this world. We are meant to be together. I preached it often, I believe it still;

“In the beginning was the relationship.”

When I Cry in Church

For the eight years that Larry and I served as co-pastors, I was unaware of one constant behavior. Whenever I was preaching (which was 60% of the time), he sat behind me, and at some point in my sermon, tears would stream down his face. It wasn’t that I was a terrible preacher, it was because he had a sensitive soul, a kind heart, and loved me absolutely. The congregation may have been listening to my words, but they were also watching Larry’s face, and were moved by his tears.

In the two and a half years after my retirement, we sat side by side, holding hands during the morning prayer. Often our tears would fall simultaneously, out of fear and frustration, impatience and hopelessness on my part. For Larry, I believe the tears came out of his constant faith and deep desire to be well.

These days, when I exercise the choice to be in church, I go because I know the preaching will be good, there will be a word from God I need to hear, and I will be inspired and encouraged for the work ahead of us in this world. I go, strong and secure in my understanding that Larry’s death was not a tragedy in my life, but the inevitable outcome of his illness, and the inevitable ending for all life. My grieving is not finished, and never will be, but it has lessened.

Last Sunday the tears began as I realized I was seated in front of a man who was too weak to stand for the hymns, just as Larry had been. I moved over so that he could see the words on the screen. 

My tears resumed during the gathering of prayer concerns, congratulating the couple celebrating sixty years of marriage. We never made it to 35. The year we married Easter was April 3. Our wedding the Saturday after. 

As prayers were gathered into the eloquent and passionate words of Pastor Ruth Marston, I wiped my eyes because there was no one’s hand to hold.

Mid sermon, my tears flowed as I listened to Pastor Peter Perry capture the essence of Larry’s theology, his deep understanding and appreciation of John Wesley’s teaching on a life of grace, epitomizing who Larry was as a grace and peace-filled human being.

By the time the service ended I was exhausted in my role as a brave, stoic widow, surrounded by other widows in their 80’s and 90’s. I do not want to face that future. What was my life is no more.

The day before, when I went for my manicure, I had removed my wedding band. It has often attracted attention and started conversations. We would tell how we designed them and had them custom made, mine with a raised butterfly, Larry’s with the matching shape engraved. The band is wide. It has left an indentation.

With the rooms in my house transformed into distinctively personal, practical, comfortable, shadow free areas, cleared of physical reminders of Larry’s illness, I breathe new life every morning. My body, my hand, my heart, and yes, my tears carry all the memories I need.

Why ask Why?

“Why did Grandpa Larry die?”

His bright blue eyes looked up at me as I was tucking my seven year old grandson into bed. Phoenix and his eight year old sister, Trillium, were often visiting when Larry would start his afternoon dialysis. They were fascinated with the process of preparing a sterile field, the hand washing and applying sanitizer, the wearing of face masks. They had the option of staying out of the TV room for forty-five minutes, or of washing hands and wearing a mask to be able to watch. They often chose the mask.

They always asked questions about the process.

“What was the stuff that came out of the tube in Grandpa’s tummy?”

“Did it hurt?”

“What was the stuff in the bags going into Grandpa’s tummy?”

But, most of all, “Why do we have to wear the masks? Why does he have to do this?”

We answered every question, every time, explaining that it was medicine going in, and waste coming out since Grandpa’s kidneys didn’t work and he didn’t pee anymore, that what we did every day (and ten hours every night) was keeping Grandpa alive. We told them we had to be careful to keep Grandpa from getting an infection which would put him in the hospital. We also had to explain about how important their kidneys are, and theirs work just fine, and weren’t going to quit on them.

Three months later, Phoenix asked me why Grandpa died.

I took a breath, flashed through how often we explained that the medicine kept Grandpa alive, and said, “His heart stopped beating. He was so sick, and it was too much work for his heart, and it quit.”

“I feel sad,” Phoenix said.

“I do too,” I said.

He held on for an extra hug when I leaned in to kiss him goodnight. I turned out the light and thought about my own questions and other ways I had wrestled with the question. Answers that didn’t need to be shared with a seven year old, about how years of poor diet and lack of exercise and mismanaged diabetes had contributed to Larry’s kidney failure and early death, how sometimes I was angry over the dysfunctional relationship with his mother and why he had such a desperate need for comfort, which he found in food, and my sadness that my love for him was not enough to keep him alive... No, that was not what he wanted to know.

I had my own early questions about death, but I was older, probably eleven or twelve, when my best friend’s grandfather died unexpectedly of a heart attack. The adults around me comments on Will Moos’s death were that he was too young. Maybe early 60’s. It was the first funeral I ever attended, complete with an open casket and his somewhat life-like remains. The questions I wanted answered were along the lines of “why did God create us if we are just going to die? What’s the point of living?” (Yes, as a pre-teen I had theological curiosity. Go figure.)

