It's just NOT

I heard long ago that security of life is different in third world countries than it is here.  That they understand the fact that not all their friends and family will even make it to adulthood. I am so saddened to see that things are starting to look that way in the U.S.A.  We barely move on from the news of one shooting when another happens.   When did people become so violent? It's not the availability of the weapons.  It's not that we need prison reform.  It's not the failing of any system or program, although many are failing.  It's simply that,  somewhere along the way, some humans have decided for themselves that it's perfectly acceptable to take a life. Or many.

It is not.

It's not ok to hurt or kill another person. It's just not. I don't know where the breakdown is,  but we must rise up and agree that killing is wrong.  We must encourage and teach each other,  old or young, that killing another person is wrong.  Forget about blaming inanimate objects and start joining together teaching that we can be nice. We CAN not kill. Because it's not ok.

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.

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."

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.

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'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.

The True Story Behind "Thank God For Makeup". 10/1/13

I cried myself to sleep last night.  I felt sad from the moment I left school after the little show.  I had been named employee of the week, the choir did well on Saturday, and last night I had directed a successful, cute little show. My district boss thought that the little show idea was great, and praised it.  What could have been sad about a day like that? (Besides the obvious, that is...)  I wanted to share it.  I wanted to tell him.  I didn't want to text this person or call that person, I wanted to flop down in my recliner, beside his recliner, and tell him about the day and the evening. 

I tried telling the dogs.  They don't speak English.  They also don't actually take the time to process whether what you are telling them is an accomplishment or a shameful moment, they just jump on the love bandwagon, tails wagging away.  I didn't even try telling the cats, their level of  'don't care' surpasses the dog's love.

So I cried.  I thought of calling or messaging many people.  They're all there for me.  The overwhelming thought I had?  I will make them sad.  I mean, there's no sense in making another person sad on a boring Monday night, right?  So if you are one of my people, and you are thinking "I wish she had called me!"  I would have, and I thought about it.  But because I didn't, you didn't go to sleep sad.

Instead, I cried, slept a couple of hours, woke up, checked the phone, cried a little more, the got rudely awakened by the morning alarm.  Going through the morning routine is a bit of a consolation.  Another day has arrived, it's time to look it in the face.  I put on my makeup, and the  song "Tears of a Clown" kept running the my mind.  I know, it's about a breakup, most songs are.  But I started thinking about how I look with my makeup fresh in the morning.  It enhances the 'real me'.  No, it doesn't hide every scar and wrinkle...but it helps.  It opens my eyes.  It enriches my eyebrows and lips. It actually kind of.....magnifies the real me. (Good or bad....) With my makeup, I can still pretend for a bit that I'm in my forties, haha.  I also have a feeling, whether it's true or not, that my makeup hides my sadness.  When the mascara goes on, my eyes have their happy crinkle.  (Crinkle with some wrinkles.)  That can disguise the fact that I went to sleep crying because I felt so all alone.  Please don't tell me if that's not true.  Please allow me this small deception that helps me face each day.

After the makeup application this morning, I felt better.  I also wanted to put a cute status on my favorite social networking site.  "Cried myself to sleep last night but am much better this morning" did not win.  Neither did "Had really cool stuff happen yesterday, but nobody to tell".  Or there could have been "Aren't you glad I didn't call and make you sad last night?".  Instead, I started thinking about my beautiful makeup job   (the song was still there......"my smile is the makeup I wear since my breakup with youuuuuuuuu.......) and I simply wrote "Thank God for makeup".  Take it as you will. 

The real healing comes when I can finally have an hour or so to sit down and pour this all out through typing fingers.  I think that it because I know that nobody HAS to read it, like you would have to answer the phone.  You can not read it at all, stop half-way....your choice, just like writing it is my choice.   I'm a bit addicted to the writing right now, but it and the makeup serve good purposes for someone in my position.  They cover, yet magnify the real thing.  Thank you so much for listening, I hope you're not too sad now.  If you are, try some new eye-shadow.

