One year ago today, I received a message. It was an unsolicited message. It was very nice. It was sent by another person just reaching out to say 'Hey! You're doing all right!" Do you ever have the feeling that you should just tell someone they're doing well? It's a wonderful instinct that, in my opinion, should be followed as often as you can!
A year ago, I read and occasionally posted in a grief forum for spouse/partner loss. I had recently started posting links to this blog. Everyone on there was going through the same thing. They still are now, and new ones have appeared. There is a lot of explaining and sharing each one's personal story, encouragement and asking "Is this normal?". Forums may be right for some, not right for others. As a matter of fact, not every forum is right for every person. The truth is: when you've lost your spouse and come home to an empty house, the forums are.......there. An empty house becomes a living, breathing reminder that you are alone. These days, however, it is possible to sit at your computer and communicate with others, therefore feeling not so alone.
On this particular forum, you could post, comment on posts and send private messages. There had been a few instances in December 2013 when I had commented on posts by a 'Robbie R' (and vice- versa). Those comments are still there today. On January 26th, I received a private message from him. It was very sweet and encouraging and talked a bit about the loneliness. I answered it just as sweetly (of course!) and the exchange of communication began.
Today, we are twelve days away from getting married. We've yet to decide on a cake topper, but the idea of two computers has popped into my mind more than a few times! I want to take this opportunity to thank 'Robbie R' for having the courage to send me a message. It wasn't flirtatious or suggestive, it was simply straightforward and encouraging. I did write a few blogs that complained about subjects (surprise!) and he was able to agree with me and say "Yeah, what about that?". He spoke up. It takes nerve to speak up.
If you hear or see something that makes you want to speak up, you should give it some thought, and then do it if it seems right. From the grief-stricken to the most happy, everyone needs to hear things like "I agree with you." "You're doing a great job." "I feel the same way." "You'll never know how what you did affected me." and "Keep up the good work.". Robbie and I are examples of how speaking up at the right time can bring change to your life. I'm not going to promise that yours will lead to marriage, of course, but the effect of kind encouraging words on others can make this world a better place.
Showing posts with label widowhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label widowhood. Show all posts
Monday, January 26, 2015
Thursday, October 30, 2014
A Fair Catch 10/30/14
I get a little disappointed when my team doesn't try to run the kickoff. I suppose the special teams players know exactly when they should take that chance and when they should just wave their arm and kneel, knowing they'll get to start from the twenty yard line. Recently though, I looked at the fair catch from the kickoff returner's point of view.
He was looking high into the sky at the same time that all these enormous beings were rushing toward him with the sole purpose of knocking him flat, if not backward. Between glances at the ball, which he must catch, he had to judge how many and how close the enormous beings were so that he could know whether to wave his arm casually and kneel down. At that point, the enormous beings have to rein in their attack and run on past him, not touching him at all.
Robbie and I are engaged. We first talked about getting married a while ago. It was an inevitable, perfect progression from messaging, talking, meeting, dating, meeting family members and realizing that we loved each other and didn't want to be alone ever again. Within that realization was also the clear-cut knowledge of what marriage involves. Both of us have already successfully navigated richer or poorer, better or worse, and especially sickness and health. We know what commitment means, and we are committed to each other now.
The engagement was not a surprise to the close family members. Our parents and children, especially, love us, understand fully, and want us to be happy. There were a few stirrings that we heard about secondhand. People like to think that they know what's best in a situation when they have no idea what the situation is actually like. I look on those individuals as the enormous defensive players bearing down on our situation that we are trying to carefully and happily enact. To those people: I wave my arm. I call a fair catch. Run on past us and let's start a new drive. We'll return to the game together. It may be on the twenty with a long way to go, but we're going to do it together. I love Robbie and he loves me. We know what's in store and we're ready. Watch out - it's going to be a touchdown.
He was looking high into the sky at the same time that all these enormous beings were rushing toward him with the sole purpose of knocking him flat, if not backward. Between glances at the ball, which he must catch, he had to judge how many and how close the enormous beings were so that he could know whether to wave his arm casually and kneel down. At that point, the enormous beings have to rein in their attack and run on past him, not touching him at all.
Robbie and I are engaged. We first talked about getting married a while ago. It was an inevitable, perfect progression from messaging, talking, meeting, dating, meeting family members and realizing that we loved each other and didn't want to be alone ever again. Within that realization was also the clear-cut knowledge of what marriage involves. Both of us have already successfully navigated richer or poorer, better or worse, and especially sickness and health. We know what commitment means, and we are committed to each other now.
The engagement was not a surprise to the close family members. Our parents and children, especially, love us, understand fully, and want us to be happy. There were a few stirrings that we heard about secondhand. People like to think that they know what's best in a situation when they have no idea what the situation is actually like. I look on those individuals as the enormous defensive players bearing down on our situation that we are trying to carefully and happily enact. To those people: I wave my arm. I call a fair catch. Run on past us and let's start a new drive. We'll return to the game together. It may be on the twenty with a long way to go, but we're going to do it together. I love Robbie and he loves me. We know what's in store and we're ready. Watch out - it's going to be a touchdown.
Sunday, July 13, 2014
Lunch and a Lecture
I feel like I just got in trouble. Correction, I feel as if I just got in trouble for something I didn't do. I have written about the arbitrary timeline that people place on grief before. However, I never thought that somebody would look me right in the face and tell me that others could be offended or hurt if I didn't respect the one year period.
I do want to clarify a couple of things. First of all, I am past the one year mark. (I almost said finish line, because that's the impression I got from today's lecture. ) I am, however, dating Robbie, who experienced his loss only nine months prior to the "words of warning". We are seriously dating. We have not run away to Las Vegas.
When a widow even starts to date a widower, two entire families and countless other friends are affected. The couple has to choose how to balance getting to know each other and possibly letting a relationship grow with being mindful of the fact that a mother, father, sister, brother and a child are gone. The remaining children, siblings and parents can't ever find someone that will allow a new start. That kind of relationship can't be replaced. I like how this clip explains it - substitute your own relationship for the word Dad:
The Dead Dads Club
Discussions about how to respect, love, understand and ease the way for everybody have been a habit for Robbie and me since the beginning. While we want all family members on both sides to be happy for us, we want them to know that we respect what they have lost. We also want them to know that we hold our own memories sacred, and both of us completely comprehend that we were happy with another person for thirty years or so. We are not trying to replace the ones that were lost. That's impossible.
So we listened to the lecturer, remaining politely silent while knowing inside that we are definitely trying our utmost to respect everybody and live up to our responsibilities. The only part where we missed the mark was on the one-year period of mourning. Robbie later asked these questions: "What am I supposed to do for that year? Go home to the empty house? Not talk to another woman? Not go on a date? Be sad night after night?"
If he doesn't do those things, will he get in trouble? Will I get in trouble if I'm involved? Would we not be "received" in polite society? Will our daughters never be presented? Will our sons never be invited to join the country club? Last century, perhaps, or the one before. We are not concerned with rules or silly consequences. We are concerned that all of our family members that suffered irreplaceable loss are given the time they need to understand that we haven't forgotten anybody; nor are we trying to replace them. We've made up our own rules, with love, responsibility and understanding as the guidelines. To answer the lecturer: it will probably take that long, but not because it's a magic number of days or months. It may take that long because we hold so many of you dear and love you as much or more than we care for ourselves. The lecturer is one of the dearest and most deeply affected. We want to do the right thing, timeline or not. We love you all.
I do want to clarify a couple of things. First of all, I am past the one year mark. (I almost said finish line, because that's the impression I got from today's lecture. ) I am, however, dating Robbie, who experienced his loss only nine months prior to the "words of warning". We are seriously dating. We have not run away to Las Vegas.
When a widow even starts to date a widower, two entire families and countless other friends are affected. The couple has to choose how to balance getting to know each other and possibly letting a relationship grow with being mindful of the fact that a mother, father, sister, brother and a child are gone. The remaining children, siblings and parents can't ever find someone that will allow a new start. That kind of relationship can't be replaced. I like how this clip explains it - substitute your own relationship for the word Dad:
The Dead Dads Club
Discussions about how to respect, love, understand and ease the way for everybody have been a habit for Robbie and me since the beginning. While we want all family members on both sides to be happy for us, we want them to know that we respect what they have lost. We also want them to know that we hold our own memories sacred, and both of us completely comprehend that we were happy with another person for thirty years or so. We are not trying to replace the ones that were lost. That's impossible.
So we listened to the lecturer, remaining politely silent while knowing inside that we are definitely trying our utmost to respect everybody and live up to our responsibilities. The only part where we missed the mark was on the one-year period of mourning. Robbie later asked these questions: "What am I supposed to do for that year? Go home to the empty house? Not talk to another woman? Not go on a date? Be sad night after night?"
If he doesn't do those things, will he get in trouble? Will I get in trouble if I'm involved? Would we not be "received" in polite society? Will our daughters never be presented? Will our sons never be invited to join the country club? Last century, perhaps, or the one before. We are not concerned with rules or silly consequences. We are concerned that all of our family members that suffered irreplaceable loss are given the time they need to understand that we haven't forgotten anybody; nor are we trying to replace them. We've made up our own rules, with love, responsibility and understanding as the guidelines. To answer the lecturer: it will probably take that long, but not because it's a magic number of days or months. It may take that long because we hold so many of you dear and love you as much or more than we care for ourselves. The lecturer is one of the dearest and most deeply affected. We want to do the right thing, timeline or not. We love you all.
Wednesday, May 28, 2014
One year, cloudy water and Mother's Day
This was intended to be my final post. I told myself "I'll end it at the one year anniversary. I'll just let it be about the first year of grief." I tell myself a lot of things that don't happen. There's a story that is my life and I've chosen to chronicle it here. It would be unfair to leave it hanging at this point. I'm wanting to know what happens myself!
Mother's Day morning, the pool water was yellow and cloudy. Somehow, the cloudy water mirrored my attitude. Three days prior was the one year mark for Scott's death. It was a day. Not horrible, not great, just a day. I called his mom, I called my girls. I was grateful that the girls did the public, social media "wish you were still here" tribute. Both were beautiful, and I didn't want to have to do that.
I received one note in the mail before that day. It was from Maria, my college roommate, who lost her husband the very same way last September. Maria gets it. She understands that the date must be acknowledged, but she also knows about Robbie and how I'm feeling hopeful again. Part of her note said :You can now walk into May 9th and into your next chapter, or rather volume, feeling happy and excited." I kept that in mind on Friday, May 9th. I took a breath and carried on, thinking positively.
Friday turned out to be a positive day. Robbie sent me flowers at work. That's a big deal. A beautiful arrangement that was still going strong a week later, and a nice note. Positive, happy and excited were on the front burner. Saturday then dawned bright and my mood wasn't even shattered by Gordon getting dirt all over my white linen pants. Although alone most of the morning, I solved that problem by leisurely shopping and doing errands. My friend came over in the afternoon, we hit the pool and then saw a movie. Not too bad.
Mother's Day Sunday, I woke to one nice note, although not from my kids (at that point). When I looked out the window, I was surprised to see the the pool water had turned a cloudy yellow. I immediately checked chemicals, turned on filters, researched "yellow, cloudy water", scrubbed, emptied, etc. etc. I then sat back and crossed my fingers. That's what I do with the pool, a lot of the time. It may have been Mother's Day, but that water was not going to clear itself! The rest of the day was filled with either visiting or talking with those whom I love. I was only alone for a portion of the morning. I did talk to one person that was having their first mother's day without the mom of the family. As much as I want to reach out, and even though I've experienced almost the very same thing, I don't feel I helped very much. Some days are just hard.
I don't like not being able to help people and I don't like not being able to help myself. Thank goodness these "hard days" only last a while. Time marched on, I've seen Robbie face to face again, and last night my girls came home.....with a Mother's Day present. The few hours of the cloudy water and being alone have faded away like the cloudy water itself. All it took to clear the water was two bags of chlorine shock and a little time for filtering.
Most of the past year has been cloudy for me. I've learned that it is possible for the cloudiness to clear with time. It took the shock of the fact that life can go on with happiness and the time to filter that fact. It might not be exactly one year, but dismissing the timeline is becoming easier. Just this past weekend (two weeks after mother's day), the cloudiness started to creep back into the pool. No fair! I thought it was gone! I also thought that grief might disappear with the one year mark. You guessed it. It doesn't. It can be eased, though. Shock and time. Go away, cloudy days. I choose the shock of feeling happy and secure once again along with the time that has gone by to banish cloudiness and restore clear vision.
Mother's Day morning, the pool water was yellow and cloudy. Somehow, the cloudy water mirrored my attitude. Three days prior was the one year mark for Scott's death. It was a day. Not horrible, not great, just a day. I called his mom, I called my girls. I was grateful that the girls did the public, social media "wish you were still here" tribute. Both were beautiful, and I didn't want to have to do that.
I received one note in the mail before that day. It was from Maria, my college roommate, who lost her husband the very same way last September. Maria gets it. She understands that the date must be acknowledged, but she also knows about Robbie and how I'm feeling hopeful again. Part of her note said :You can now walk into May 9th and into your next chapter, or rather volume, feeling happy and excited." I kept that in mind on Friday, May 9th. I took a breath and carried on, thinking positively.
Friday turned out to be a positive day. Robbie sent me flowers at work. That's a big deal. A beautiful arrangement that was still going strong a week later, and a nice note. Positive, happy and excited were on the front burner. Saturday then dawned bright and my mood wasn't even shattered by Gordon getting dirt all over my white linen pants. Although alone most of the morning, I solved that problem by leisurely shopping and doing errands. My friend came over in the afternoon, we hit the pool and then saw a movie. Not too bad.