Perhaps my mother was unsure how to answer, but she took me seriously enough to take me to see the pastor, a recent seminary graduate. Rev. Dean Kallander took me seriously too. What I remember of his response was telling me that we (human kind) were created because God was lonely and needed us to help with creation. I know he steered me towards James Weldon Johnson’s poem “The Creation,” which I have cherished and referred to all my life. I know his answer or maybe his consideration of my question was enough, and that he influenced my approach to careful listening and honoring the seeker after truth.

Another poet, Mary Oliver, continues the dialogue for me in “The Summer Day.” She writes:

Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon? 

Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?

One of the greatest gifts to me, and to the world, was that Larry was here to love well, to embody unconditional love and compassion for the lost and the least, the damaged and the disenfranchised. The questions still remain. Not why did Larry die, but why do any of us live? What can we contribute to this world that makes a difference? How does one life impact others? It is so much more than a personal self-examination these days. In a world of murdered school children, it is existential, theological, and moral. 

I still ask: Without pulpit, seeking new identity and community, within a fractured world, what more is there for me to do with my one wild and precious life?

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.

Learning from the darkness

I was aware of the cosmic irony of being in the doctor's office exactly six months to the day of my last visit, the day before Larry died. Wednesday I had an appointment to get a physical and looked forward to getting acquainted with a new doctor, my former doctor having retired this summer. I took a face mask from the box by the front door and announced to the receptionist that I wasn't there because I was sick, I just happened to be sick on the day I had an appointment. 

The diagnosis was almost identical to what it was in June; sinusitis, ear infection, non-productive cough, low grade fever. The drug cocktail was slightly different, but now, four days later I can actually lie down and sleep without hacking up a lung. I am depleting my kleenex supply, the headache persists, the eyes still itch, but I am clearly on the mend.

In my working days, I took pride in my self-care tactics. When I had the flu or was running a fever, I would give myself three days to rest and heal, and get back quickly to the work of caring for others. Unless of course, it was only a post nasal drip, I ignored it until I developed laryngitis, which only happened twice on a Sunday morning.

 My decision to retire three years ago was influenced by knowing I could not care for Larry and the needs of a congregation and have anything left for myself. For three and half years, his health care was our priority. When I broke my foot and then later scheduled knee replacement, the reality of how little Larry could function as a caregiver became evident. We were often living in our own little island of denial. It seemed easier. It became complicated.

Now, feverish, coughing, blowing my nose, battling a headache, I felt bereft of skills to battle this attack on my system. I am not sure I would have bothered with an appointment, but would have just toughed it out. Sleep it off, give it time, get over it. 

And perhaps there is the lesson--time is not the only way to heal. It helps. But so does a little help from my friends (in this case a medical professional), the courage to admit the need for support, comfort, rest. It's still hard to ask. This time the universe came through.

One of our lovely family rituals is to observe the Solstice. We gather, eat, light the fire, release our pain, offer our intentions for the new year. As the light returns may we pay attention to the rhythms of the universe. I am working at appreciating what the darkness has to teach me.

This year, may Christmas come to everyone

This is not the first Christmas without a tree. 
There were the two years we were moving in January, and decided the hassle of tree decorating and the disposal process, often delayed, was more than we wanted to manage. Our day of celebration was with kids and grandkids at one of their homes, so it still felt like Christmas.

Last year was different. Larry had already been sick for a month with bronchitis when it would have been time to get the tree and trim it. Calling the paramedics frequently to help get him up from a fall and into bed had depleted my spirit. My energy was shot, and we were counting on our new annual tradition of gathering on Boxing Day with family. I have manufactured excuses this year--the growing collection of items to be discarded have blocked easy access to decorations stored in the garage; the new flooring may be delivered and installed any day now (or, I just found out, January 19); I am not emotionally ready to unearth the memories. I have kept exceptionally busy the last few weeks. No room for grief and self-pity, or for Christmas preparations.

Perhaps because yesterday was the cookie baking marathon with Abigail’s family, and their freshly cut tree was in the process of being decorated, today, memories of our first foray together to a tree farm, 36 years ago, resurfaced. Larry and I were in the “dating” stage, and to impress me and please me, he offered to take me out to look for my tree. With a 10 foot cathedral ceiling I was hunting for an eight foot tree. I believed that the right one would speak to me. Abigail came along to help with the hunt. We stopped at Dairy Queen for a hot dog on the way home. That was the year the angel ornament collection began, and by now I have more than 200 angels to fit on much smaller trees.