The Next Section of Road 9/29/13

The weather is changing.  October will be here in a couple of days.  The kids at school will get to sing "October, Rocktober"!  The choir will scurry to learn all the holiday songs that they must know for concerts at the beginning of November.  Another group of second graders will do the cutie-pie Turkey Follies show.  The fourth graders will start work on their Holiday show.  I'll be busy.  But I'm scared that busy won't be enough.

I used to be so excited when October first arrived.  It meant my birthday was only twenty-three days away, then Halloween, then Thanksgiving, then Christmas!!  Zoom, the holiday season started rolling on October first and never stopped.  That's why I'm scared.  The beginning of Autumn through the chill of Christmas and the New Year is one long holiday.  Yes, certain dates are on the calendar for Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's day....but all of us, commercial entities and families, take this season to celebrate.  Non-stop. Food. Decorations.  Parties.  Cards. Gifts.  Travel. Family. Costumes.  Even pet costumes, if you are in my family.  I'm scared that every single day between October first and the back-to-school time in January is going to be a very difficult section of the journey. 

The few cooler days that suggest Autumn in the deep South are invigorating.  "The high today is only going to be eighty-eight!!" You hear it all around.  Everyone switches from cool clothes in summer colors to cool clothes in Fall colors.  Any Autumn weekend where people wake up to cooler temps for a few hours of the day finds them running off to the farmer's market or an Oktoberfest in some community.  We grab at any hint of a break from the heat and call it Autumn.  Never mind how much you're going to sweat at that festival or game.  Fall has arrived!  I always felt the excitement just like everyone else.  But I'm starting to understand why holidays are huge mountains to be scaled on the road of grief.

I'm trying to prepare my mind and emotions.  That's what I do, that's how I've been handling things.  I remind myself that certain days/occasions/tasks are going to be more difficult.  I then carry on through those things by allowing the memories and thoughts, giving them a minute and trying to move on.  I carry tissues in case I don't move on too quickly.  I surround myself with people.  I go different places.  I have started to do different things when home alone.   He used to have the television on during every waking hour.  I choose music.  I'm kind of tweaking life to sidestep sadness.  I don't think it's a cop out, because the sadness still gets in there a lot of the time.

I also have a lot of help in handling things. My beloved girls will be home for the holidays, and they are the best medicine for anything, as well as the ones that share my feelings.  Besides being a good friend, Meiling is the one that checks on me daily and watches for any sign that I need time, an ear, a shoulder, or Mexican food.  Thank you my friend for being such a good "keeper" to me and my zoo, that's why my mom won't let you move away.  Other friends, at work and far away, call and message all the time.  That is still important.  I love it.  Family is forever there.  Mom is always there.  Thank you.  And how precious is it that nephew Zach is flying in for Thanksgiving week?  Just the right tweak can make anticipation not completely sad.

In spite of all the help, I still must travel the holiday season part of the road.  I have read suggestions "just skip Christmas", "celebrate at a hotel", "light a candle for memory".....many ways that people in the same situation have chosen to travel their difficult stretch of the road.  But will any of that change my feelings and memories?  How will I not think, on my birthday, of him giving me the beautiful diamond band last year, and saying "Well, you are fifty, after all."?  How will I not think of him not being here most Thanksgivings, but always getting the turkey leg when he was?  How will I not remember how proud he was of the custom-sized nylon straps he made at the office and brought home to hold the Christmas tree box closed?  We had a life together for twenty-eight years.  It's impossible not to think! 

I will allow the memories.  I will try to move on.  If I can't, I will cry for a while, then move on.  I will appreciate all the family and friends that are there for me.  After the holidays are over, I'll probably go on that site and write my own suggestions for 'surviving the first holiday season without a loved one'.  But I will know that every road has different obstacles.  I'm just preparing for mine.  Since October arrives in two days, I have to put on my helmet and hold on to the rails. Walk with me, cheer me on, give me a cup of water.....the trek has begun.