Mother's Day Sunday, I woke to one nice note, although not from my kids (at that point). When I looked out the window, I was surprised to see the the pool water had turned a cloudy yellow. I immediately checked chemicals, turned on filters, researched "yellow, cloudy water", scrubbed, emptied, etc. etc. I then sat back and crossed my fingers. That's what I do with the pool, a lot of the time. It may have been Mother's Day, but that water was not going to clear itself! The rest of the day was filled with either visiting or talking with those whom I love. I was only alone for a portion of the morning. I did talk to one person that was having their first mother's day without the mom of the family. As much as I want to reach out, and even though I've experienced almost the very same thing, I don't feel I helped very much. Some days are just hard.
I don't like not being able to help people and I don't like not being able to help myself. Thank goodness these "hard days" only last a while. Time marched on, I've seen Robbie face to face again, and last night my girls came home.....with a Mother's Day present. The few hours of the cloudy water and being alone have faded away like the cloudy water itself. All it took to clear the water was two bags of chlorine shock and a little time for filtering.
Most of the past year has been cloudy for me. I've learned that it is possible for the cloudiness to clear with time. It took the shock of the fact that life can go on with happiness and the time to filter that fact. It might not be exactly one year, but dismissing the timeline is becoming easier. Just this past weekend (two weeks after mother's day), the cloudiness started to creep back into the pool. No fair! I thought it was gone! I also thought that grief might disappear with the one year mark. You guessed it. It doesn't. It can be eased, though. Shock and time. Go away, cloudy days. I choose the shock of feeling happy and secure once again along with the time that has gone by to banish cloudiness and restore clear vision.
Saturday, April 5, 2014
Help-books and Fun-books....
Just today, I stumbled across the fact that there are actually books out there meant to help people like me. Help-books. Not being much of a non-fiction reader, this fact did not surprise me as much as the number of them available. The funny part is, I've thought and planned to turn these blog posts into a book, in case they could help someone else that is grieving. I just didn't know that lots of people have already done that! I'm not sure whether any of them have the plot twist of meeting someone new so soon, as I have. I'm trying to record and remember all the feelings that go with along with it - don't know if any of those other books do that! I should probably read them all and find out!
Do these books give advice? I think some do. They are meant to be Help-books. I did peruse one at Barnes and Noble one evening. It had chapters on everything from immediately after your spouse's death to a chapter called "Widows and Sex". I did not buy it - I did what anybody would do, looked at the 'good' parts and put it back down. I didn't really learn anything new or groundbreaking, so you will get no details from me!
I feel a little guilty, though, that I've done all this writing and not read what others have said before me. (I generally feel guilty about most everything, no surprise there!) I've read little bits, just not books. A blog post is about the right length for my concentration these days. I started reading a John Grisham book that a friend lent me in January. To me, that's a Fun-book. It's April and I'm on page 72. I'm only able to sit for so long until thoughts and ideas flood my brain and I have to just get up and do something. Sometimes the something is writing down the thoughts. Sometimes it's cleaning out a drawer. You never know.
I jump up, do whatever it is I feel needs "doing", and move on to the next thing. I don't go back to the book. That is not the person I used to be, when a Fun-book could devour my days and nights until I finished it. Readers are a special breed of people. The list of things we can ignore while immersed in a book can include family, friends, pets, hunger, chores....on and on. I am one of those, usually, just not lately.
I did research and read Help-stuff. Not books. Thank goodness there are web pages and support forums out there that I could read in a 'drive-by' style. They did help, a bit. But what helped mostly was sitting here and organizing what I was feeling into sentences, paragraphs and full posts. I've been pretty honest about what I've been feeling for the last eleven months. I want to remain true to form, just because everyone has been so loving, supportive and encouraging. Writing these little posts has been my therapy, my meditation, my crutch, punching bag and wailing wall. I think writing took the place of immersion in Fun-books.
I don't think I'll read the other Help-books. I am moving forward on my own. Well, mostly on my own. My boyfriend has been through the same loss, so I have a new sounding board; one that has been there. Perhaps, though, I'll just keep writing in case this one turns into a Help-book itself. It would be a privilege to help anyone. Anyone at all. It's also non-fiction, so I probably wouldn't read it, but that's all right; I'm living a non-fiction life right now and it's turning into a story that I wouldn't put down!
Do these books give advice? I think some do. They are meant to be Help-books. I did peruse one at Barnes and Noble one evening. It had chapters on everything from immediately after your spouse's death to a chapter called "Widows and Sex". I did not buy it - I did what anybody would do, looked at the 'good' parts and put it back down. I didn't really learn anything new or groundbreaking, so you will get no details from me!
I feel a little guilty, though, that I've done all this writing and not read what others have said before me. (I generally feel guilty about most everything, no surprise there!) I've read little bits, just not books. A blog post is about the right length for my concentration these days. I started reading a John Grisham book that a friend lent me in January. To me, that's a Fun-book. It's April and I'm on page 72. I'm only able to sit for so long until thoughts and ideas flood my brain and I have to just get up and do something. Sometimes the something is writing down the thoughts. Sometimes it's cleaning out a drawer. You never know.
I jump up, do whatever it is I feel needs "doing", and move on to the next thing. I don't go back to the book. That is not the person I used to be, when a Fun-book could devour my days and nights until I finished it. Readers are a special breed of people. The list of things we can ignore while immersed in a book can include family, friends, pets, hunger, chores....on and on. I am one of those, usually, just not lately.
I did research and read Help-stuff. Not books. Thank goodness there are web pages and support forums out there that I could read in a 'drive-by' style. They did help, a bit. But what helped mostly was sitting here and organizing what I was feeling into sentences, paragraphs and full posts. I've been pretty honest about what I've been feeling for the last eleven months. I want to remain true to form, just because everyone has been so loving, supportive and encouraging. Writing these little posts has been my therapy, my meditation, my crutch, punching bag and wailing wall. I think writing took the place of immersion in Fun-books.
I don't think I'll read the other Help-books. I am moving forward on my own. Well, mostly on my own. My boyfriend has been through the same loss, so I have a new sounding board; one that has been there. Perhaps, though, I'll just keep writing in case this one turns into a Help-book itself. It would be a privilege to help anyone. Anyone at all. It's also non-fiction, so I probably wouldn't read it, but that's all right; I'm living a non-fiction life right now and it's turning into a story that I wouldn't put down!
Tuesday, April 1, 2014
Are you entertaining? 4/1/14 (not an April fool!)
It was the cutest question ever. I'm a sucker for the old-fashioned phrases anyway, but this one just made me giggle, blush and think "Oh, how cute!" at the same time. There is this adorable, very stylish, Southern LADY (capitals on purpose!) at my workplace. She is a source of inspiration to me because her charm and happy attitude never falter. She also went through losing her husband suddenly - but is now happily re-married.
I asked her, shortly after I started talking to someone, how soon after her husband died she started dating, or met her second husband. I was trying to sort through my own feelings of stepping into any kind of involvement, especially when a year had not passed. (Her answer was more proper than my situation, so I just tucked that knowledge away and carried on!) I just get the feeling that if I do something too quickly or without seeming to show proper respect, that everyone will pass judgement. Maybe I've watched too much "Gone With the Wind", but this is what my mind sees when people ask a question and I answer honestly:
So instead, I drop hints or keep quiet. If you read this, then you know - but there are very few of you, to tell the truth. I'm not sure some of my relatives even read it! It's a fact I can share now, though; I'm dating. He lost his special someone, too, so we have that in common. I didn't search for him, he searched for me. I feel like a character from a book because things have been so coincidental and magical. It's early days right now, but it's very nice.
I thought I was keeping things to myself and a few close friends, until the cute question today. Precious Southern lady came into the workroom for lunch, and started looking around while her food was heating in the microwave. "I just love to look at what everybody brings for lunch!" she drawled. Focusing on my little dish: "Oooh, you made a pot roast? For just you?" I blushed, and just shook my head 'no'. She then whisper-exclaimed (oh, so properly...) "Oh my goodness, are you entertaining?" I nodded, laughing, while she gave me a big hug. "I'm so glad to hear that, good for you!" I could only agree. Please don't faint like Aunt Pittypat.....please just accept the notion that I might be "entertaining" and it might be making me happier than I have been in a long time!
I asked her, shortly after I started talking to someone, how soon after her husband died she started dating, or met her second husband. I was trying to sort through my own feelings of stepping into any kind of involvement, especially when a year had not passed. (Her answer was more proper than my situation, so I just tucked that knowledge away and carried on!) I just get the feeling that if I do something too quickly or without seeming to show proper respect, that everyone will pass judgement. Maybe I've watched too much "Gone With the Wind", but this is what my mind sees when people ask a question and I answer honestly:
So instead, I drop hints or keep quiet. If you read this, then you know - but there are very few of you, to tell the truth. I'm not sure some of my relatives even read it! It's a fact I can share now, though; I'm dating. He lost his special someone, too, so we have that in common. I didn't search for him, he searched for me. I feel like a character from a book because things have been so coincidental and magical. It's early days right now, but it's very nice.
I thought I was keeping things to myself and a few close friends, until the cute question today. Precious Southern lady came into the workroom for lunch, and started looking around while her food was heating in the microwave. "I just love to look at what everybody brings for lunch!" she drawled. Focusing on my little dish: "Oooh, you made a pot roast? For just you?" I blushed, and just shook my head 'no'. She then whisper-exclaimed (oh, so properly...) "Oh my goodness, are you entertaining?" I nodded, laughing, while she gave me a big hug. "I'm so glad to hear that, good for you!" I could only agree. Please don't faint like Aunt Pittypat.....please just accept the notion that I might be "entertaining" and it might be making me happier than I have been in a long time!
Saturday, February 8, 2014
Briefcases and Tiffany hearts 2/8/14
There were these guys when I was in fifth or sixth grade. They were smart. They played kickball, did a little music, but mostly they were the smart guys. Then all of the sudden, they all started carrying briefcases to school. A briefcase - like a Wall Street broker or something. The rest of us just giggled a bit and went back to band, swim team, staking out our favorite equipment on the playground (do the words 'witch's hat' spark a memory, anyone?) and yes - we all played massive kickball tournaments, even briefcase guys. When the briefcases started their run, I was carrying a clarinet, some played sports, some loved makeup, clothes and shoes, others were under the hood of a car before they could drive. It's as if, somewhere around ten or eleven years old, a great imaginary dividing ceremony takes place and sends us to our group.
If you're a reader, you are also recognizing this idea from some great fiction out there. "Divergent", the "Harry Potter" series, many others play on this theme, that you all of the sudden 'grow up' and 'find your group' at that age. The thing is, it's an eternal theme because it rings true in real life. I watch it happen with the darlings I teach, year after year. In fourth grade, they start 'hanging around' the kids that are most like them, instead of just anyone. Girls who take dance outside of school stick together, etc. And if you think I'm giving an idyllic, fairy-tale view of this natural separation, I will throw this out there: I referee more mean comments, hurt feelings and actual tears simply because very young friends are growing apart and they don't have the emotional maturity to realize it's okay, you can miss that friend, you can make an effort to still be friends, or you can remain acquaintances. They don't know. It's their first bump in the road of all their friendships and relationships to come. By fifth grade, the groups set themselves. I give them a talk each year about moving on to middle school and finding their 'group'. I love when they come back to me and visit, and band (or choir, or orchestra, or theater...or even football or art) is their whole life, all their friends are from that group and their grades are fantastic and they are headed for college.
I've been living the very adult version of 'finding my group' for the past nine months. Before nine months ago today, I didn't belong to any group that had experienced tragic loss. Loss of grandparents, older aunts and uncles, yes. But I had lost no parents, siblings, or children. I didn't have that frame of reference before May 8th. I started thinking this way because I saw an image that made me reflect on the changes that take place long after you find your first 'group'.
Tiffany hearts? Yes, they made me think. I wore these earrings on Thursday and Friday. Invariably, every time I looked in the mirror, one heart was upside down. I fixed it, tightened the back, but to no avail. Of course, the earrings being hearts, it made me think - my heart has felt upside-down lately. It just jumped out at me that we always need to find our group. Life changes, and life changes us. I'm still the person I was before, but with a new addition to my personality. And it makes me gravitate toward certain people. I have been able to have better heart-to-heart conversations with friends that have experienced loss than with others lately. I'm not saying "I'm not your friend anymore" to anyone. I'm simply feeling more of a kinship with those that always have their 'event' in the front of their minds, just as I do.
The upside-down heart brought that home to me. A right-side-up heart looks settled, closed, happy, and states 'don't change me'! An upside-down heart is one that has been turned over and is now looking to find its way back. Nothing is settled anymore. That is how my earrings taught me a little something about myself this week. Most of me is settled. But there's a part that's been moving toward a bit of a different group. And that's okay. I think every heart should have an upside-down section. It keeps us from turning inward and never experiencing new things.
The briefcase guys didn't keep carrying briefcases into high school. The band kids learned to make friends with the athletes. Finding your group is an ongoing process, because life is an ongoing journey. When you look in the mirror and find out that part of your heart is upside-down at the moment, be happy that in spite of all, you're not too set in your ways to change just a bit. Because the road twists and turns and you'll be left behind if you don't.