I also remembered that the idea of including John and Anne, not yet siblings, in the tree decorating process created some pouting and sulking. Intruders in our lives according to my oldest.  Too many changes in our lives.

This is a another season of change. Merry is a single parent, sharing kids on holidays with her ex and alone on Christmas Eve. I refuse to be alone Christmas morning. There will not be a stocking to fill, nor one filled for me. I haven’t been given a book list, picked out a new Christmas tie, or mailed Larry’s Chex Mix to our friends. There will be no new angel ornaments tied to packages.There are no new angel pins for each week in Advent. I will not have to bite my tongue to be appreciative of gifts I did not ask for, and do not need. What I really wanted was good health and more time.

And yet, singing the words to “Star Child” yesterday, “This year, this year/ let the day arrive/ when Christmas comes for everyone/ everyone alive,” I began to yearn to move through this season with the resolve to find joy, to live in joy, to share the joy of loving and being loved, to honor the memory of a kind and generous man. 

My promise to be all right, my resolve to live fully into an unknown future, my privilege to be financially secure and surrounded by family and friends are all reason to let Christmas come into my heart, into my life. 

The hope that new life, a new year, a reinvention of who I am to be in the decades to come, is reason to hold on, to persevere, to turn to life and smile.

Maybe, just maybe, the smell of fresh cut fir will help.

Holidays, Holy Days, Every Day

Warning. The first year is the hardest. The milestones stack up. Fourth of July. My birthday. Time at the lake. Halloween. Thanksgiving. Larry’s birthday. Christmas. New Years’ Day. Valentines Day. Easter. Our wedding anniversary. The first anniversary of his death. Then, will it get easier? I don’t know yet.

On a beautiful morning the tears began as I looked at the sun shining through the golden, yellow, and red leaves, arched across Legion Way in Olympia. I was driving to church, realizing that my being late was not only normal but intentional--fewer people to greet, rushing past the memories of escorting Larry carefully to a seat near the front of the sanctuary, a seat where he would not have to stand and would still be able to read the words on the screen. I remembered his irritation of my tendency to run late.  I had conquered my impatience with our differing concepts of time management. I was free of our mutual irritation. I was relieved of the burden of care. I repeated to myself that his release from suffering was a gift. Yet, the surprising tears kept coming.

In that moment I recognized that our continuing participation in the life of the church post-retirement had not been about the preaching content or the worship experience (although good to excellent by my estimation) but about how he held on to his identity. With limited energy or strength, Larry served on committees and taught a class, contributing to the life of the church. It wasn’t what he got from the church, but what he could give, that added value to his life.

I cried again this Sunday, as the Saints were named, candles were lit, and a bell rang. I was intentional about being at the service my cousin and his wife attend. I knew I did not want to be sitting alone. Someone was holding my hand when Larry’s name was read. I was safe. I was comforted. There will be one final remembrance of Larry being honored among the saints at the Memorial Service at Annual Conference in June. I will be surrounded and held in love again.

I went home to find David Whyte’s book Consolations.  He gives his poetic voice to the “solace, nourishment and underlying meaning of everyday words.” 

He writes of “Alone:”

 “One of the elemental dynamics of self-compassion is to understand our deep reluctance to be left to ourselves...”

Of “Heartbreak:”

“Heartbreak asks us not to look for an alternative path, because there is no alternative path. It is an introduction to what we love and have loved, an inescapable and often beautiful question, something and someone that has been with us all along, asking us to be ready for the ultimate letting go.”

There are days I am both heartbroken and reluctant to be left to myself. There are days I find a path to self care and experience great joy in the world. There are days when I realize that a holiday is coming, a day filled with tradition and memories that need to be honored and then reconfigured. These are days I make plans to be away, to do something completely different. There are more good days than bad.

As the seasons move me through this year, I am ready to move with them into something more, something new, something yet to be revealed.

All right? Not yet.

Walking arm in arm with my thirteen year old granddaughter from the Farmer’s Market to lunch, I said, “Lluvia, I love having you with me and spending time together, but you need to know that Grandma won’t need you to be with me 24/7 for very long. I’m going to be all right.”

It was the day after Larry died, and for the next week everyone was on Grandma watch, making sure I ate, slept, had someone with me to help make decisions, someone to drive my car, take me wherever I needed to go, remove reminders of constant medical care from the house. I was grateful, I was tired, I was numb. As I reassured my family that I was going to be all right, it was a way to assure myself. It was my way of getting through for three years. It was drawing on my survival mode from forty-five years before, widowed at 24, keeping the promise I made to my military husband, headed to Viet Nam, to be strong, to be brave. It all kicked in again.

