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.