If you're a reader, you are also recognizing this idea from some great fiction out there. "Divergent", the "Harry Potter" series, many others play on this theme, that you all of the sudden 'grow up' and 'find your group' at that age. The thing is, it's an eternal theme because it rings true in real life. I watch it happen with the darlings I teach, year after year. In fourth grade, they start 'hanging around' the kids that are most like them, instead of just anyone. Girls who take dance outside of school stick together, etc. And if you think I'm giving an idyllic, fairy-tale view of this natural separation, I will throw this out there: I referee more mean comments, hurt feelings and actual tears simply because very young friends are growing apart and they don't have the emotional maturity to realize it's okay, you can miss that friend, you can make an effort to still be friends, or you can remain acquaintances. They don't know. It's their first bump in the road of all their friendships and relationships to come. By fifth grade, the groups set themselves. I give them a talk each year about moving on to middle school and finding their 'group'. I love when they come back to me and visit, and band (or choir, or orchestra, or theater...or even football or art) is their whole life, all their friends are from that group and their grades are fantastic and they are headed for college.
I've been living the very adult version of 'finding my group' for the past nine months. Before nine months ago today, I didn't belong to any group that had experienced tragic loss. Loss of grandparents, older aunts and uncles, yes. But I had lost no parents, siblings, or children. I didn't have that frame of reference before May 8th. I started thinking this way because I saw an image that made me reflect on the changes that take place long after you find your first 'group'.
The upside-down heart brought that home to me. A right-side-up heart looks settled, closed, happy, and states 'don't change me'! An upside-down heart is one that has been turned over and is now looking to find its way back. Nothing is settled anymore. That is how my earrings taught me a little something about myself this week. Most of me is settled. But there's a part that's been moving toward a bit of a different group. And that's okay. I think every heart should have an upside-down section. It keeps us from turning inward and never experiencing new things.
The briefcase guys didn't keep carrying briefcases into high school. The band kids learned to make friends with the athletes. Finding your group is an ongoing process, because life is an ongoing journey. When you look in the mirror and find out that part of your heart is upside-down at the moment, be happy that in spite of all, you're not too set in your ways to change just a bit. Because the road twists and turns and you'll be left behind if you don't.
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
Buying a Car, Church, and Peter Frampton 1/22/14
I wrote about doing things alone back in August, when I bought my youngest, Maddy, her car. I told about having to make big decisions alone and how difficult that is, but also how I think I have made the right decisions and been wise and smart and all that I expect myself to be, based on what Scott and I used to be together. I bought Mallory a car in November, and did more research, was very prepared, and had Meiling go with me. Safety in numbers, and she's a great negotiator. Plus, she can always make me laugh when the stress starts attacking. Now, it was my turn for a car. I traded 'my' GMC in on Mallory's car. I've been driving that little, eleven-year-old BMW for a few months now. I also had a Jetta in the garage, since Mallory brought it home from Lubbock and took her new one back. Unfortunately, the Jetta wouldn't start. I changed the battery, it still wouldn't start. I had my mechanic (great guy, ask me if you need one..) come to the house to check it - he thought it was the fuel pump, and it had to be towed. I was trying to wait for it to be fixed so I could purchase my new one and trade both in.....but the Jetta had other ideas. Its computer is broken, so it had to be towed from my mechanic's to the VW dealership, where I will spend a load of money on the computer, only to turn around and sell it later. That is why none of the new cars are VWs.
I decided I wanted a Mitsubishi Outlander for several reasons: good safety rating, great mileage, seven seats and price. I took last Tuesday off of work to do several things (besides the fact that Scott and I had our first date ever on January 14th...and I didn't want to be at work!) including actually test-driving the car my mind had chosen. Meiling went with me and we headed to the closest dealership, Hub Mitsubishi. We walked around a couple of minutes, just looking at the one in the showroom (the super-duper model that I couldn't afford), and finally, a salesman came over to speak to us. His name was George, and he had a quite heavy accent of some type. He was friendly, though, and showed me exactly what I asked for, a 2011 Outlander. In taking a look before driving, I discovered that the third row seat (in Meiling's words) was like a bad lawn chair. I drove the car, and only thought it was okay. Then he pulled the typical trick - "What about a new one?" The new model had an upgraded third seat, and some other nice options, and was only a bit more, he said. I drove a new one and was suitably impressed. (I had looked at the new ones online, so it wasn't as if I was being coerced, it was an underlying idea of mine anyway.) We went back in and told him what kinds of cars I had to trade. They came back with some lower-than-made-me-happy numbers, but they hadn't seen them, either. (This is when I thought the Jetta would be fixed in a day.) So I waited to see what the price on the car was, then what deals were available. Around this time, a Peter Frampton song came on the radio. I told Meilng "It's a sign!" (Peter Frampton being my number one favorite artist of all time...) We laughed about that. Somewhere along the way, my question "what does the car cost?" got lost in translation. After about 45 minutes of hard-to-understand conversation, George got the point that I didn't know the original price of the car. He then wrote a price down, saying that was the deal I could have. We left, and wiped our foreheads with exhaustion. It was hard to understand! He didn't hear what I was asking! One reason after another that it had been a very tiring afternoon.
Between Tuesday and Saturday, I found out that the Jetta was not cooperating on getting repaired, so I decided: I would get it fixed and not trade it. I would trade the BMW only and go to a different dealership where hopefully I would get more on my trade-in and understand the salesperson. As it turns out, four hours of our Saturday were wasted at Gillman Mitsubishi. I ended up sending a letter to all the executives listed on their website, as well as the national office. It describes how they treated us on that Saturday. The transcript is below, in italics, if you're really bored or want to see how to shame a company. That letter is the start of the story - here is the rest of the story.
We ran away from Gillman and went to Cracker Barrel for some comfort food. Knowing the number that George had given me last Tuesday, I called him. "George, I like the price you gave me. If you can give me at least xxxx dollars on my trade, the deal is yours." Of course, he said he'd have to see the trade, but please, come right in, we're open until 9. We drove straight there before I could lose my nerve.
Hub Mitsubishi welcomed us with open arms and big smiles. George was so happy we came back, and for some reason,easier to understand. He put me in the computer, and told a joke. He got the information on my trade, and told a joke. I was nervous! Would they meet my demand? When he came back with the amount, he acted like a ringmaster flourishing a new act. No wonder he was proud! They offered two hundred dollars over my demand! Who does that? (Not Gillman, that's for sure!) In all the time it took to pull the color car I wanted from inventory and fill out paperwork, George told a few more jokes and entertained Riley with some drawing puzzles. I looked at him and said "You should be a teacher, George, you're so good with little ones!" He looked back at all of us and said "You want to know my real story? I am a dentist. I come to USA from Syria many years ago, I am dentist, my wife is pharmacist. I had to take more training to be dentist here. I passed all training perfectly. When time came for my written test, I looked at it and it looked like nothing I could understand. I could not read it. My memory disappeared. I tried several times, I got medical care, MRIs, big medical bills, I could never pass test. I finally stay at home four years. Four years I sit on couch and watch TV. They never find out what is wrong. My memory sometimes is gone, sometimes is OK. Finally after four years, I decide I will do something. I start to sell cars. Here, I show you, I am top Mitsubishi salesman the last two months. They shook my hand and gave me one hundred dollars. Hmph."
Talk about church falling right in our laps.....I was willing to overlook this man earlier in the week just because he had a strong accent. He turned out to have more schooling than I do, and has overcome unknown challenges that nobody can understand. His entire nature and demeanor is positive and fun-loving. I felt as if I were picked up by invisible hands and carried back to buy my car from George. His challenges? Met, head on. His attitude? Fun. Just fun. As the author of the Momastery blog would say: Church, y'all.
We took a drive in the actual car with George - just to make sure and to fill it with gas for me. Peter Frampton came on the radio.
I decided I wanted a Mitsubishi Outlander for several reasons: good safety rating, great mileage, seven seats and price. I took last Tuesday off of work to do several things (besides the fact that Scott and I had our first date ever on January 14th...and I didn't want to be at work!) including actually test-driving the car my mind had chosen. Meiling went with me and we headed to the closest dealership, Hub Mitsubishi. We walked around a couple of minutes, just looking at the one in the showroom (the super-duper model that I couldn't afford), and finally, a salesman came over to speak to us. His name was George, and he had a quite heavy accent of some type. He was friendly, though, and showed me exactly what I asked for, a 2011 Outlander. In taking a look before driving, I discovered that the third row seat (in Meiling's words) was like a bad lawn chair. I drove the car, and only thought it was okay. Then he pulled the typical trick - "What about a new one?" The new model had an upgraded third seat, and some other nice options, and was only a bit more, he said. I drove a new one and was suitably impressed. (I had looked at the new ones online, so it wasn't as if I was being coerced, it was an underlying idea of mine anyway.) We went back in and told him what kinds of cars I had to trade. They came back with some lower-than-made-me-happy numbers, but they hadn't seen them, either. (This is when I thought the Jetta would be fixed in a day.) So I waited to see what the price on the car was, then what deals were available. Around this time, a Peter Frampton song came on the radio. I told Meilng "It's a sign!" (Peter Frampton being my number one favorite artist of all time...) We laughed about that. Somewhere along the way, my question "what does the car cost?" got lost in translation. After about 45 minutes of hard-to-understand conversation, George got the point that I didn't know the original price of the car. He then wrote a price down, saying that was the deal I could have. We left, and wiped our foreheads with exhaustion. It was hard to understand! He didn't hear what I was asking! One reason after another that it had been a very tiring afternoon.
Between Tuesday and Saturday, I found out that the Jetta was not cooperating on getting repaired, so I decided: I would get it fixed and not trade it. I would trade the BMW only and go to a different dealership where hopefully I would get more on my trade-in and understand the salesperson. As it turns out, four hours of our Saturday were wasted at Gillman Mitsubishi. I ended up sending a letter to all the executives listed on their website, as well as the national office. It describes how they treated us on that Saturday. The transcript is below, in italics, if you're really bored or want to see how to shame a company. That letter is the start of the story - here is the rest of the story.
We ran away from Gillman and went to Cracker Barrel for some comfort food. Knowing the number that George had given me last Tuesday, I called him. "George, I like the price you gave me. If you can give me at least xxxx dollars on my trade, the deal is yours." Of course, he said he'd have to see the trade, but please, come right in, we're open until 9. We drove straight there before I could lose my nerve.
Hub Mitsubishi welcomed us with open arms and big smiles. George was so happy we came back, and for some reason,easier to understand. He put me in the computer, and told a joke. He got the information on my trade, and told a joke. I was nervous! Would they meet my demand? When he came back with the amount, he acted like a ringmaster flourishing a new act. No wonder he was proud! They offered two hundred dollars over my demand! Who does that? (Not Gillman, that's for sure!) In all the time it took to pull the color car I wanted from inventory and fill out paperwork, George told a few more jokes and entertained Riley with some drawing puzzles. I looked at him and said "You should be a teacher, George, you're so good with little ones!" He looked back at all of us and said "You want to know my real story? I am a dentist. I come to USA from Syria many years ago, I am dentist, my wife is pharmacist. I had to take more training to be dentist here. I passed all training perfectly. When time came for my written test, I looked at it and it looked like nothing I could understand. I could not read it. My memory disappeared. I tried several times, I got medical care, MRIs, big medical bills, I could never pass test. I finally stay at home four years. Four years I sit on couch and watch TV. They never find out what is wrong. My memory sometimes is gone, sometimes is OK. Finally after four years, I decide I will do something. I start to sell cars. Here, I show you, I am top Mitsubishi salesman the last two months. They shook my hand and gave me one hundred dollars. Hmph."
Talk about church falling right in our laps.....I was willing to overlook this man earlier in the week just because he had a strong accent. He turned out to have more schooling than I do, and has overcome unknown challenges that nobody can understand. His entire nature and demeanor is positive and fun-loving. I felt as if I were picked up by invisible hands and carried back to buy my car from George. His challenges? Met, head on. His attitude? Fun. Just fun. As the author of the Momastery blog would say: Church, y'all.
We took a drive in the actual car with George - just to make sure and to fill it with gas for me. Peter Frampton came on the radio.
Dear Gillman Companies,
I would like to take this opportunity to describe to you my
personal situation and my recent experience at one of your dealerships: Gillman
Mitsubishi. As business owners, I would
think that you would appreciate some honest feedback from a neutral source.
I am a fifty-one year old widow. My husband passed away in May, 2013. He left
me and our two daughters well provided for, and for that I am very grateful,
but I am also faced with the challenge of being wise with my expenditures and
investments. I am a school teacher in
Cypress Fairbanks ISD, and my daughters both attend Texas Tech University in
Lubbock, TX. My late husband was a
hydrographic surveyor, but was also quite handy at repairing vehicles. For that reason, we all drove vehicles that
were around ten years old. Once he died,
I knew that I needed to upgrade all of our vehicles to newer models for safety
and the peace of mind that comes with a warranty. I bought my youngest a 2012 Nissan in August
2013, my oldest a 2012 Honda in November 2013, and was finally looking for a
vehicle for myself last week.
I was looking for a seven-seat SUV, and started researching
online. The Mitsubishi Outlander kept popping
up in surveys and safety ratings. I was
going to look for a 2012 model, same as my daughters, and within my remaining
budget. I took the day off work on
Tuesday, January 14, to go look and test drive that vehicle at Hub
Mitsubishi. I discovered that the third
row seat on the older models was similar to a bad lawn chair, but upgraded on the
new 2014 models. I was just on a
discovery visit, but figured that I could possibly afford the SE model in a
2014 Outlander. I was a little
frustrated, though, by the heavy accent of the salesperson. Although very friendly and polite, I didn’t
feel obligated to purchase from them, but I did leave with a definite quote, in
writing, on the model I was eying.
