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.