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.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
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.
Monday, April 12, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Surviving Valentine's Day
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."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)