I decided to visit Gillman Mitsubishi on Saturday, January
18, in hopes of an easier and possibly better experience. Here is my honest account of my four hours at
your dealership. I brought along my
friend and her ten-year-old daughter for support. We were approached soon after getting out of
my car by a salesman named Youssef. He seemed a polite, well-spoken older
gentleman. I told him what I was looking
for, and asked the difference (which I did not know at the time) between the SE
and ES trim models. He then took us
inside while he tried to find the answer, telling us that he was brand new with
Mitsubishis, and please bear with him. I
kept trying to explain that I was hoping to price an SE model with the sunroof,
leather seats and premium sound, but did not know if that made it an ES
model. He had to check with a manager
named Walter, who introduced himself, and, I believe, helped Youssef locate a
car for me to test drive. It had none of
the options I had mentioned, and nobody had explained to me yet whether an SE
could come with those options. The
vehicle they brought around for me to drive had a sticker price of around $24,000. I knew about the $1500 rebate until the end
of January, and it had a big red tag hanging from the mirror that said “Red Tag
Special” (printed) followed by “After all discounts and rebates” (hand written)
then “3600 off”. Knowing that this would
bring it into my budget range, I finally agreed to give up on asking for the
sunroof, etc. model and test drive this one.
Youssef told me flat out to stay on the feeder road, make the U-turn and
come back on the feeder. There was no
chance to drive it on the highway itself.
When we finished driving, we did walk the lot to see the sunroof model,
but by that time I had talked myself out of splurging on that cost, an easier
decision to make once I saw the leather was the sporty type with the holes, and
no elegant smooth leather was available.
That being decided, we went inside to check my trade-in and price the
new car. Two hours had now passed.
Youssef started asking me questions for a form he had about
where I was going to drive the car, how many miles a year I thought I would
drive….ridiculous-type questions that he said were on a company survey, even if
I were paying cash. (We thought they were the questions for leasing a vehicle.) In the meantime, the ten-year-old was
starting to get hungry. She had not had
lunch, as it was a weekend and she had a late breakfast. My friend went to look for the vending
machine. They both came and sat down
dejectedly a few minutes later. The
vending machine was empty.
We finally got to the point where I said “Let’s see what you
will offer for my trade-in, and I’ll consider a purchase.” Between Youssef
taking my answers to fill out yet another form, him going into the manager’s
window and standing at the counter, walking back to ask ‘one more question’
about the trade vehicle, another hour passed.
During that hour, someone came in the front of the showroom with bags
and bags of Whataburger – your staff’s lunch.
I would not deny any working person their lunch, but surely there must
be a back door, or a workroom where such things can be accomplished. Even the service people were coming up to the
glass room at the front of the showroom to get their lunches. With the
Whataburger smell egging on the little one’s hunger, my friend ended up walking
to the dealership next door and purchasing some snacks from their vending
machine.
When I got the final offer on my trade-in, I was
insulted. However, that is not my
complaint in this letter. I will tell
you that I received $1200 more for that vehicle from the dealership where I
finally made my purchase. With that
final offer at Gillman, Youssef put the numbers on paper. The sticker price PLUS 1495 for etching. I
said I didn’t want that. He said Gillman
adds that to all of its vehicles before they go on the lot. He then subtracted the $3600 on the tag. I asked where the $1500 rebate was. He said that it was included in the
$3600. I claimed that the tag said the
$3600 was taken off after all rebates and incentives. He went and spent another twenty minutes in
the glass manager’s office. Finally, the
rudest man of all, a manager named Cesar, came and sat down with the sticker
from the vehicle and the red tag. He confronted me with an arrogant manner, not
polite at all. He showed me on the price
sticker the price – and on the next line the $1495 etching fee. No total was shown. He said it was fairly represented and asked
if Youssef had told me about it. I said no, and that I didn’t want that option. He simply said that was too bad because it’s
impossible, all the vehicles have it.
Then he laid the red tag on the table. A picture of the tag is enclosed
for your reference. The tag clearly
stated that the $3600 would come off the price after all rebates and
incentives. Cesar reacted as if I were
stupid and could not read the tag. I
must admit at that point I told him he needed to go back to school. I stood my ground, and asked for them to also
take the rebate off the price. Youssef
went and stood in the glass window for another session, after which he came and
handed me my insurance card and the key to my trade-in and said “I’m sorry we
can’t help you” thus ended my four-hour ordeal at Gillman Mitsubishi.
In all, I would have to rank my experience at Gillman at the
top of the worst business dealings that I have had to endure since being widowed
eight months ago. I sat for 3 1/2 hours without being offered water,
encountered person after person that either could not answer my questions or
made no effort to concede or apologize that perhaps they could have gotten
something wrong or that I ‘caught’ them in trying to trick me into spending too
much money. Your upper management may
have won all sorts of awards, but if you don’t sell a product with politeness
and precision, your reputation will soon sink you. I believe this holds even truer when a widow
is looking to spend cash of that amount out of her husband’s life
insurance. Thank you for listening to my
experience. I hope you can find a way to
take my words into account and make things more polite and fair for future
customers – which will never include me.
Sincerely,
Diane McCarty
Friday, January 17, 2014
Gilbert O'Sullivan Said It Best 1/17/14
Gilbert O'Sullivan Said It Best. You know, that horribly sad song about being alone. "Alone Again, Naturally". (Thank you, Mom, for listening to cool music on WLCY when we were little.).That one could make me bawl out loud on a great day, when no heartache had ever touched me. The narrative of the mother losing the father, and she "couldn't understand why the only man she had ever loved had been taken....." Yes, that song says it best. Haven't heard it in a while? Here ya go:
Gilbert O'Sullivan - Alone Again, Naturally
I wanted to write about other songs with phrases that make the tears flow. "Can I handle the seasons of my life?" (Landslide). "Whenever I see your smiling face, I have to smile myself, 'cause I love you..." (James Taylor). But it's been too rough of a week, and I'm facing so many challenges right now - yes, right now, 8 1/2 months later - that I'm really proud if I remember to give the animals their food, because they need that to live. I can't think of those songs.
The problem is: I like to be perfect. He enabled me to be perfect, because he was behind the scenes making everything perfect. I'm trying now, good Lord, I'm trying. It's not happening. Everyone - that smiley me that you see every day? That smart-aleck person that posts silly stuff? That's not me. That's the fake me. The fake me HAS to exist, because I couldn't do life if she didn't. I hope I'm so good at being fake that the little children don't know. If you adults suspect, I'm fine with that. Speak up. Tell me again that I'll make it, I"m strong.....I need your encouragement. That's a really difficult admission for someone that has made a career of looking people (sometimes very young people) in the eye and saying "You can DO it!!" Many, many of them DID do it, in whatever way, and I'm so proud. I think I have a legacy out there.
I'll smile again on Tuesday. And if you smile with me, and tell me it's okay not to be perfect, thank you. I'm alone, but I'm not deserted.
Gilbert O'Sullivan - Alone Again, Naturally
I wanted to write about other songs with phrases that make the tears flow. "Can I handle the seasons of my life?" (Landslide). "Whenever I see your smiling face, I have to smile myself, 'cause I love you..." (James Taylor). But it's been too rough of a week, and I'm facing so many challenges right now - yes, right now, 8 1/2 months later - that I'm really proud if I remember to give the animals their food, because they need that to live. I can't think of those songs.
The problem is: I like to be perfect. He enabled me to be perfect, because he was behind the scenes making everything perfect. I'm trying now, good Lord, I'm trying. It's not happening. Everyone - that smiley me that you see every day? That smart-aleck person that posts silly stuff? That's not me. That's the fake me. The fake me HAS to exist, because I couldn't do life if she didn't. I hope I'm so good at being fake that the little children don't know. If you adults suspect, I'm fine with that. Speak up. Tell me again that I'll make it, I"m strong.....I need your encouragement. That's a really difficult admission for someone that has made a career of looking people (sometimes very young people) in the eye and saying "You can DO it!!" Many, many of them DID do it, in whatever way, and I'm so proud. I think I have a legacy out there.
I'll smile again on Tuesday. And if you smile with me, and tell me it's okay not to be perfect, thank you. I'm alone, but I'm not deserted.
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
The Most Special Kiss 1/14/14
Thirty-three years ago tonight, I went on a date with a guy on my boyfriend's hall, because my boyfriend was busy. My boyfriend said, "Whatever you do, just don't kiss him goodnight.". There's nothing like a challenge, is there? There was definitely a goodnight kiss; we owned up to it and I said goodbye to the boyfriend -who was a really great guy in his own right, it just didn't work out that way! The new guy's name was Scott, and we saw each other every night for a month, until Valentine's day. We were pretty head over heels. January 14, 1981. We even scheduled our wedding on July 14, 1984, to reflect that date.
I didn't know he wouldn't live to see only thirty-three years from that kiss. Today, January 14, 2014, I have had a dead car towed from my garage, called two different bank accounts to see what paperwork they actually require to change names/ close accounts, called the college savings plan to find out the same info, tried to call the Norway tax office to get details on paying the Norwegian tax, and printed out a ream of papers to change the IRA to my name. He's been gone eight months and I just got the affidavit from the court to be able to do these things. (Well, the car didn't require court papers, that's just my luck.)
I wish I had clever or cute words to tell you that life sometimes hurts like hell. My heart feels withered even though laughter and smiles still occupy my face. When I do ordinary things, it takes twice the effort, because I really don't care as much anymore. That goodnight kiss thirty-three years ago tonight was wrong, it was cheating; and I hope I apologized and moved on correctly.....but it was also the most special kiss of my life.
I didn't know he wouldn't live to see only thirty-three years from that kiss. Today, January 14, 2014, I have had a dead car towed from my garage, called two different bank accounts to see what paperwork they actually require to change names/ close accounts, called the college savings plan to find out the same info, tried to call the Norway tax office to get details on paying the Norwegian tax, and printed out a ream of papers to change the IRA to my name. He's been gone eight months and I just got the affidavit from the court to be able to do these things. (Well, the car didn't require court papers, that's just my luck.)
I wish I had clever or cute words to tell you that life sometimes hurts like hell. My heart feels withered even though laughter and smiles still occupy my face. When I do ordinary things, it takes twice the effort, because I really don't care as much anymore. That goodnight kiss thirty-three years ago tonight was wrong, it was cheating; and I hope I apologized and moved on correctly.....but it was also the most special kiss of my life.
Sunday, January 5, 2014
What the Unicorn Girl Said - 1/5/14
It's still all around; the Christmas stuff. I've started kind of moving it to one table, so I can eventually put it away so, so neatly. That's how my mind thinks. There's really only three things on that table. I feel that when I pack it all away, he is gone from Christmas forever. Replaced by the one that we did totally by ourselves.
Between that first paragraph and the start of this one, it's all put away. Well, mostly. I always leave out two boxes for a few extra days - one for the towels, pot holders, things that need washing; the other for the 'extra' finds that are inevitably missed in the first clean-up sweep. I feel accomplished. Yet I feel......I feel cheated. I feel cheated because I was reminded, in cleaning up the year, of what was stolen from me. I feel the need to share something that came home with me, and you can take from it what you will. I am mostly sharing this for two types of people; adults with sentimental memories of their own, and young adult girls (women) like my daughters that are in the midst of dating, falling in love, and trying to find that special someone.
I have all sorts of memories of my husband around the house. I will work on organizing, deciding what to save, what to pass on.......one of these days. Right now, I just look at things occasionally, and put them back in their cabinet or drawer or box. I'll get the right feeling when I'm ready. Perhaps moving into the new year will advance that feeling, but then again, maybe not. I'll just have to wait and see.
I visited my mother-in-law for a couple of days over the holidays. At one point, she handed me a manila envelope, taped closed, marked "Scott-memories". I slid it into the front flat zipper pocket on my suitcase and promptly forgot about it. (Conveniently forgetting things is a part of grief, perhaps one of my greatest defenses!) I forgot so hard that I didn't even remember to close the zipper on that pouch when I checked my bag to fly. The envelope was partially sticking out when I claimed the bag. After an "oh crap!" moment, I zipped it closed and forgot about it again.
So, as part of the "put away Christmas", I decided to get those last few things out of the suitcase so it could be put away as well. And there was the envelope. I saved it for bedtime, alone time, no interaction-with-other-humans time.....just in case. I cut open the tape, and pulled out one thing at a time. Drawings, report cards, birthday cards, progress reports, one after another. Then, two envelopes. The first, an inner envelope of a sort, with his parent's names - "Trudy and Jim" in my handwriting. I opened it - she had saved our wedding invitation from 1984. I glanced at it, had a few memories, and put it away. I have one, too, so now each girl can have one if they want it. The second envelope held a card, and was addressed to Scott by me, postmarked July 9, 1981.
Our first date was January 14, 1981, so this was almost six months later. I was eighteen years old, and it was the summer between my freshman and sophomore year. I pulled out the card - it had a big unicorn on the cover. Yes, I was a unicorn girl. I admit it. Some of the vestiges are still around, coffee mugs and figurines. It's really time to clean out! I opened the card and started reading. Mostly descriptions of what I was doing, and had to do in the next few days. Sweet, innocent, young. But right in the middle, there it was. The part that brought me to tears. How could I say this after only six months? I would chastise any young girl that did so today! These words, though, brought home to me what I'd lost, how invested I was, and why it's so easy now to "be strong" and yet so difficult to "move on".
