Moving Forward

I read my horoscope in the newspaper every day, and although I don't put a great deal of stock in the "predictions," I was recently struck by a horoscope entry that seems to reflect what is going on in my life.  It read: You will not be sure whether it is you guiding your life or your life guiding you. It really doesn't matter. The important thing is that you are moving forward in a way that feels good to you.


I've written before about my feeling that I have been just drifting through my life since Art's death, and reading that horoscope entry has raised that issue for me again. For 17 months now I've been going along with almost any activity—social or business-related—that friends, family or colleagues have suggested to me. I've been trying to fill the void in my life by staying so busy that I don't leave myself too much time to feel sad and lonely. Does that mean I'm still drifting?

I think that, for me at least, the answer to the question implied in that horoscope entry is: My life is guiding me. Most days I do feel like I am still drifting. Am I at least moving forward? I hope so, but I can't say that I'm totally sure of that. In the last few days I have taken some concrete steps to put my life in better order—to take care of some of the difficult tasks that I've been avoiding for months. They are baby steps, and they seem to be aimed in the right direction, but I still have a long way to go.

Am I moving forward in a way that feels good to me? I think the jury is still out on that one.

Is This a Test?

I can't believe it's been two months since I last wrote in this blog. It has been quite an emotional roller coaster and I guess I've been trying to figure out what it all means without sounding like I'm having a "pity party." Although September began as a bit of a "downer," with the news that two friends have been diagnosed with cancer, it ended on a high note with a family wedding. 


On September 25, My youngest daughter and her girlfriend were married in a beautiful outdoor ceremony at a lovely inn in Vermont—where, by the way, it is legal for same sex couples to marry. (It is also legal in Connecticut where they live.) How fortunate they are. Although it was sad not to have Art there for the wedding, it was the happiest time we'd had as a family since he died.


I came back to Florida a week later feeling like I was finally coming out of a long, dark tunnel, and I was ready to find out what lay ahead. But, unfortunately, all I found at the other end was another tunnel. Less than 36 hours after arriving back home, I was lying on an operating table having emergency surgery for a ruptured appendix. Who knew you could have a ruptured appendix at age 70? It was certainly the last thing I would have thought of. So there I was, again, dependent on my sister and brother-in-law, and my wonderful friends and neighbors, to take care of me. And, once again, they rose to the occasion. My sister and brother-in-law stayed with me for several days, and my friends responded immediately by bringing food, sending cards and flowers, stopping by to see me… How did I get so lucky to be living in this place at this time in my life? How can I ever repay my wonderful friends and family for all they've done for me over the last 2 years?


I'm a "glass half full" kind of person—always able to find one small bright spot no matter how bad the situation—so it pains me to admit that this latest "set back" really tested my innate sense of optimism. I couldn't see one positive thing about it, until several friends pointed out how lucky it was that it hadn't happened just before the wedding; or, worse yet, during the weekend of the wedding. Why hadn't I thought of that? If this had happened to one of my friends, I'd have been the first one to point out the one bright spot in their difficult situation. Clearly, I was too busy feeling sorry for myself; asking myself what I did to deserve this latest setback; wondering if someone was testing me to see how much  adversity I can take before giving in to despair. I almost did give into despair during the 4-day stay in the hospital. I was haunted by memories of all the days and nights spent in hospitals during Art's illness, and I missed him more than ever. Why wasn't he there taking care of me, the way he always did—the way I took care of him?


It's a new month now. I'm gradually regaining my strength, and my incision, which was left open so that it can heal from the inside out to avoid a potential infection, is almost healed. The surgeon discharged me from his care this past Friday—just in time for me to take my first giant step back toward normalcy by following through on plans my friend Kitty and I had made (before the ruptured appendix) to attend the "Rally to Restore Sanity" in Washington DC. We flew out early Saturday morning and were back home by 10:30 that night. It was tiring but well worth the trip. Attending that rally with over 200,000 other "reasonable" people reminded me that the world doesn't revolve around me and my problems. There are thousands who are far worse off than I have ever been. There are serious problems to be solved, and we all need to stop shouting at each other and try to find a way to work together to solve them.