A Twist of the Knife 9/8/13

I feel numb.  Maria, the girl I lived with in the dorm for four years - lost HER husband last night.  Her text to me started with "I've joined your club."  Ouch. This is not a sought-out membership.  I don't even know yet what happened.  Everyone is curious.  When someone dies, and they're in their fifties, and haven't been sick, everyone wants to know what happened.  I do too, I just have other feelings that are right up there with the curiosity.  I feel the same numbness, the same feeling of the world stopping, the same lost feeling that followed me home from the hospital on that night four months ago.  When death happens, those of us that always have an answer, that always figure out a way to fix things, that always try to make things work better; we are struck dumb.  There is no way to make it better.  There is no magic word, pill, book, way of talking, exercise, food.....nothing can change death.

Maria is a smart woman.  She is the kind of person I like to associate myself with; sensible, knowledgeable about tools, engines, minor repairs, fun, kind, with a strong devotion to family and friends.  She's not a weak person.  I like to think that the above description fits me, also.  (Maybe I'm just flattering myself, too.)  But this is why I hate to see her "join the club".  It doesn't really fit that well on us, 'widowhood'.  We were little girls that dreamed of wedding dresses, teenage girls that saw our parents stick with it, college girls with a plan to find a man.  We envisioned marriage with houses, pets, children....and we both got it. When we met, I was seventeen, she was already eighteen.  We were kids just thrown together by some random roommate fairy.  It worked.  We got along.  When we graduated, she was twenty-two and headed back to Atlanta for a job, I was twenty-one and headed to the altar with Scott. 

Maria wore the lovely shiny lavender bridesmaid's dress in my wedding.  I wore the absolutely beautiful black bridesmaid's dress at her wedding.  (To this day, the prettiest wedding photos I have ever seen.)  She came to visit after Mallory was born, to see our first baby girl.  Not long after, she had baby girls of her own. Even when we lived in England, Maria would come see us when we visited Scott's parents. The kids were growing fast, and all of us worked and were busy with life.  It didn't matter how much time passed, though; Maria is a forever friend. Whenever we did get the chance to talk, we didn't hold back.  And, being a forever friend, she was there this past June when we said goodbye to Scott with a service in Florida.  Maria and Tamre'  - the other best college friend - drove in the night before the service and had dinner with the family.  Then we went back to Tamre's room.  Within minutes, it was just as if we were in the dorm room together.  Only the discussions were about husbands, the loss of mine, nearly-grown children, aging parents, taking care of ourselves and the need for reading glasses.  I appreciate them being there for me so much.  Maria was there at the start of my journey with Scott and she was there to mourn/celebrate the end.

Then, that text.  Almost four months to the day of not being able to wake my husband from his nap due to a heart attack, Maria's husband falls over while mowing the grass, due to a heart attack.  My Scott was fifty-two.  Doug was fifty-three.  Maria and I are both moms left with two girls.  What a club.  I told her that if she wanted me at his services, just say the word.  She said let's get together later, she knows I've traveled too much lately.  I can't wait to plan a weekend outside Atlanta.  Let's call it a club meeting.  I don't want to invite anybody else.  Here's hoping that the rest of you little girls that dreamed happily-ever-after are continuing to live it.  When part of it is gone, the bad part is that it's still ever-after, just not so happily.

There's Me, then there's (me) - a Squirrel-Fur Story 8/31/13

The first week of school is over.  The routine has set in.  The big kids have already learned some stuff (ha ha, gotcha!), and more and more of the babies are opening their mouths and singing with me every day.  Here we go.  That's Me.  I will forever, though, equate this first week with the things I've had to do concerning probate, real estate, life insurance, and being the single parent.  That is (me).  There are barriers there.  I'm not going to share that information with everybody out there.  Yes, it may seem that I tell you a detail or two, but none of it chips the surface of the reality I'm living.

There is squirrel fur on the bedroom floor right now.  Just a couple clumps, but that's enough to make me think that some squirrel left it behind on someone's paw as it ran and HID in my bedroom somewhere. I found a dead squirrel out back on Thursday morning - very possible that one animal or another brought the dead one's brother in the house!  This is the kind of thing I do share.  Amusing anecdotes.  Enjoyable escapades. Hilarious happenings.  (Alliteration kick courtesy of my favorite fifth grader, Riley!)  I shall probably search for above-mentioned squirrel before I finish writing this today.  That's my 'story of the day'.  Unfortunately, there's a LOT more that goes untold. 