If you are a young girl looking for the right person today, saying words like this may happen through text or tweet, or snapchat, or whatever ghostly invention comes next. And I feel sad that you won't be able to hold it in your hands thirty-three years later and smile or cry or laugh about it. If you are saying something like this, though, be aware that you could actually be expressing a desire for what will turn out to be your whole life. It could come true, it could be made real. Just be aware of that. It was made real for me, and I was fortunate; it was true and turned out beyond well. Hence my strength. Also my sadness. Here's to memories for us that are older, and to looking for your happily-ever-after for those that are searching.
My words to him, in pretty cursive writing in a unicorn card:
"I can't wait to see you again. I feel like I can face the world if you're there holding my hand. You make me so strong - you know that, don't you? I love you."
Between that first paragraph and the start of this one, it's all put away. Well, mostly. I always leave out two boxes for a few extra days - one for the towels, pot holders, things that need washing; the other for the 'extra' finds that are inevitably missed in the first clean-up sweep. I feel accomplished. Yet I feel......I feel cheated. I feel cheated because I was reminded, in cleaning up the year, of what was stolen from me. I feel the need to share something that came home with me, and you can take from it what you will. I am mostly sharing this for two types of people; adults with sentimental memories of their own, and young adult girls (women) like my daughters that are in the midst of dating, falling in love, and trying to find that special someone.
I have all sorts of memories of my husband around the house. I will work on organizing, deciding what to save, what to pass on.......one of these days. Right now, I just look at things occasionally, and put them back in their cabinet or drawer or box. I'll get the right feeling when I'm ready. Perhaps moving into the new year will advance that feeling, but then again, maybe not. I'll just have to wait and see.
I visited my mother-in-law for a couple of days over the holidays. At one point, she handed me a manila envelope, taped closed, marked "Scott-memories". I slid it into the front flat zipper pocket on my suitcase and promptly forgot about it. (Conveniently forgetting things is a part of grief, perhaps one of my greatest defenses!) I forgot so hard that I didn't even remember to close the zipper on that pouch when I checked my bag to fly. The envelope was partially sticking out when I claimed the bag. After an "oh crap!" moment, I zipped it closed and forgot about it again.
So, as part of the "put away Christmas", I decided to get those last few things out of the suitcase so it could be put away as well. And there was the envelope. I saved it for bedtime, alone time, no interaction-with-other-humans time.....just in case. I cut open the tape, and pulled out one thing at a time. Drawings, report cards, birthday cards, progress reports, one after another. Then, two envelopes. The first, an inner envelope of a sort, with his parent's names - "Trudy and Jim" in my handwriting. I opened it - she had saved our wedding invitation from 1984. I glanced at it, had a few memories, and put it away. I have one, too, so now each girl can have one if they want it. The second envelope held a card, and was addressed to Scott by me, postmarked July 9, 1981.
Our first date was January 14, 1981, so this was almost six months later. I was eighteen years old, and it was the summer between my freshman and sophomore year. I pulled out the card - it had a big unicorn on the cover. Yes, I was a unicorn girl. I admit it. Some of the vestiges are still around, coffee mugs and figurines. It's really time to clean out! I opened the card and started reading. Mostly descriptions of what I was doing, and had to do in the next few days. Sweet, innocent, young. But right in the middle, there it was. The part that brought me to tears. How could I say this after only six months? I would chastise any young girl that did so today! These words, though, brought home to me what I'd lost, how invested I was, and why it's so easy now to "be strong" and yet so difficult to "move on".
If you are a young girl looking for the right person today, saying words like this may happen through text or tweet, or snapchat, or whatever ghostly invention comes next. And I feel sad that you won't be able to hold it in your hands thirty-three years later and smile or cry or laugh about it. If you are saying something like this, though, be aware that you could actually be expressing a desire for what will turn out to be your whole life. It could come true, it could be made real. Just be aware of that. It was made real for me, and I was fortunate; it was true and turned out beyond well. Hence my strength. Also my sadness. Here's to memories for us that are older, and to looking for your happily-ever-after for those that are searching.
My words to him, in pretty cursive writing in a unicorn card:
"I can't wait to see you again. I feel like I can face the world if you're there holding my hand. You make me so strong - you know that, don't you? I love you."
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
I'm a fake and a phony 1/1/14
I spend a lot of time convincing myself through words that I type that I am trying to be positive. Convincing others that I have a healthy attitude. Trying to find little nuggets of truth and inspiration in everyday life and prove that I'm grateful for what I still have. Then a day or an event happens and I'm a fake. If I said how I really feel, I'm afraid that everyone around me would quote Sandy from "Grease"; "You're a fake and a phony, and I wish I'd never laid eyes on you!".
I'm not well. I'm still pouting. And with all the time that goes by, I find more to pout about. Every normal obstacle that blocks my path feels like a personal affront to my widow-hood. The car won't start? That's because I'm a widow. The dog got out? That's because my husband died. It's silly, I know, but when I go to bed alone at night, and wake up alone every morning, the void is an entity that has taken on powers of great proportion. The void of him seems to cause every little bit of trouble I have.
And so the year ended yesterday. All day long, I was extremely sad. Tears were close at any given moment. I tried to explain it - the end of the year he died, entering a new year without him, an overload of people when I've gotten used to quiet, all kinds of "reasons". The real reason? I think my life sucks now, and outwardly I put on a brave face and list everything for which I'm grateful. Most days, I can convince myself. Most days, gratefulness wins. But you know what? It will be a long time before I don't pout anymore. Expect that from me. You can ask "what's wrong?". But you can also correctly say, 90% of the time; "Oh, one of those days, huh?" I'm going to make it. I just don't think it's going to be a very scenic route. My apologies, but I'm pretty sure my excuse is a good one.
I'm not well. I'm still pouting. And with all the time that goes by, I find more to pout about. Every normal obstacle that blocks my path feels like a personal affront to my widow-hood. The car won't start? That's because I'm a widow. The dog got out? That's because my husband died. It's silly, I know, but when I go to bed alone at night, and wake up alone every morning, the void is an entity that has taken on powers of great proportion. The void of him seems to cause every little bit of trouble I have.
And so the year ended yesterday. All day long, I was extremely sad. Tears were close at any given moment. I tried to explain it - the end of the year he died, entering a new year without him, an overload of people when I've gotten used to quiet, all kinds of "reasons". The real reason? I think my life sucks now, and outwardly I put on a brave face and list everything for which I'm grateful. Most days, I can convince myself. Most days, gratefulness wins. But you know what? It will be a long time before I don't pout anymore. Expect that from me. You can ask "what's wrong?". But you can also correctly say, 90% of the time; "Oh, one of those days, huh?" I'm going to make it. I just don't think it's going to be a very scenic route. My apologies, but I'm pretty sure my excuse is a good one.
Monday, December 30, 2013
I'm cornbread - Who are you? 12/30/13
Have you ever had a piece of really fine, Southern-cooked cornbread? Bacon grease, buttermilk, and an iron skillet are all involved in creating the delectable treat. Its rich, flavorful, crunchy-soft texture makes it perfect as a bread or a "sopper" - a side dish designed to mop up grave or juices so nothing of a delicious meal is wasted.
It's obvious, is it not, that I am a fan of cornbread. But this story has nothing to do with actually eating cornbread. There was no cornbread in either of the Christmas meals in which I participated. Ham was the main dish at both sides of the family's gatherings. The breads of choice were potato rolls and yeast rolls. No, cornbread just popped into my mind one day. The sixth day of our holiday trip, I was sitting in the living room with many beloved family members, and the thought just occurred - "I feel like a piece of cornbread.". I was in the overwhelming emotional state of love, grief, exhaustion, recovery from illness, desire to help, desire to sleep - and I pictured myself as a triangle of cornbread. I don't mean that I had been stirred and baked at a high heat. I mean that the consistency and purposes of the piece of cornbread as it sits on the dinner plate seemed to perfectly portray my perception of how I react to all overtures and approaches to me.
First things first - I feel loved. I feel loved by friends. I feel loved at work. I especially felt loved when visiting the families this past week. It's so good to get to see the family. I love seeing and spending time with everyone. We're all different, yet all a part of the same group. I think of it as a meal on a plate - all your different items, and I'm the piece of cornbread. Nobody would not want the cornbread there - I belong.
I feel covered. I feel as if everyone wants to spread a layer of protection over me like so much butter! Thank you, by the way. I have needed a lot of protection this year. Sometimes, without that layer of people to step up to others and say "Do you know who this is?" or "Let me tell you what you're dealing with here...", I would have dried up and crumbled away. Many family, friends, and even social media acquaintances have spread a layer of protection over me by coming to my defense in some matter or sympathizing with their own experience stories that make me laugh and feel as if I'm not alone.
A good cornbread is a little crumbly. It's a coarse bread, so those pieces sometimes just crumble away. I can identify with the crumbly nature of cornbread. Innocent things - tv commercials, e-mails, greeting cards, comments, questions, advice - all of those can crumble me in a second. Just as the fork doesn't mean to hit the cornbread on its way to the vegetables, the world doesn't mean to stab me. My consistency right now makes it easy for little things to just stick in and knock a piece of me away. If anyone can actually give me a real, factual system for not being too sensitive, I will listen and try it. How do you change the way you are emotionally made? The important part, though, is that even though I may get a bit crumbled, so many others are there for me to hold me together.
To know I'm not alone is such an advantage. There are big chunks of time when I am now physically alone. (There will be another post someday on the advantages of dogs and cats.) But I am not alone in any way other than that. Just as all the servings of food on a plate bump into each other, and the juices roll around to be soaked up by the cornbread, I am surrounded, in spirit, with so many of you that drop everything to be there if I call, text, make a comment, or cry out through a status. You reach out and I soak it up. Thank you. Just as cornbread is made richer by soaking in some juice (I'm thinking good old-fashioned beans and cornbread, a little sausage with it....), I am made richer and stronger by your support. I am trying to take steps on the road to recovery. When I stop still and stare, it may be your simple smile or pat on the arm that gives me strength to pick up my foot and take another step.
So, here's to the new year. I can make an honest toast that says "May it be better than 2013." Even thinking that hurts, though, because 2013 contained my last months of my "old" life. The life I thought I'd live forever. Thank goodness for the love and ideas and wisdom out there that this little ol' piece of cornbread can soak up. I might sit and stare and act a little bland, but please know I gather in your wishes, hugs and love and convert them to the strength to go on. Happy New Year.
It's obvious, is it not, that I am a fan of cornbread. But this story has nothing to do with actually eating cornbread. There was no cornbread in either of the Christmas meals in which I participated. Ham was the main dish at both sides of the family's gatherings. The breads of choice were potato rolls and yeast rolls. No, cornbread just popped into my mind one day. The sixth day of our holiday trip, I was sitting in the living room with many beloved family members, and the thought just occurred - "I feel like a piece of cornbread.". I was in the overwhelming emotional state of love, grief, exhaustion, recovery from illness, desire to help, desire to sleep - and I pictured myself as a triangle of cornbread. I don't mean that I had been stirred and baked at a high heat. I mean that the consistency and purposes of the piece of cornbread as it sits on the dinner plate seemed to perfectly portray my perception of how I react to all overtures and approaches to me.
First things first - I feel loved. I feel loved by friends. I feel loved at work. I especially felt loved when visiting the families this past week. It's so good to get to see the family. I love seeing and spending time with everyone. We're all different, yet all a part of the same group. I think of it as a meal on a plate - all your different items, and I'm the piece of cornbread. Nobody would not want the cornbread there - I belong.
I feel covered. I feel as if everyone wants to spread a layer of protection over me like so much butter! Thank you, by the way. I have needed a lot of protection this year. Sometimes, without that layer of people to step up to others and say "Do you know who this is?" or "Let me tell you what you're dealing with here...", I would have dried up and crumbled away. Many family, friends, and even social media acquaintances have spread a layer of protection over me by coming to my defense in some matter or sympathizing with their own experience stories that make me laugh and feel as if I'm not alone.
A good cornbread is a little crumbly. It's a coarse bread, so those pieces sometimes just crumble away. I can identify with the crumbly nature of cornbread. Innocent things - tv commercials, e-mails, greeting cards, comments, questions, advice - all of those can crumble me in a second. Just as the fork doesn't mean to hit the cornbread on its way to the vegetables, the world doesn't mean to stab me. My consistency right now makes it easy for little things to just stick in and knock a piece of me away. If anyone can actually give me a real, factual system for not being too sensitive, I will listen and try it. How do you change the way you are emotionally made? The important part, though, is that even though I may get a bit crumbled, so many others are there for me to hold me together.
To know I'm not alone is such an advantage. There are big chunks of time when I am now physically alone. (There will be another post someday on the advantages of dogs and cats.) But I am not alone in any way other than that. Just as all the servings of food on a plate bump into each other, and the juices roll around to be soaked up by the cornbread, I am surrounded, in spirit, with so many of you that drop everything to be there if I call, text, make a comment, or cry out through a status. You reach out and I soak it up. Thank you. Just as cornbread is made richer by soaking in some juice (I'm thinking good old-fashioned beans and cornbread, a little sausage with it....), I am made richer and stronger by your support. I am trying to take steps on the road to recovery. When I stop still and stare, it may be your simple smile or pat on the arm that gives me strength to pick up my foot and take another step.