So now that I've had my little "pity party," I think I'm ready to start looking for the light at the end of this new tunnel. 

Learning to Focus on the Happy Times

In this picture, Art is sitting on a wall overlooking a harbor in Marblehead, Massachusetts. When I downloaded the pictures I took on August 31, 2008, this one, in particular, took my attention. I loved it because of the beautiful view, and because Art was sitting quietly enjoying the view completely unaware that I was taking the picture.

I have this picture as "wallpaper" on my computer desktop, so I see it every time I turn on my computer, which is every day. Since Art's death, this picture has taken on an entirely new meaning for me. When I look at it now, I find myself wondering what Art was thinking that day. He hadn't felt well for a couple of days, but still seemed to be enjoying the visit with our son and daughter-in-law. Thinking about it now, exactly two years later, I went back and looked at all the other pictures I took that day and found two other shots of Art, standing alone, with his hands in his back pockets (a familiar pose), seemingly lost in thought. Was he feeling worse than he let on? Was he experiencing the first symptoms of lymphoma? Could he possibly have had a premonition that something life threatening (and ultimately life taking) was about to happen? Did he suspect that he would never feel totally healthy again?

Of course, I can never know the answers to those questions—and there is certainly nothing to be gained by obsessing over them—so I've decided to make a concerted effort to remember the happier moments associated with Art's last visit to the Boston area, where our son Mark and his wife were living at the time. For Art, the happiest moment of the trip came the very next day when he and Mark went to a Boston Red Sox game.  Art was always a Red Sox fan, and had actually planned to take me to a game when we were on our honeymoon. Unfortunately, that didn't work out, and he had to wait  46 years to see the Red Sox play at Fenway Park.

What I'm choosing to remember when I look at this picture now is that, thanks to Mark, Art got to see the Red Sox play in Fenway Park before he died. If he had had a bucket list, I'm sure that would have been on it.

Marking Time

I've recently noticed that I am now keeping track of events in my life based on whether they happened before Art got sick or after he died. I don't know if my friends have noticed. I suspect they probably have. I hope they aren't finding it too morbid. Actually, I don't think it's unusual for people to use traumatic events as sign posts, of sorts, in their lives. Most people in my generation can remember exactly where they were and what they were doing the day President Kennedy was assassinated; and today many Americans point to September 11,  2001 as the day life in America changed forever.

Lately, I've also been thinking about what is going to be different about my life now that I've officially passed the first anniversary of Art's death. I haven't figured it out yet. However, it has occurred to me that during this first year without Art I have been living my life, at least subconsciously, as if this were just a temporary situation—as if he'd be back and life would return to normal at some unspecified time in the future. It seems like I've just been drifting through each day, trying to keep busy, trying not to spend too much time wallowing in my grief. Obviously, I know Art is not coming back, but something has been keeping me  from fully accepting the finality of it all. I can't seem to bring myself to finish getting rid of the rest of his clothes, and his shoes, tools, camera equipment, golf clubs… It's possible that I'm just being lazy, but I suspect it's not that simple.

Last night the Florida sunset was breathtakingly beautiful and I walked out on the lanai to get a better view. While standing there watching the color change from pink to bright red, I was suddenly overwhelmed with sadness and began to cry. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's the realization that this isn't temporary.

Small Changes

My life changed dramatically and irrevocably when Art died. That's obvious. What's not so obvious are the small changes in my every day life—things I do differently than I did when Art was alive—that have generally gone unnoticed. For some reason, I started to think about them this week. I'm not sure if there is any significance to the timing, but I guess it's worth examining.

Some of these changes have made my life easier in small ways; some have brought me some semblance of joy; and some seem just plain silly. For example, I'm eating a lot more onions and peppers then I did when I was cooking for Art. I love onions and peppers, but Art said they upset his stomach, so I rarely cooked them, even for myself. If a recipe called for onions, as many good recipes do, I would add a small amount, just for the flavor. I would either cut them really large so Art could pick them out (and put them on my plate) or cut them really small so they weren't visible. Amazingly, they usually didn't bother him when I did that.  I also eat more green beans. Green beans were the only vegetable Art didn't like, so I never cooked them even just for myself. I could never understand Art's aversion to green beans.They seem pretty innocuous to me, but he said they tasted "fuzzy." He used to say that "green beans were one of God's mistakes."