Almost every day this week, there was an untold story, deed, issue.  I can share a few of them here, but some I just only tell certain people. Me is an open house, but (me) is a locked closet.  I know, everyone is that way, it just seems magnified to me now that I'm dealing with the aftermath of death.

College girl's laptop broke right before she headed off to school.  Less than a year old, I knew it was still under warranty.  I had to deal with having tech support help me on the phone, then reporting to them that it still didn't work, getting an RMA number, shipping it off, etc.  Not that difficult, but computers were his department.  I think every married couple, especially parents, have certain "departments".  Laundry, paying bills, house décor, children and animal health - those were some of my departments.  Computers, TVs, pool chemicals, cars, yard, insurance - those were some of his.  Having to step in and run the other department is sometimes difficult because it is new territory, but always difficult because I'm only doing this because he's gone.  I'm proud to say the freshly-repaired-under-warranty laptop arrived yesterday.  Success in one new territory.

If only every little task that dealt with the aftermath felt like success.  Who is really worried whether or not I remember to take the right paperwork to school with me so that I can stop by the lawyer's office after a long day and let them make copies of the appropriate papers for probate court?  Who really cares that I answer the personal e-mails that still arrive in his inbox, giving them the sad news and telling them I will tie up all the loose ends and keep in touch?  With each thing I do, however, I share my accomplishment with one of the people that get to know (me).  My family, my best friends, sometimes a special friend at work.....but not everyone.  Even the examples in this writing are not the ones that I consider the "big issues", - the ones that send me to my car or my chair at home sobbing.

So it's not for everyone to know every piece of business.  I'd rather talk to you about how good the kids are this week (general consensus - they're tired!), or what was for dinner last night, or how cold it is in my classroom, and why can't I remember to bring my sweater to school?.....all of that is Me.  What you might not realize is that (me) is sitting there eating lunch, and because of the cold room and the soap from just washing my hands, I was able to slip off the wedding band for the first time in many years.  My finger was a size 6 in 1984.  It's not anymore.  Nevertheless, I worked it off. I didn't tell anyone, just put it on my pinky.  It's not that I'm ready to be without it - I still have the diamonds on.  I'm just scared if I put it back on, it would have to be cut off one of these days.  Or maybe I am trying to give myself reminders that all departments belong to me now, and I can do it!  I'm not ready to look unmarried, I'm just trying to do a good job at being the only one that takes care of everything. Talk about a sad story, a forlorn fable, a depressing drama.  That's why I only let most people see Me, not (me). I can do this with help - special friends that give me pens, dinner, chocolate cake, anonymous cards - these gestures let me know there are others that understand (me), and even have a (me) themselves.

Me can finish out this part of the story for you:  I called my friend to come over and help hunt the squirrel.  My friend took one look at the fur and said "That looks like your hair, are you sure none of the pets got hold of a hairbrush or something?"  I said no, and kept looking. After about five minutes of looking and talking, the answer dawned on me.  "There is no squirrel!"  I exclaimed.  I knew the answer.  I took a phone pic of silly Roxy-cat sitting on top of the wardrobe.  The vacuum was in the corner in the pic.  I moved the vacuum and took another pic, then put it back.  (Lord knows we can't have a vacuum in our picture, it just wouldn't look proper, would it?)  The last time I vacuumed, it was when my girls and I got our hair cut at the house.  Sure enough, that multi-colored clump of hair that I thought was straight from a squirrel's tail was actually a mix of our reddish-brown, brown and caramel highlights hair scraps, freeing themselves from the evil beater brush of the Shark.  I'm not hiding anything about the squirrel-fur story. That made me laugh today.  I will choose to focus on those types of things. Here's hoping the laughter will at least help (me) keep my balance.  Love, Me.