These days I find myself having conversations with friends and acquaintances who mention something from Larry’s Memorial service and I realize I hadn’t known they were there, or I have forgotten. I thought I was prepared to keep track, to be able to say thank you, to acknowledge their caring, to let their love uphold me. Maybe not, until now.

I also hear myself retelling that last week in the hospital, reliving the very last day, the day I knew Larry was dying, when he was having visions of “the girl in the yellow dress” standing at the foot of his bed. Waiting? When he was asking over and over why he was in a hospital bed when he had just been sitting in another room, filled with light. Strong again and free from pain. When he unwrapped and offered me an imaginary piece of chocolate. Sharing his love for me.

I left that afternoon to go to the doctor. I had never recovered from the hacking cough and laryngitis I experienced on our trip to Alaska. It had been six weeks. When she diagnosed a sinus infection, an ear infection, and bronchitis, she prescribed antibiotics, an inhaler, and codeine laced cough syrup. She urged me to go home to rest. Larry and I talked once that evening on the phone. His doctor called to update me. I went to bed. I slept.

When the phone announced the call from St. Peter’s Hospital at 6 am, I knew. I drove to a nearly empty parking lot, parked at an angle near the front door. I walked past the hand lettered sign on his hospital room door which said, Do Not Enter. 

The room was sterile, all tubes and machines removed. His face was shaved. His hand was still warm.

Sometimes I think I should have stayed that night, I should have been there, I should have been holding his hand when he died. He should not have died alone. I think there should have been last minute assurances that he could let go, that it would be easier if I told him again I would be all right.

I’m tired of “shoulding” myself. 

February 10, 2014, when he was first hospitalized with renal failure, when he was so very sick, we weren’t sure he would live. His words to me in the emergency room were, “I want you to know I’ve had a good life.”

It was then we said our preliminary good-byes, when I first gave him permission to let go of this world, that he needn’t worry about me, I would miss him, but I would be all right.  I scoffed when he told me he wanted me to get married again, to find love. I knew that the pain of another loss would be more than I can bear. I was certain that even with a kidney transplant, his life would be limited, restricted. I anticipated this loss for the next three and a half years.

It washed over me with the force of a tsunami this week. I knew he was dying. I went home. I would not, could not stay to give him permission to let go of this world. Although it was the most healing thing for his body, to release his soul, I could not bear it. I am waiting to be all right.

Rearranged

I am successful selling furniture-- Larry’s power lift recliner, his desk chair, his dresser.  Repurposing spaces to remove triggers of emotion beats moving, I think. One small discovery was a carved stone turtle, a recent gift from a neighbor, which had gone missing during a visit by grandchildren. Inquiries of whether they had played with it, added it to the toy basket of my wind-up toys, or might have dropped it between the cushions in the couch all were met with innocence and denial. I discovered it, head broken off, as I moved the love seat.  It seems repairable, as soon as I find that super glue. Hiding it must have been prompted by fear that I would be angry and the perpetrator would get in trouble. Not so. There are many more important, more valuable things in this life than things.

I seem to be nesting. Rearranging my life. Reclaiming spaces. Discarding artifacts. Gifting stamp and coin collections, sorting and boxing books, donating shoes and clothing. I bump into bits and pieces from life with an invalid. Finding the digital thermometers for daily temperature charts, the ever present cough drops, boxes of kleenex, the scale set to weigh in kilograms, low sodium foods, protein powder, protein bars, bottles of vitamins and supplements. I cancel the newspapers, the cable TV service, close credit card accounts, sell a car, fill garbage bags. I have second thoughts and sign up for Hulu and Netflix.

Letting go of possessions has been easy. Letting go of patterns of behavior, expectations, feelings of grief and loneliness has been harder. I travel alone. Driving to the cabin with an audio book to keep me company, embarking on a cross country flight without needing wheelchair assistance, nor medical equipment, nor a suitcase full of supplies, no priority for early boarding, no one to hold my hand when taking off and landing.

The day I unplugged the telephone I was surprised by grief. The last point of connection to hope for a someday miracle, the last symbol of the constant anxiety of being available at all times for the possibility that a kidney donation had come our way, that an offer of life would be made. The end of the frustration, the anger, the disappointment, the impossible dream. It provided relief.

Larry’s former office is now a guest bedroom. I gained skills with roller and paint brush, conquered some power tools, and wrestled a queen size mattress from one room to another. The walls are now somewhere between the color of marmalade and nasturtiums. His favorite print of Don Quixote is all that remains.  As I walk past the open door, I am comforted by the change, the sign of hospitality, the possibility of unscheduled visitors, late night conversations, the freedom from routine, the banishment of shadows.