I've written about this before, but, while I'm on the subject of food, I need to confess that I'm still eating my dinner on a TV tray every night while watching the news, or a movie, or something I've taped on TiVo. It seems less lonely that way. Art and I always sat at the table to eat, either in the kitchen area or on the lanai, when weather permitted, except on nights (usually a Friday or Saturday night) when we had a good Netflix movie to watch. We found that the only way we could be sure we would both stay awake through the entire movie was to start watching it while eating dinner on TV trays. And, no matter where we ate our dinner, we almost always had a glass of red wine with our meal. Now, I rarely have wine with my dinner unless I have company or am eating in a restaurant. I also never cook on the grill, although it is something we did often when Art was alive.

I realize that focusing on the small changes related to food makes it seem like I'm obsessed with eating. I'm really not. However, I think it probably is a reflection of how important family mealtime has always been to us. When the family is all together, one of our great joys is to join forces to plan and cook good meals. That's probably why dinner time is still such a lonely part of the day for me.

Other small changes have made life a bit easier or have allowed me to do some things I enjoy, but rarely, or never, did when Art was alive. I now only have to do one load of laundry a week, I run the dishwasher every 7 to 10 days, I read in bed, I occasionally go out with friends in the evening to Happy Hour, or to a movie, and I always have full control of the TV remote.

Would I give all these things up if I could have Art back in my life? In a heart beat!

Revisiting Old Memories

I'm sitting in the O. R. family waiting room in a Chicago hospital waiting to hear news that my daughter, who is having back surgery, is out of the operating room and in the recovery room. From the moment we entered the front door of the hospital, my mind has been flooded with memories of Art and all the hospital and doctor's office waiting rooms I spent time in—sometimes with Art and sometimes by myself—during our year-long journey, first to find out what was wrong with him, and then, as he underwent surgeries, chemotherapy, blood transfusions… I'm in a different hospital, in a different city, in a different state, and the situation is not life threatening, but the feelings of anticipation and worry, and the silent prayer that everything will be okay, are the same. It's funny how the body remembers and reacts even when we try to distract ourselves.

Where Do I Go from Here?

Last Thursday, June 24, was the one-year anniversary of Art's death. It's not the kind of anniversary anyone looks forward to celebrating, but it is what it is. Knowing I didn't want to be alone in this empty house, I made plans to fly to Connecticut, where I could be with three of my children, and spent what would have been our 48th wedding anniversary on a plane. It was as good a place to be as any, I guess.

As it turned out, that dreaded anniversary wasn't as difficult as I had anticipated. The kids kept me busy during the day and we all went out for sushi that night. Art loved sushi, so it seemed like a good way to honor his memory. Although it was difficult to be there without Art, I couldn't help feeling  a sense of pride and joy in watching the children we raised together laughing, teasing each other and sharing memories of their Dad.

So, if I believe what everyone has been telling me, "the first year is the worst," then I guess the worst must be over. I've gone through all the significant dates—birthdays, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's Eve, Valentine's day, our anniversary—without Art. I've learned how to do some things I'd never done before, because Art always took care of them. I've kept myself busy, made a few changes in my life, kept myself from falling apart… The problem is, I still have this big empty hole in my life that I can't seem to fill no matter how busy I keep myself. I can't imagine there will ever be a day that I won't miss Art, but I suppose it will eventually get less painful.

The truth is, we probably assign too much importance to the "first year" thing. It may be the worst, but everything doesn't suddenly get better once it's over. Still, now that it is over, maybe it's time to stop dwelling on all those significant dates and try to figure out where I go from here.