So, here's to the new year. I can make an honest toast that says "May it be better than 2013." Even thinking that hurts, though, because 2013 contained my last months of my "old" life. The life I thought I'd live forever. Thank goodness for the love and ideas and wisdom out there that this little ol' piece of cornbread can soak up. I might sit and stare and act a little bland, but please know I gather in your wishes, hugs and love and convert them to the strength to go on. Happy New Year.
Saturday, December 14, 2013
I Want to Run With the Hobbit! 12/14/13
I saw the second installation of "The Hobbit" last night. Yes, I'm a fan. A regular fan, not a Comic-con level fan (although I have attended Comic-con, go figure!) I have read the book quite a few times during my life, including one time OUT LOUD, completely through, to my children. I love Bilbo, the dwarfs, their escapades, Gandalf, Gollum, even Smaug. Orcs and dragons are bad. Hobbits, dwarfs and elves are good. What's not to love?
What I love best, though, is the way that the characters that are small in stature think that they are setting out (in the beginning) to accomplish a small task, for themselves. The dwarfs want their homeland back. Bilbo simply wants to experience a little adventure. However, since they have to cross the paths of other species, travel strange lands and awaken old rivalries, they end up being elevated to little heroes whose somewhat selfish endeavors could actually save their world from evil!
(My own liberal summation, apologies to Mr. Tolkien and all the experts.)
I sat through the opening of the movie, wondering why I didn't feel sad. Last Christmas, our family of four saw the first one together. There aren't too many occasions on which an entire family can see a movie adaptation of a book they have all read and loved. We even saw it at a restaurant/cinema place, similar to the one we were at last night. But I didn't feel sad. I have the 'he should be here' thoughts, but the atmosphere, being with my girls, the food.....the sadness was not able to attack. I'm glad it wasn't, because it enabled me to enjoy the movie from the very opening, where I was completely inspired by two scenes.
Near the beginning, the dwarfs, Bilbo and Gandalf have to run from the Orcs. The director, Peter Jackson, (who is extremely passionate about bring these books to film - I suspect he is part hobbit...) takes advantage of the beautiful New Zealand countryside and shows a long shot of the whole group just running across a beautiful field backed by gorgeous mountains. They must have acted the hell out of that running, because it got me. I sat there thinking "I want to run with the hobbits!!" A few scenes later, they cross some similarly gorgeous landscape, only this time on Beorn's stately horses. Once again, I could only think, "I want to ride with them! Go, you dwarfs and hobbit, go!"
The dwarfs and the hobbit were running and riding away from evil Orcs, but they were also running with a purpose to accomplish some good. They don't realize at that point in the story just how much good, and at what a cost, but they were running! They were riding horses, fast! I am inspired to run to do my small good things. I am inspired that if I do some small good in my life, that it might fit together like a jigsaw puzzle with others who do small good in their lives......and greater good can happen!
Almost everyone I know strives to do their own good each day. I have been fortunate in life to always be able to surround myself with positive people. I do know that we live in the real world, not Middle Earth. But I hope that the good that we all put out there every day can make a difference. Our enemy is not an evil sorcerer/wizard. We all use our good to counteract neglect, meanness, hunger, poverty, disease, all those "bad" things in the world. I'm glad I saw the dwarfs and hobbit running. It gave me joy. It had me cheering for the good guys. And it let me know that small good can work together for bigger purposes.
Sometimes, though, I approach my day, my golden opportunity to put more 'good' out there, with a sigh. I've had some good reasons, but I think it's time to try and run. One sigh or one deep breath can help, but then it's time to run. Time to smile, time to look and listen and encourage. That won't be easy every day, but it's worth a try. I want to run with the hobbit - but since that's impossible, I will try to "run" to make my own small difference for good.
What I love best, though, is the way that the characters that are small in stature think that they are setting out (in the beginning) to accomplish a small task, for themselves. The dwarfs want their homeland back. Bilbo simply wants to experience a little adventure. However, since they have to cross the paths of other species, travel strange lands and awaken old rivalries, they end up being elevated to little heroes whose somewhat selfish endeavors could actually save their world from evil!
(My own liberal summation, apologies to Mr. Tolkien and all the experts.)
I sat through the opening of the movie, wondering why I didn't feel sad. Last Christmas, our family of four saw the first one together. There aren't too many occasions on which an entire family can see a movie adaptation of a book they have all read and loved. We even saw it at a restaurant/cinema place, similar to the one we were at last night. But I didn't feel sad. I have the 'he should be here' thoughts, but the atmosphere, being with my girls, the food.....the sadness was not able to attack. I'm glad it wasn't, because it enabled me to enjoy the movie from the very opening, where I was completely inspired by two scenes.
Near the beginning, the dwarfs, Bilbo and Gandalf have to run from the Orcs. The director, Peter Jackson, (who is extremely passionate about bring these books to film - I suspect he is part hobbit...) takes advantage of the beautiful New Zealand countryside and shows a long shot of the whole group just running across a beautiful field backed by gorgeous mountains. They must have acted the hell out of that running, because it got me. I sat there thinking "I want to run with the hobbits!!" A few scenes later, they cross some similarly gorgeous landscape, only this time on Beorn's stately horses. Once again, I could only think, "I want to ride with them! Go, you dwarfs and hobbit, go!"
The dwarfs and the hobbit were running and riding away from evil Orcs, but they were also running with a purpose to accomplish some good. They don't realize at that point in the story just how much good, and at what a cost, but they were running! They were riding horses, fast! I am inspired to run to do my small good things. I am inspired that if I do some small good in my life, that it might fit together like a jigsaw puzzle with others who do small good in their lives......and greater good can happen!
Almost everyone I know strives to do their own good each day. I have been fortunate in life to always be able to surround myself with positive people. I do know that we live in the real world, not Middle Earth. But I hope that the good that we all put out there every day can make a difference. Our enemy is not an evil sorcerer/wizard. We all use our good to counteract neglect, meanness, hunger, poverty, disease, all those "bad" things in the world. I'm glad I saw the dwarfs and hobbit running. It gave me joy. It had me cheering for the good guys. And it let me know that small good can work together for bigger purposes.
Sometimes, though, I approach my day, my golden opportunity to put more 'good' out there, with a sigh. I've had some good reasons, but I think it's time to try and run. One sigh or one deep breath can help, but then it's time to run. Time to smile, time to look and listen and encourage. That won't be easy every day, but it's worth a try. I want to run with the hobbit - but since that's impossible, I will try to "run" to make my own small difference for good.
Sunday, December 8, 2013
A Fingernail Fable 12/8/13
Friday morning hurry-up. All my fault, because I just didn't want to get out of bed. Have you ever been there? Life is happening outside your bedroom, outside your house, people are driving, drinking coffee, already having meetings......and your bed is just so warm and cozy that it's an actual argument with yourself to throw back the covers and stand up. We've all been there, I guess. When I do that, I can adjust the getting ready and still make it to work on time, but I still hurry. So during the hurry-up, I bent a fingernail backward trying to fasten my seat belt. A small reminder to slow down, it's all going to be there, whether I hurry to fasten the belt or do it at normal speed! Smoothing down the fingernail, I drove to work. The school was still there.
I'm not used to having any sort of long fingernails. A combination of weak nails and piano playing has always left me without nails as an accessory. Except for the few years of fake nails, they have always just been short and.... there. In the past eight months, they're stronger. They grow. I have to cut them and file them down. It's very strange to me - did a chemical change happen in my body when I entered grief? Or was it due to happen anyway? I don't know, but I do know that these knives that extend from my fingertips - and the care they require - is a new sensation.
Later Friday evening, the same backward-bent nail caught on something. You know, that sensation when it brushes cloth and you feel that little drag? I took a look. There was a cut in the middle of the tip. Not a big one, but like some tiny scissors just made one cut. I went to the place where I now keep the clippers and newly-acquired file, trimmed it and filed it smooth. It lost a little length, but it's still there. I suppose that was the price of decorating the tree. As Saturday came and went, more nails lost their way to the housework/decoration activities. They were shorter, but they were still there.
Today, Sunday, makes eight months since he's been gone. I don't really put much stock in anniversaries, but having made this portion of the grief journey personally, I see a truth. I slowly file away my old life. It's still there, it's just shorter. I can buy the low-fat eggnog now, there's nobody left to complain about it. When it's just me home, I have music playing. When it was just us, it was always the television. Still the same machine, just different. When a situation changes, I adapt. Humans adapt. The situation is still there, but we carry on and find ways to make it.
Adaptation isn't easy. Sometimes it even hurts! I took all the lights off the fifty-foot long stair garland yesterday. Those lights have been wound around that garland for so many years that they were caught in the little wires in certain places. As I separated the lights from the thin little wire inside the garland, I felt the thin wire slice right under my fingernail. OUCH! Who says decorating for Christmas is fun! After I finished the garland experience, (a new garland is now required....) I checked the fingernail damage. Sure enough, trim it, file it, it's still there. Only I think the cut might leave a little scar. And so it goes - the old life is still there, it's just been adapted, filed away, had its shape changed......with a few scars to show for the hurt along the way.
I'm not used to having any sort of long fingernails. A combination of weak nails and piano playing has always left me without nails as an accessory. Except for the few years of fake nails, they have always just been short and.... there. In the past eight months, they're stronger. They grow. I have to cut them and file them down. It's very strange to me - did a chemical change happen in my body when I entered grief? Or was it due to happen anyway? I don't know, but I do know that these knives that extend from my fingertips - and the care they require - is a new sensation.
Later Friday evening, the same backward-bent nail caught on something. You know, that sensation when it brushes cloth and you feel that little drag? I took a look. There was a cut in the middle of the tip. Not a big one, but like some tiny scissors just made one cut. I went to the place where I now keep the clippers and newly-acquired file, trimmed it and filed it smooth. It lost a little length, but it's still there. I suppose that was the price of decorating the tree. As Saturday came and went, more nails lost their way to the housework/decoration activities. They were shorter, but they were still there.
Today, Sunday, makes eight months since he's been gone. I don't really put much stock in anniversaries, but having made this portion of the grief journey personally, I see a truth. I slowly file away my old life. It's still there, it's just shorter. I can buy the low-fat eggnog now, there's nobody left to complain about it. When it's just me home, I have music playing. When it was just us, it was always the television. Still the same machine, just different. When a situation changes, I adapt. Humans adapt. The situation is still there, but we carry on and find ways to make it.
Adaptation isn't easy. Sometimes it even hurts! I took all the lights off the fifty-foot long stair garland yesterday. Those lights have been wound around that garland for so many years that they were caught in the little wires in certain places. As I separated the lights from the thin little wire inside the garland, I felt the thin wire slice right under my fingernail. OUCH! Who says decorating for Christmas is fun! After I finished the garland experience, (a new garland is now required....) I checked the fingernail damage. Sure enough, trim it, file it, it's still there. Only I think the cut might leave a little scar. And so it goes - the old life is still there, it's just been adapted, filed away, had its shape changed......with a few scars to show for the hurt along the way.
Sunday, December 1, 2013
My (burned out) light bulb moment 12/1/13
I have been shoring up the defenses. "The holidays are hard...". Every friend that has recent experience with loss, everyone with one ounce of common sense even, will share that information with me. Not to be mean, just a way of saying they understand, they commiserate, they're there for me. So I prepared. I have stayed busy. I had company. I had the kids around. I cooked. We shopped. Busy, busy, busy. The holiday, Thanksgiving day itself, was great. We had fun. It wasn't until today, with everybody gone again, that the reality, and the realization of what "The holidays are hard" really means.
Dropping nephew Zach at the airport on Saturday was bittersweet. We love that kid. (Not really a kid, but a kid to me!) We'll see him at Christmas, so we said goodbye, and headed on to more busy-ness. The girls crammed in last minute shopping and nails, then spent the last night with their respective friends. The quiet was relaxing. I watched a little TV with kitten Isis on my lap, then went to sleep knowing it was the last night of a full house. Still, I thought I was prepared. The holiday was past, I made it, no breakdowns. I had answered everyone that checked on me. I held my head up, I held grief at bay.
Unfortunately, all my shields can't stop the slow tide of sadness that creeps around the edges and invades my mind and my heart. I noticed the feeling before the girls even woke up. I did the usual, and hid it away. Even my own mom says "she hides it very well....". I can't help it, it's natural. We got the girls fed, packed and ready. Little Isis got in the car, and they were off down the road. One or two tears rolled, but I found things to do.
After I finished a few regular chores, I decided I could at least put up the Christmas tree. We didn't get to that. No decorating, just put together the three pieces of the pre-lit tree. Easy, and a start. I love this tree. I've only had it two years, it's ten feet tall, pre-lit and beautiful. I brought it in, got started, and when I got to the top, the third piece, one whole section of lights was burned out. I unplugged and re-plugged. I changed the fuse. I changed three bulbs and said forget it - I'm going to get a new string of lights and just put it on top of those.
I threw on a decent shirt, put on my shoes and drove to Walgreen's. Two strings of clear lights were left, and one of them was mine. I paid, got in the car and wham - it hit me. I sobbed so hard on the way home I'm surprised I could drive. I kept thinking "This is what everybody told me - the holidays are hard!" It wasn't putting up the tree, it wasn't even the burned-out lights. He would not have fixed the lights - the tree was my domain. The big sadness was having to face and deal with the problem in silence. I would have been able to complain to him. Those burned-out lights actually gave me a bright "light bulb moment" of my own. A huge part of our married life and any family life is that we can complain to each other. And, being married, or being family, you support that other person. I miss the person I could "bitch to". I miss him making fun of me when I complained about silly things. That's why I think the holidays are hard - there are more very happy and very stressful moments than at other times. And sharing those moments is a habit. I had to have a good cry about missing my sounding board. The expected holiday breakdown had arrived, uninvited and unwelcome. It passed when my super-friend made me get up and walk, as we do most nights.