Only One First 8/12/13

We drove about 800 miles this summer with a kitten in the car.  My sister found her abandoned in Florida while we were visiting.  My girls had planned on adopting a kitten for their college apartment.  It was a match made in heaven.  "Isis", of the long tail. pointy ears, and pointy nose, has been walking, running, leaping joy in our house this summer.  Joy helps put a little ointment on grief occasionally, so I think it was meant to be.   Isis was a tiny baby kitten during this car trip, six weeks old at the most.  We all cooed and baby-talked to her.  Near the end of the trip, Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody" came on the radio.  I said "Awwww, it's Isis' first Bohemian Rhapsody.".  We laughed - every tiny thing that happened to that new little creature could be a "first". 

I, on the other hand, am not young, cute, new, or full of joy.  Yet my new situation, I learned this weekend, will hold a lot of  'firsts'.  And nobody will say "Awwwww!"  These firsts for me are difficult, as they are the first time I will handle a situation without the amazing wisdom and insight of the man I trusted with my life.  I am brave, and I like to think that a little of his wisdom and insight rubbed off on me during our years together.  I research and calculate and figure and plan.  The only problem is......there's no ratings, research, or math that can measure emotional cost. 

My first this past weekend was buying a car for my daughter.  We need to upgrade all of our older vehicles, as the person that could repair them and keep them running for us is gone.  With my girls driving to college five hundred miles away, I need them in dependable cars.  We had sacrificed a lot of dependability with no qualms about doing so, as Scott enjoyed keeping the cars running and could perform 95% of all repairs.  Since that resource is no longer available, I have to step up and make sure all three of us are in good shape in the automotive department.  With four cars to sell to upgrade three people, I saw it as an easy task.

It is easy to find ratings and rankings on vehicle dependability.  It is easy to find the "right" price that you should pay.  It is easy for my youngest daughter to be very specific about what she does - and doesn't- want in a vehicle. Then, to make it easier, I do have a very dear friend in the car business.  They still made a profit on me, but I felt comfortable with the margin. I did have to make a trip to the location where my friend worked, but it was a bonus to spend a weekend with another very dear friend. 

I was prepared. Money, insurance, proof of id, extra driver, (lots of dear friends helped with this enterprise!), a pen to sign my name over and over, and my phone fully charged to check Facebook and crush some candies. Dear friends dropped me at the dealership, where I got to work.  It should be a breeze, right?  I had already done all the research!  First things first, I had to inspect it (having chosen it online), and then drive it.  The sensibility of doing these things before signing and paying made total sense.  I approved the car, gave the green light, and was seated at a desk. 

Thank goodness for the phone!  It evidently takes a long time to get all the paperwork together.  I had to fill out one short form, and then just sit.  I did enjoy the family with two little boys at the next desk.  They were so young, so cute, and didn't care a hoot about the car Mom and Dad were buying!  After so many Facebook checks, and so many tries at a certain level of Candy Crush, I was ushered into a business office.  Then, the next question threw me.

Did I want to add a complete warranty?  (OF COURSE!! THIS IS FOR MY CHILD!!)  It would only cost x amount of dollars to do so, and it's a great idea!  Whoa.........that's x more than the number in my well-planned, well-rehearsed script!  Oh no!  Who can I ask?  I sent mind-messages to the person that would have advised me on this, hoping for some kind of vibe, positive feeling, big red stop sign, anything.....all the while, smiling, frowning and tearing up.  When will I learn to carry tissues?  Thank goodness, dear friend came in (maybe that was the positive sign?) and talked me through the decision, reassured me which choice was best, and I committed.  All by myself. 

That's it!  Write it up!  Pay the total!  Accept the keys and drive my baby's car back to dear friend's house.  That sounds easy.  Only I know that I alternately talked to the sky and sobbed all the way back.  I did manage to have some fun on the weekend trip, but I also took some naps and nursed a headache.  I realized after I performed this great feat that I had done a "first".  It was not fun, and none of the firsts that are yet to come will be either.  The only way to get them to not be a "first" is to do them once.  They may sound the same after that, but at least I will know the huge part of the lesson that I learned this past weekend:  In all the research and preparation, don't forget to count the emotional cost, and prepare for it as well.  It's a bold print-type cost and you can't hide from it. 