Thoughts on Laughter

Shortly after Art died, I had a conversation about loss with an acquaintance who revealed that she had lost a daughter several years earlier.  She told me that, for a while after her daughter's death, she felt guilty every time she laughed. Listening to her that day, I could certainly understand that feeling—I think the death of a child is the worst thing that can ever happen to a mother—but I couldn't help but wonder if there was something wrong with me because I didn't feel guilty about laughing, even shortly after Art's death. After thinking about it, I realized that he would not have wanted it any other way.

Laughter has always been an important aspect of our family dynamic. Art had a great sense of humor and loved to tease people. Our four adult children love to tease each other (and me), and there is always plenty of laughter whenever we get together. My son and middle daughter, in particular, both have what some would consider an "offbeat" sense of humor, and are usually able to find something to laugh about in almost any situation.


For some reason, I've been thinking about this a lot lately. Maybe it's because I'm approaching the one year anniversary of Art's death and I have been taking an inventory, of sorts, of how far I've come in adjusting to life without him. Some days I think I've come a long way, and other days, I feel like I'm regressing; but, from what I can tell, that's fairly normal. What I do know, though, is how much being able to laugh has helped me get through this first difficult  year. I've also come to realize that, in the months since Art's death, I have gravitated toward friends who are fun to be with—friends who laugh easily and often, and who don't take themselves, or life, too seriously. When I return home after spending a day or evening with these friends, the house doesn't seem quite as empty. The laughter we share during our times together sustains me, and I know I am truly blessed to have them in my life.


Life does not cease to be funny when people die any more than it ceases to be serious when people laugh. George Bernard Shaw

The Power of the Subconscious

I woke up feeling "out of sorts" yesterday morning. I was glad I had made plans for an early morning walk with a friend, because it kept my mind occupied for a while. However, it didn't take long for the feeling of unrest to come back. While getting my breakfast, I glanced at the calendar on my refrigerator and realized it was May 28. A year ago on that day I fell and broke my arm. To be exact, it was my humerus, which is the bone that runs from the shoulder to the elbow. I had shattered it—and, yes, it wasn't the least bit funny. It was just one more stressful situation in lives that were already way over stressed.

Was it the subconscious memory of that traumatic day that caused the uneasiness I felt when I awoke? Maybe. Maybe not. But, once I realized the significance of that date, I found it hard to shake the memories associated with it. I was filled with sadness and regret that, during the last 3 weeks of his life, Art had to stand helplessly by as an ambulance took me to the hospital for surgery; and what saddened me the most, was remembering that, from May 28 until he died on June 24, I was never again able to put both my arms around him and give him a hug.

My arm is still healing; so is my heart. And life goes on.

Finding Normal

When Art died, an old friend, who was also a widow, wrote me a note with this advice: "Don't say 'no' to anything." I've been following her advice for nearly 11 months now. I've rarely turned down an invitation to go to a movie, or go out for breakfast, lunch, or dinner. I've joined the Women's Wine Club, a group that gathers at a different restaurant each month for a gourmet dinner and wine tasting. I've volunteered for the Harry Chapin Food Bank and Ronald McDonald House, I've gone to one museum to see Princess Diana's dresses, and another museum to see a Chihuly exhibit, I've traveled to Connecticut and Honolulu to spend time with my children, I've attended medical writers' meetings in Dallas, Orlando and Rockville, Maryland…

Although there's no doubt that keeping busy has kept me from spending my days wallowing in self pity and missing Art every second of the day, I'm beginning to realize that this almost frenzied busyness can't go on forever. It's just not normal—at least not for me. There must be a "happy medium," but I haven't found it yet.

Obviously, very little about my life has been normal since Art died. I still play Mah Jongg on Monday evenings. I still go to Book Club once a month. I still take my early morning walks (most mornings). I still watch some favorite TV programs, and read the daily local paper and the Sunday New York Times. I try to keep up with email,  and I still work part time as a freelance medical writer. That's about it. But even those familiar activities aren't entirely normal. Art isn't here to greet me when I get home from Mah Jongg Monday evenings; he's not sitting in the family room or on the lanai reading the paper with me; and he's not here taking care of household chores when I'm busy working on a writing project.