After the walk, I put the new lights around the dark area of the tree. It looks perfect now. What's dark can be made light again. The burned-out bulbs are still underneath the new ones, though. Hopefully they "hide them very well". Bring on Christmas. I'm carrying my tissues.
Dropping nephew Zach at the airport on Saturday was bittersweet. We love that kid. (Not really a kid, but a kid to me!) We'll see him at Christmas, so we said goodbye, and headed on to more busy-ness. The girls crammed in last minute shopping and nails, then spent the last night with their respective friends. The quiet was relaxing. I watched a little TV with kitten Isis on my lap, then went to sleep knowing it was the last night of a full house. Still, I thought I was prepared. The holiday was past, I made it, no breakdowns. I had answered everyone that checked on me. I held my head up, I held grief at bay.
Unfortunately, all my shields can't stop the slow tide of sadness that creeps around the edges and invades my mind and my heart. I noticed the feeling before the girls even woke up. I did the usual, and hid it away. Even my own mom says "she hides it very well....". I can't help it, it's natural. We got the girls fed, packed and ready. Little Isis got in the car, and they were off down the road. One or two tears rolled, but I found things to do.
After I finished a few regular chores, I decided I could at least put up the Christmas tree. We didn't get to that. No decorating, just put together the three pieces of the pre-lit tree. Easy, and a start. I love this tree. I've only had it two years, it's ten feet tall, pre-lit and beautiful. I brought it in, got started, and when I got to the top, the third piece, one whole section of lights was burned out. I unplugged and re-plugged. I changed the fuse. I changed three bulbs and said forget it - I'm going to get a new string of lights and just put it on top of those.
I threw on a decent shirt, put on my shoes and drove to Walgreen's. Two strings of clear lights were left, and one of them was mine. I paid, got in the car and wham - it hit me. I sobbed so hard on the way home I'm surprised I could drive. I kept thinking "This is what everybody told me - the holidays are hard!" It wasn't putting up the tree, it wasn't even the burned-out lights. He would not have fixed the lights - the tree was my domain. The big sadness was having to face and deal with the problem in silence. I would have been able to complain to him. Those burned-out lights actually gave me a bright "light bulb moment" of my own. A huge part of our married life and any family life is that we can complain to each other. And, being married, or being family, you support that other person. I miss the person I could "bitch to". I miss him making fun of me when I complained about silly things. That's why I think the holidays are hard - there are more very happy and very stressful moments than at other times. And sharing those moments is a habit. I had to have a good cry about missing my sounding board. The expected holiday breakdown had arrived, uninvited and unwelcome. It passed when my super-friend made me get up and walk, as we do most nights.
After the walk, I put the new lights around the dark area of the tree. It looks perfect now. What's dark can be made light again. The burned-out bulbs are still underneath the new ones, though. Hopefully they "hide them very well". Bring on Christmas. I'm carrying my tissues.
Sunday, November 10, 2013
Practicing What I Preach or How to Act Like a Grown-Up 11/10/13
"He hit me!" "I did not!" "Yes, you did, your elbow hit me when you sat down!" Mrs. McCarty then intervenes: "If I accidentally stepped on your hand, would I say 'sorry' so, so quickly?" Elbow child; "Yes...." "Then say 'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do that' to her." Elbow child, mumbling, head down; "I'm sorry." Mrs. McCarty; "You didn't mean to do that, you're just saying you're sorry that it happened! That's how we are nice to each other!" Elbow child; nothing.
This happens at least once a week. In elementary school, little accidental bumps and jostles can be interpreted by the 'victim' as a crime against themselves and all of humanity. I always use myself as the example 'bad guy', because they know what my reaction would be. I'm so, so sweet and nice, and I would feel terrible if I stepped on their little hand (which does happen but only a couple times a year, so I have a great safety average! And no serious injuries ever, thank goodness.) By telling them to apologize for the fact that the mistake happened, I hope I'm teaching manners, maturity, responsibility, you name it. The thing is.....can I practice what I preach with adults?
In the process of walking through my grief, I present what I consider a very 'normal' outside. I work, laugh, joke, complain, suggest....all different from how I feel on the inside. I hide the sadness by instinct. It's not because of you that I hide it - it's because of me. Sometimes I go a little further than I want in the 'normal'. Evidently, one day, a while ago, I made a comment at lunch (based on a happening conversation, mind you...) that 'maybe there's someone out there for me'. I didn't mean now. I might not mean ever. It was an offhand comment, in context of the conversation. There was someone there, though, that took my words to heart.
This particular someone is on a totally different path, having been divorced for a long while, and recently seeing someone. A couple of weeks after my comment, this person seriously encouraged me to 'Go online, honey. Match.com, it worked for me.' I kind of said "Oh really!" and turned the conversation back to my people at my table. Later, I complained to friends. That bothered me. I was approaching only six months without him, how dare this person suggest such a thing right now? After I complained, and got the sufficient amount of pity from my net (what's a net? read this and find out: http://momastery.com/blog/2013/11/07/idea-title-im-even-sure-read-nets-well-call-nets/
I'm not on drugs, or bulimic, or getting arrested....and I have a net. I am more fortunate than young Glennon. I am also thankful that she has found her way in life and for her ability to inspire others. So...I complained to my net about that 'insensitive remark', got my assurances that I was right, that person was wrong, and was done with it. I mean, we love to complain to our friends and be assured that our view is the correct one, right? It's a national sport!
Well, it happened a second time. The person had reached a milestone in their new relationship, and was obviously (and rightly) elated. And once again, they took the chance to look at me and say 'Match.com, I'm tellin' ya, Ms. McCarty'. OH!!! I packed up what was left of my chips and yogurt and walked out. I found some net people. I told them, incensed. I got pity and confirmation (Thank you net!) And then, I realized.....for some reason, that person thinks that's OK, and this is going to keep happening unless I say something. Boy, did that let the air out of my balloon. I was going to have to address it, instead of complaining about it! I knew that as soon as I asked the person to stop, they would totally apologize, maybe even feel badly about having done it, but I DIDN'T WANT to talk to the person. I had turned into elbow kid!
It took two days. I knew I had to, and I knew I wanted to do it privately. I am the grown-up. When by chance I finally said...."You know, I'm just not ready to hear that, the match.com thing. Congratulations, so happy for you, but not me, not yet." The person apologized, said 'of course'.....and brought up the time I said 'maybe there's someone out there for me'. The person had taken me at my word. My 'trying to be normal' conversation turned on me, said 'Oh, this is what you want, eh?' and then I had to be a grown-up and say "Sorry, but please don't..." because of my mistake of being fake. I did it. I was the grown-up. My net applauded me. I, on the other hand, did not applaud myself, because I realized that my offhand comment had fed the whole situation.
Where do I go from here? If I am the grown-up I think I am, I guess I need to mix a little of my inner sadness in with my outer 'normal'. The icy covering needs to break and mix with the deep dark cold water of sorrow, and form a slush that can create a completely different attitude from either 'fake' or 'hidden'. I'm going to work on that. It's the grown-up thing to do.
A little addendum:
What if I had gone to the person accusingly? What if I had done it publicly? Too many people these days don't understand the good manners of taking turns to talk things over, and listening to the other side. Prime example: any 'political' news show where both parties or pundits that side with both parties are represented. They all end up yelling and interrupting, guests and hosts alike. I shudder to think that America bases its actions on what we see on the television. One of my main problem with politics in any forum is the lack of manners. How many families have talks about issues? How many do it the grown-up way? Do you listen and consider before you yell your defense? I have news for everyone - you're not always right. You're also sometimes only partially right. If you don't listen to what the other side says, you're compounding, not solving the problem.
This happens at least once a week. In elementary school, little accidental bumps and jostles can be interpreted by the 'victim' as a crime against themselves and all of humanity. I always use myself as the example 'bad guy', because they know what my reaction would be. I'm so, so sweet and nice, and I would feel terrible if I stepped on their little hand (which does happen but only a couple times a year, so I have a great safety average! And no serious injuries ever, thank goodness.) By telling them to apologize for the fact that the mistake happened, I hope I'm teaching manners, maturity, responsibility, you name it. The thing is.....can I practice what I preach with adults?
In the process of walking through my grief, I present what I consider a very 'normal' outside. I work, laugh, joke, complain, suggest....all different from how I feel on the inside. I hide the sadness by instinct. It's not because of you that I hide it - it's because of me. Sometimes I go a little further than I want in the 'normal'. Evidently, one day, a while ago, I made a comment at lunch (based on a happening conversation, mind you...) that 'maybe there's someone out there for me'. I didn't mean now. I might not mean ever. It was an offhand comment, in context of the conversation. There was someone there, though, that took my words to heart.
This particular someone is on a totally different path, having been divorced for a long while, and recently seeing someone. A couple of weeks after my comment, this person seriously encouraged me to 'Go online, honey. Match.com, it worked for me.' I kind of said "Oh really!" and turned the conversation back to my people at my table. Later, I complained to friends. That bothered me. I was approaching only six months without him, how dare this person suggest such a thing right now? After I complained, and got the sufficient amount of pity from my net (what's a net? read this and find out: http://momastery.com/blog/2013/11/07/idea-title-im-even-sure-read-nets-well-call-nets/
I'm not on drugs, or bulimic, or getting arrested....and I have a net. I am more fortunate than young Glennon. I am also thankful that she has found her way in life and for her ability to inspire others. So...I complained to my net about that 'insensitive remark', got my assurances that I was right, that person was wrong, and was done with it. I mean, we love to complain to our friends and be assured that our view is the correct one, right? It's a national sport!
Well, it happened a second time. The person had reached a milestone in their new relationship, and was obviously (and rightly) elated. And once again, they took the chance to look at me and say 'Match.com, I'm tellin' ya, Ms. McCarty'. OH!!! I packed up what was left of my chips and yogurt and walked out. I found some net people. I told them, incensed. I got pity and confirmation (Thank you net!) And then, I realized.....for some reason, that person thinks that's OK, and this is going to keep happening unless I say something. Boy, did that let the air out of my balloon. I was going to have to address it, instead of complaining about it! I knew that as soon as I asked the person to stop, they would totally apologize, maybe even feel badly about having done it, but I DIDN'T WANT to talk to the person. I had turned into elbow kid!
It took two days. I knew I had to, and I knew I wanted to do it privately. I am the grown-up. When by chance I finally said...."You know, I'm just not ready to hear that, the match.com thing. Congratulations, so happy for you, but not me, not yet." The person apologized, said 'of course'.....and brought up the time I said 'maybe there's someone out there for me'. The person had taken me at my word. My 'trying to be normal' conversation turned on me, said 'Oh, this is what you want, eh?' and then I had to be a grown-up and say "Sorry, but please don't..." because of my mistake of being fake. I did it. I was the grown-up. My net applauded me. I, on the other hand, did not applaud myself, because I realized that my offhand comment had fed the whole situation.
Where do I go from here? If I am the grown-up I think I am, I guess I need to mix a little of my inner sadness in with my outer 'normal'. The icy covering needs to break and mix with the deep dark cold water of sorrow, and form a slush that can create a completely different attitude from either 'fake' or 'hidden'. I'm going to work on that. It's the grown-up thing to do.
A little addendum:
What if I had gone to the person accusingly? What if I had done it publicly? Too many people these days don't understand the good manners of taking turns to talk things over, and listening to the other side. Prime example: any 'political' news show where both parties or pundits that side with both parties are represented. They all end up yelling and interrupting, guests and hosts alike. I shudder to think that America bases its actions on what we see on the television. One of my main problem with politics in any forum is the lack of manners. How many families have talks about issues? How many do it the grown-up way? Do you listen and consider before you yell your defense? I have news for everyone - you're not always right. You're also sometimes only partially right. If you don't listen to what the other side says, you're compounding, not solving the problem.
Tuesday, November 5, 2013
I've Had Enough. (The one you have to look to find because I tell the truth) 11/5/13
I've had enough of some people. Stop. Just stop. Don't tell me how to find a man. It will be six months in a couple of days, and my heart still thinks he'll walk through the door. There are so many things for him to do. How am I supposed to know how to contact his Norwegian accountant, much less pay Norwegian taxes? I can see it now - little Norway police arriving at my school, asking for me and arresting me, even though I don't have a dragon tattoo! How much is 629 in Norwegian, anyway?
Work gets in the way. Yes, I've said in other posts that it's my salvation, but sometimes, it feels as it I'm back in the music building. You know, posing as a music major. I always felt that way, because I didn't have that "Ahhhhh!" attitude about all the classical music stuff. I would rather be out eating pizza or kissing on my boyfriend than practicing until 1 a.m. For that I was weird? These days, there are the 1 a.m. people in elementary school. Okay, maybe 7 p.m. But I don't share that desire. That building gets me - all of me - wholeheartedly - (well, I fake that occasionally) - from 8 a.m. to 4 p.m. After that, I'm not the music teacher anymore. I'm back to being me. The widow. The single mom. The caretaker of the house/pets/accounts/vehicles/pool/you-name-it-I'm-in-charge-of-it. When I need to locate four particular papers for the accountant, two more for the lawyer, and do a couple of hours of homework for the financial planner, I really feel as if work needs to go away. Is there such thing as widow's leave? There needs to be, and it needs to be the type of leave that can be spread out for when you need it most.