I want my life to feel normal again and I have to trust that someday it will. But, right now it's hard for me to imagine when that might happen and what that new normal might be like.

Birthday Memories

This past Saturday (April 17) was Art's birthday. He would have been 70. I had been anticipating it for  a week or more, wondering how I'd feel, and remembering his last birthday, which, of course, really was his last birthday. He had finished his round of chemo a couple of weeks before and seemed to be looking forward to his birthday as a "sign" that he was finally better—that the struggle had been worth it. He was especially looking forward to having a glass of red wine with dinner, something he hadn't done while going through treatment.

Thinking back on it now, I realize how out of character it was for Art to be so excited about his birthday. He was never one who wanted anyone to make a "fuss" about it. In fact, when he was working, much to the frustration of his co-workers, he usually tried to be out of town on his birthday, to avoid the traditional office celebration. After he retired and we moved to Florida, birthdays became a bit more fun for him when he discovered his golfing buddy George shared the same birthday. They were also the same age, had the same education and had had similar careers in the chemical industry. George's wife Cheryl and I started taking George and Art out for dinner on their special day and it was something all four of us always looked forward to. The guys took turns choosing the restaurant, and last year was George's turn to choose.

I could tell Art wasn't feeling very well that day, but he was determined to go. Now, when I look at the picture the waiter took of the four of us that night, I can see that Art's smile wasn't quite as full and cheerful as usual. I can't help but wonder if that evening was more difficult for him than I realized at the time. Still, in my heart, I know that it was exactly the way Art wanted to spend his birthday—no fuss, just a quiet evening in a great restaurant with dear friends and, of course, a good glass of red wine—even though it turned out to be his last.

So, it seems I've crossed another hurdle, and, thanks to a wonderful group of friends who knew what day it was and made sure I didn't have to spend it alone, the hurdle wasn't nearly as high as I had anticipated.

Cancer Sucks!

There is no avoiding the fact that the next three months are going to be difficult for me. There are too many not so happy memories of what was going on in my life during this time period last year. When Art finished his round of chemo last March, he was feeling relatively healthy and we were hopeful, if not for a cure, at least for a long remission. In less than a month, it became clear that there would be no remission. It was pretty much all down hill from there. There were a few happy moments, but we were primarily consumed by the desperate search for some way to eradicate the lymphoma before it killed him. Although we put up quite a fight, cancer won the battle.

While I continue to try to come to terms with how and why Art died, three of my friends are now involved in their own desperate struggles to keep cancer from claiming their husband's lives. It breaks my heart to hear their stories of the unrelenting pain, the treatment side effects—hair loss, mouth sores, difficulty sleeping despite extreme fatigue—and of the hope that maybe the next treatment will be the one that finally works. I wish I didn't know what they are going through, and I wish there were something I could do or say to help them. At best, I can only encourage them to keep themselves informed, explore all the options, and (this is the hard one) get as much rest as possible, to keep their minds clear and their bodies strong for the fight. Cancer sucks, but it doesn't have to always win the battle.

Cleaning Out the Closet

It's been a bit over a month since I finally took Art's clothes out of our closet. I'm not sure why it has taken me so long to write about it, but it may be the same reason that it took so long for me to do it. It's so final.

For a while after Art died, it was upsetting for me to go into the walk-in closet we shared and see his clothes hanging there; but it was even more upsetting to think about removing them. Although I knew it would have to be done eventually, I just couldn't bring myself to take that step. After awhile, I think it was somewhat comforting to open the closet door and see his clothes still hanging there. Don't get me wrong. There was nothing morbid about it.  I didn't bury my face in his shirts in an effort to detect the scent of his aftershave (he didn't wear cologne). It was just such a familiar sight, and I wasn't ready to change that.

Ironically, it was Valentine's Day when I finally did it, with my daughter's help. There was nothing symbolic about choosing that day. It just happened to be a time that worked for both of us. Surprisingly, the act of removing Art's dress shirts, golf shirts, golf shorts, and long pants from hangers, folding them and placing them in boxes for donation to Goodwill, wasn't as painful as I had anticipated. It was sad, but not painful. What was painful, was seeing his half of the closet so empty.

In the weeks since that day, I have moved some of my clothes to fill in the empty spaces. It helps. I still have to deal with his shoes, and the coats, suits, tuxedo, sweaters and other things that are stored in other closets in our 4-bedroom home. And his golf clubs are still sitting in the garage—just the way he left them.

Cooking for One

It's been eight months since Art died and I haven't yet adjusted to shopping and cooking for one.  And eating alone still leaves me feeling sad. I have always enjoyed cooking, but I'm not finding much joy in it lately—at least not on a day-to-day basis. I have had opportunities to cook for company during the holidays and in recent weeks, and I found that enjoyable, but cooking for one still seems like too much of a chore. I often start out the day with a plan about what I'm going to cook myself for dinner (from "scratch"), but as dinner time approaches, I, more often than not, talk myself out of cooking what I had planned, and shift to "Plan B."

Plan B might involve scrambled or poached eggs and toast, plus fruit of some kind; or heating up some frozen "pot stickers"from the family sized bag I bought at Costco and keep in the freezer for just such an occasion; or opening a can of Wolfgang Puck soup and having that with some crackers and, maybe, some cheese. One of my favorite Plan B items is Madras lentils, an all natural vegetarian dish made with lentils, red beans and spices in a creamy tomato sauce. It is available at Costco in a box (TastyBite brand) containing 4 individual foil serving packets that can be warmed in a saucepan of boiling water, or emptied into a bowl and microwaved. Sometimes I eat it over rice or make a small side salad to go with it. Other times, I just eat it with a slice or two of bread, preferably whole wheat, of course. Either way, it is a delicious, nutritious and satisfying meal that can be prepared in a matter of minutes.

On days when I'm feeling more ambitious, I might cook something that requires a bit more prep time, such as a stirfry, made with chicken, whatever fresh vegetables I have in the refrigerator, and rice. I keep individually wrapped, boneless chicken breast quarters in the freezer for this and other quick dinners. I also keep a bag of uncooked shrimp in the freezer. I love shrimp and often sauté a few with olive oil, garlic, and lemon juice, and add them to a Caesar salad; or add some chopped fresh tomatoes and serve them over pasta or seasoned white beans. When I am in the mood to actually spend more than a few minutes cooking an evening meal, I try to make enough so that I have leftovers to eat for lunch—or for dinner on a "Plan B" night. I do try to maintain a relatively healthy diet and am, generally, careful to avoid the temptation to fill up on snack foods. I'm also fortunate to have many invitations to eat out, which gives me an opportunity to eat some of the favorite things that I wouldn't take the time and effort to cook for myself.

Obviously, I am not the only person in the world faced with the prospect of cooking for one. There are other people who live alone, either by choice or happenstance, who successfully deal with it every day. I am confident that I will eventually reach that point. Like so many other adjustments in this life I didn't choose, it's just going to take some time.

Surviving Valentine's Day

I don't think I've ever been so aware of the advertising frenzy surrounding Valentine's Day, and the media attention given to this, what I consider to be, minor holiday than I was this year. I suppose it's not surprising, since this is the first time in nearly 50 years that I have been without a serious "love interest." Granted, there are Valentines for parents to give to their children; for children to give to their parents; for students to give to their teachers; and for friends to give to their "just friends"; but, let's face it, we all know that the true focus of Valentine's Day is romance—at least, from the perspective of advertisers and the media.

The funny thing is, Art and I never really did much to celebrate Valentine's Day. When we were first married, he had a job that paid him once a month on the 15th of the month. Unless we planned ahead, we were lucky to have enough money left to buy each other a card, let alone a gift. Over the years we may have occasionally exchanged gifts, or gone out for a special dinner, or, more often, cooked a special dinner at home. After he retired and moved to Florida, we did start going out with friends for a special Valentine's Day dinner; and, when Norman Love opened up a chocolate shop nearby, Art started giving me a box of delicious, and decadent, chocolates; but we never made a "big deal" out of it (no diamond jewelry or long-stemmed red roses).