I rant here, and I want attention here. I write because I want people to read this and understand (which you do) and give me an encouraging comment (which you do). I am an attention hog with a blog. Please don't hate me. Let me down gently. At six months of grief, that will be the only gentle thing that happens. Life moves on, and I'm expected to move with it. And I have. At a limp. If you know me, you see it. If you don't know me, I look "so strong". Hell, what else am I supposed to do, stay under the covers for days on end? I wish. I wish my personality allowed me to be a bit more of a delicate flower. Unfortunately, I am not. I would control everything if I could. Only if I physically can't or get absolutely shut down do I not exercise control over a situation. Man, oh man, did death laugh at me. I shouted at it, cried to it, and have sulked behind it for all these months. I don't like you, death.
I don't like a lot of things right now, and one of those things is people that "do it wrong". Thank goodness, there are only a few of those around me, probably because I keep my shield up almost all the time. There I go again, being positive behind a negative, because I can't group punish! Not everybody is bad! I just want to say, bad ones: just shut up. I'm done with you. I will leave the room or I will say "Not talking about that right now, thanks". Or just: (my favorite from England) "Can't". It must be said with a British accent, though. And if I do that, some American might not even know what I'm saying, or might think it's naughty.
If you found this post, know that I'm done. This is hard. I've had to learn a new way of defending myself. Until the insensitive idiots out there can stop, maybe learn, maybe change their demeanor; or at least until they shut up......my armor is on, but I'm now armed, and I might stick it to you a time or two. Someone should.
Work gets in the way. Yes, I've said in other posts that it's my salvation, but sometimes, it feels as it I'm back in the music building. You know, posing as a music major. I always felt that way, because I didn't have that "Ahhhhh!" attitude about all the classical music stuff. I would rather be out eating pizza or kissing on my boyfriend than practicing until 1 a.m. For that I was weird? These days, there are the 1 a.m. people in elementary school. Okay, maybe 7 p.m. But I don't share that desire. That building gets me - all of me - wholeheartedly - (well, I fake that occasionally) - from 8 a.m. to 4 p.m. After that, I'm not the music teacher anymore. I'm back to being me. The widow. The single mom. The caretaker of the house/pets/accounts/vehicles/pool/you-name-it-I'm-in-charge-of-it. When I need to locate four particular papers for the accountant, two more for the lawyer, and do a couple of hours of homework for the financial planner, I really feel as if work needs to go away. Is there such thing as widow's leave? There needs to be, and it needs to be the type of leave that can be spread out for when you need it most.
I rant here, and I want attention here. I write because I want people to read this and understand (which you do) and give me an encouraging comment (which you do). I am an attention hog with a blog. Please don't hate me. Let me down gently. At six months of grief, that will be the only gentle thing that happens. Life moves on, and I'm expected to move with it. And I have. At a limp. If you know me, you see it. If you don't know me, I look "so strong". Hell, what else am I supposed to do, stay under the covers for days on end? I wish. I wish my personality allowed me to be a bit more of a delicate flower. Unfortunately, I am not. I would control everything if I could. Only if I physically can't or get absolutely shut down do I not exercise control over a situation. Man, oh man, did death laugh at me. I shouted at it, cried to it, and have sulked behind it for all these months. I don't like you, death.
I don't like a lot of things right now, and one of those things is people that "do it wrong". Thank goodness, there are only a few of those around me, probably because I keep my shield up almost all the time. There I go again, being positive behind a negative, because I can't group punish! Not everybody is bad! I just want to say, bad ones: just shut up. I'm done with you. I will leave the room or I will say "Not talking about that right now, thanks". Or just: (my favorite from England) "Can't". It must be said with a British accent, though. And if I do that, some American might not even know what I'm saying, or might think it's naughty.
If you found this post, know that I'm done. This is hard. I've had to learn a new way of defending myself. Until the insensitive idiots out there can stop, maybe learn, maybe change their demeanor; or at least until they shut up......my armor is on, but I'm now armed, and I might stick it to you a time or two. Someone should.
Sunday, November 3, 2013
How Gratefulness Fits 11/3/13
I saw a couple of posts on November 1st. "I am thankful for..." Some even included the "30 days of thankfulness" challenge. It's a great exercise, coming up with something different and not necessarily the same cookie-cutter sayings. Some of the ones I read are quite amusing. I considered trying it, but I just can't. It's not that I don't have so much for which to be grateful. It's just that I; 1) am afraid to commit to anything not required right now and 2) am afraid that rooting around in my brain for something new every day will dredge up anger and hopelessness instead of thankfulness.
I am probably one of the most grateful people in the world this year. Yes, I am a widow. But, as my widow friend Ann says (about herself, and I am in agreement about me), I am in better shape than 90% of any other widows. He left us in good shape financially and that enables me to face the rest of life, even if it is without him. I don't know what shape I would be in if that were not the case. I don't even like to think about it. He left us the greatest gift he could by being smart with financial planning, and for that I am repeating "thank you, thank you so much" in my head at all times.
I am so grateful for my family. My precious girls have stepped up and shown themselves to be determined to do well in school and help out when necessary by working also. My Mom and Dad are there whenever I need them, as are my sisters. Scott's family is still my own - they check on me and let me know I still belong with them. I am grateful for my "family of friends" (sorry, Peter Frampton, I had to borrow that!), the ones that make sure I get out and do things and don't become a hermit, and the ones that take the time at work to stop, talk a minute, be there at special events - I am surrounded by wonderful, smart, kind people.
I am grateful for my job. Even though I get ready every morning in an empty house, and make sure I turn off everything before I leave, because nobody else is there, within an hour or so I'm in a noisy, boisterous, mostly happy crowd of children. They are funny, they are smart, they are like sponges when I find the right presentation of my subject (or any other item up for discussion!) You know how you tear your cuticle, or get a paper cut on your fingertip? And then when you put a Band-Aid on there kind of tight, it doesn't hurt as much? That's how I feel during the school day. I feel as if there's a tight Band-Aid around the pain and it simmers down and lets me teach and enjoy my little darlings.
At home, the Band-Aid feeling kind of disappears, but there are four lovely creatures that do their best toannoy soothe me. How did we ever end up with four pets? Cuddles, Marylebone, Roxy and Gordon are the light of my home life. If you do have pets, then you know that their personalities are individual and adorable. Some days, I know I have to get out of bed, only because Cuddles has to have her thyroid medication. When I get home each day, the house is not empty. I am greeted by loads of tail-wagging and meowing. Some nights, when I can't sleep, both dogs snuggle close to me, whether I talk or cry. And Roxy, well, Roxy just doesn't let anyone do anything she doesn't like, and insists upon them doing what she does like. (In a very loud voice, of course.) Thank goodness, one of the things she does like is sitting on my lap and being my friend.
So, you see, I am extremely thankful. I love the fact that America has a Thanksgiving Day, but even more, I love people that keep thankfulness in their hearts all year 'round. Thank you notes, Facebook messages and statuses, e-mails, phone calls, cards.......I'm not perfect, by any means, but I try. My friends do, too. You, my friends, are welcome to show the social media world the 30 things you are thankful for each day this month - I enjoy reading them! But I know you better than that. I know that you are grateful for life and its blessings year-round. As am I.
I am probably one of the most grateful people in the world this year. Yes, I am a widow. But, as my widow friend Ann says (about herself, and I am in agreement about me), I am in better shape than 90% of any other widows. He left us in good shape financially and that enables me to face the rest of life, even if it is without him. I don't know what shape I would be in if that were not the case. I don't even like to think about it. He left us the greatest gift he could by being smart with financial planning, and for that I am repeating "thank you, thank you so much" in my head at all times.
I am so grateful for my family. My precious girls have stepped up and shown themselves to be determined to do well in school and help out when necessary by working also. My Mom and Dad are there whenever I need them, as are my sisters. Scott's family is still my own - they check on me and let me know I still belong with them. I am grateful for my "family of friends" (sorry, Peter Frampton, I had to borrow that!), the ones that make sure I get out and do things and don't become a hermit, and the ones that take the time at work to stop, talk a minute, be there at special events - I am surrounded by wonderful, smart, kind people.
I am grateful for my job. Even though I get ready every morning in an empty house, and make sure I turn off everything before I leave, because nobody else is there, within an hour or so I'm in a noisy, boisterous, mostly happy crowd of children. They are funny, they are smart, they are like sponges when I find the right presentation of my subject (or any other item up for discussion!) You know how you tear your cuticle, or get a paper cut on your fingertip? And then when you put a Band-Aid on there kind of tight, it doesn't hurt as much? That's how I feel during the school day. I feel as if there's a tight Band-Aid around the pain and it simmers down and lets me teach and enjoy my little darlings.
At home, the Band-Aid feeling kind of disappears, but there are four lovely creatures that do their best to
So, you see, I am extremely thankful. I love the fact that America has a Thanksgiving Day, but even more, I love people that keep thankfulness in their hearts all year 'round. Thank you notes, Facebook messages and statuses, e-mails, phone calls, cards.......I'm not perfect, by any means, but I try. My friends do, too. You, my friends, are welcome to show the social media world the 30 things you are thankful for each day this month - I enjoy reading them! But I know you better than that. I know that you are grateful for life and its blessings year-round. As am I.
Tuesday, October 29, 2013
Way To Go, Audience Guy. 10/29/13
I had a wonderful birthday and a great weekend of fun to celebrate. It is humbling how many people took time to look out for me and make sure that it was a special day. I said on the social media page that the love and care created a bubble that insulated me from too much sorrow. It was true, what I said. Until the weekend, and the one thing I saw.
We attended the Texas Renaissance Festival, sort of a tradition for the past five years or so, and had several adults and two little ones. Wearing costumes and makeup has always been an escape of mine. I can paint and dress how I want to feel and usually, the feeling follows. If I share a song or two in the meantime, don't be surprised. I can always conjure up an imaginary audience to applaud my effort. Kind of spooky, right? Like I'm a modern-day Norma Desmond! Anyway, it was fun to dress up and go be amongst others that enjoy the same sort of thing. With that many adults, a few of us were able to sneak away and see the "not for kids" show. Entitled "Sound and Fury", they use Shakespeare as a framework for double entendre and some downright naughty comedy. The show was enjoyable, albeit a little lengthy. But it was what happened as it started that threw my day of make-believe for a loop.
The actors started out by explaining that they perform some improv with audience members. They then searched for a guy and a girl to go on stage. One of the actors would start some dialogue, stop abruptly in the middle and touch the guy or girl's shoulder to finish the phrase. I am doing my best to recall the sentiment from this past weekend, if not the precise words: Actor "I have found that I cannot live without....." (touches guy's shoulder) Audience guy turns to audience girl and says "You". Entire audience "awwwwwww". Actor "And so, this being the situation, I have found that I need to say......."(touches guy's shoulder). Audience guy turns to audience girl, kneels, opens a ring box and says "I can't live without you, I love you very much, will you marry me?" Audience is on feet, cheering.
I cheered - for a moment until the brick hit me. Love is out there, all around. But mine is gone. I managed to hold back actual sobbing and just leak a few tears, raise my glass and whisper "I wish you more years than we had." I do not wish to deny anybody of their joy and happiness. Joy and happiness are the balancing weight to sorrow and despair. Although I am sad and feel often alone, I wish the very best for those that are at the opposite end of the road. Well done, audience guy. I hope the two of you have many years, much love and don't have to say goodbye too soon.
We attended the Texas Renaissance Festival, sort of a tradition for the past five years or so, and had several adults and two little ones. Wearing costumes and makeup has always been an escape of mine. I can paint and dress how I want to feel and usually, the feeling follows. If I share a song or two in the meantime, don't be surprised. I can always conjure up an imaginary audience to applaud my effort. Kind of spooky, right? Like I'm a modern-day Norma Desmond! Anyway, it was fun to dress up and go be amongst others that enjoy the same sort of thing. With that many adults, a few of us were able to sneak away and see the "not for kids" show. Entitled "Sound and Fury", they use Shakespeare as a framework for double entendre and some downright naughty comedy. The show was enjoyable, albeit a little lengthy. But it was what happened as it started that threw my day of make-believe for a loop.
The actors started out by explaining that they perform some improv with audience members. They then searched for a guy and a girl to go on stage. One of the actors would start some dialogue, stop abruptly in the middle and touch the guy or girl's shoulder to finish the phrase. I am doing my best to recall the sentiment from this past weekend, if not the precise words: Actor "I have found that I cannot live without....." (touches guy's shoulder) Audience guy turns to audience girl and says "You". Entire audience "awwwwwww". Actor "And so, this being the situation, I have found that I need to say......."(touches guy's shoulder). Audience guy turns to audience girl, kneels, opens a ring box and says "I can't live without you, I love you very much, will you marry me?" Audience is on feet, cheering.
I cheered - for a moment until the brick hit me. Love is out there, all around. But mine is gone. I managed to hold back actual sobbing and just leak a few tears, raise my glass and whisper "I wish you more years than we had." I do not wish to deny anybody of their joy and happiness. Joy and happiness are the balancing weight to sorrow and despair. Although I am sad and feel often alone, I wish the very best for those that are at the opposite end of the road. Well done, audience guy. I hope the two of you have many years, much love and don't have to say goodbye too soon.
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