Now that I'm a widow, I have developed a new found sympathy for the Charlie Brown's of the world. Many people, under normal circumstances, may be perfectly contented with their "singleness." Some may have even chosen to remain single, because they value their independence. Others may not have chosen to be single, but have lost a spouse through death or divorce. In either case, when Valentine's Day rolls around, thanks to the wonderful world of advertising, it's difficult not to feel a bit like a "loser."

"I Dreamed a Dream"

In my dream, he was standing there,waiting for me with his arms outstretched and smiling his beautiful smile. "I missed you so much," I said as I ran into his arms. "Life is too short and 10 days is too long for us to be apart." The dream was so real that I thought I could feel him hugging me back. But, of course, he wasn't. It was just a dream after all. This isn't the first dream I've had about Art since he died—and it's not likely to be the last—but it was the most real and it left me with an overwhelming feeling of sadness that I couldn't shake all day. Just another aspect of the grieving process.

I'm really not into analyzing dreams, but it did seem strange that I had the dream the night after I arrived in Honolulu for a vacation (and to spend some time with my college professor daughter who was there chaperoning a group of students) and I was going to be there for 10 days. I suppose the dream reflected my mixed emotions about making the trip. On the one hand, I needed some time away and I was looking forward to spending time with my daughter. On the other hand, it was a long way to travel by myself and the destination was Hawaii—my favorite place in the world, and a place where Art and I had vacationed three times before. I knew I would have to deal with some memories, but they would be happy memories and, because Art and I had never spent any time on Oahu (we preferred Maui), there weren't likely to be many "triggers" there. Of course there were more than I expected.

Although my vacation started with an unsettling dream, I was able to rest, relax, and have a nice time. My daughter and I didn't travel to Honolulu together, and while I was there, she was busy with the students during the day, so I had quite a bit of time by myself. Taking this trip gave me a taste of what it might be like to vacation alone—to make all the arrangements and fly that long distance alone, managing the luggage and the tips and the hotel; to walk beautiful beaches or explore new places alone; to eat alone and sleep alone in a hotel room… I'm not sure I'm the type, but I guess time will tell.

Art and I had already planned how we were going to celebrate our 50th wedding anniversary. We were going to go to Maui with the whole family. I never dreamed we wouldn't be able to do that.

Over another hurdle

Everyone tells me that all "the firsts" are the hardest, so now that Christmas is over, I guess I can say I survived another "first."  Actually, I found the weeks leading up to it, and the days following, to be more difficult than the actual day itself. I found the pre-holiday frenzy, with all the talk about cards and gifts and holiday entertaining, somewhat stressful, probably because I wasn't participating in any of it. That really should have been a good thing—I think I've done my share of complaining about the commercialization of Christmas in the past—but I just couldn't shake the feeling that I was missing out on something.


Because all four of my "kids" were planning to fly down to spend Christmas with me, we decided to forgo gift giving, so there were no presents to buy. I did intend to send cards this year—something I hadn't done last year because of Art's illness—and even got the cards I'd purchased in a post-holiday sale two years ago out of storage. But in the end, I couldn't bring myself to do it. That turned out to be the most difficult part of the holidays for me. As cards began to arrive in the mail, too many of them were addressed to "Mr. and Mrs.," a painful reminder that there were many friends from our past lives, friends we only communicate with during the holidays, who did not know that Art had died; and, because I didn't send cards last Christmas, many of them didn't even know he'd been ill. Before another year goes by, I know I need to communicate with these friends, all of whom Art and i cared about even though we didn't communicate regularly. That is my New Year's resolution. 


Thanks to my wonderful adult children and their significant others, and my sister and brother-in-law, Christmas eve and Christmas Day were filled with good food, good company, and an abundance of love. To honor Art, we put candles in empty red wine bottles, and felt his presence. There were tears, of course, but there was more laughter than tears. And that is just the way Art would have wanted it.