Maybe there will be a post on buying the next upgraded vehicle - after I sell a couple to finance that endeavor.  I hope that it will sound and feel pretty much the same, and I'll know what to expect.  You can ask little Isis the kitten if that's true.  You see, on the way home from getting her kitten shots at the vet about a week ago, "Bohemian Rhapsody" came on the radio again. I was just able to turn to that baby kitty and say "'Member this?"  There's only one first, after that I should know all the costs involved, literal or emotional.

If I Could Return This, Please - Another View of Grief 8/2/13

I'd like to return this item, please.  A couple of months ago, I was given this device.  It works by randomly shaking up my emotions and super-intensifying the one it lands on.  I have always been fairly happy and even-tempered with the occasional flare-up of anger or sadness.  It's a smooth path in life, and quite enjoyable.  I did not give it up willingly.  This device, this "grief magnometer", has taken over my thoughts, feelings, opinions, and actions.  It's a dictator with one agenda; to keep me feeling the opposite of how I used to.

Let's talk about sadness.  I have always cried at commercials, animal stories, my own and my family's hurt feelings, and especially when tragedy happened in other families.  It rarely cut me inside with knives like the sadness from the grief magnometer.  This device knows how to read when I am performing a simple task, like putting on makeup, washing dishes, starting the car....and then it attacks.  It uses triggers that I didn't even know existed to bring on the memories, followed by the trembling lip and tears rolling from the eyes.  If I could change the setting, I would have it schedule an appropriate time for sadness and a good cry, then I could carry on with the day.  (Holly Hunter did that brilliantly in a scene from "Broadcast News", by the way.  Check it out.)

The magnometer also knows how to scare me.  I am sensible and smart.  I have made plans to live without my husband's salary.  He loved us so much, and left us in good shape for the future.  But this crazy grief-device unleashes feelings of being afraid if we happen to spend thirty-five dollars on something, or if one of the cars makes a funny noise, or I see a bit of peeling paint out on the porch.  I usually take charge and fix things - fix them myself if I can.  But this new feelings device forces me to sit, stare, shake, cry a bit, (whine a bit) and even talk of giving up.  Thank goodness for family and friends that talk me through these situations and encourage me to be my old self and handle them.  This device is just plain old mean!

Speaking of mean.....that is one word that has never really described me.  I'm sure I had my moments as a young person, but as an adult, I think that I've only been considered to be a 'nice' person.  I like to joke when a new student comes in at the middle of the school year by introducing myself and saying loudly  "......and I'm the meanest teacher here!"  Of course, all the other little ones start saying "No, you're the nicest!"  "You're not mean!"  (If you're insecure, or an attention-hog, I highly recommend being a good elementary music teacher.)  I try to ALWAYS be nice to people.  So, mean feelings surprise me.  Feeling mean is different from feeling angry.  Feeling mean is strange.  The grief magnometer sometimes likes to shake things up and make me feel mean when people are trying to help me.  Not good friends, but people that I might have to call, or have an appointment with - people that have my best interests in mind!  I sit on the phone with them, or drive to my appointment, thinking mean thoughts about them, and concocting mean things I can do to them.  Feeling this way is so unlike me.  This is the main emotion shake-up that makes me so angry.

Oh, anger!!  When I was in college, my roommate took a class called "Death and Dying".  She would share portions of what they learned - it was such a foreign concept to college kids!  They memorized the stages of grief as set forth by Elizabeth Kubler Ross.  I remember Maria telling me the stages, they were novel and interesting at the time.  I understood all of them except anger.  I mean, yes, "you can be angry that someone is gone, but aren't you more sad?" I thought.  My twenty-year-old self thought that.  My present self knows that the anger is the quickest emotion to flare in my state of grief.  Everything triggers anger, because it doesn't matter if the feeling is good or bad to start with, the anger comes around in the form of "Why aren't you here to share this beautiful thing/help me with this difficult thing?" I'm angry at fate, I'm angry at him, I'm angry at the life insurance company, I'm angry at my financial advisor, I'm angry at anyone that expresses a different opinion, I'm angry at the companies that keep sending bills, I'm angry at my fingernails for continuing to grow, I'm angry at the grocery store for not hiding that chili and those hot wings from my eyes, I'm..........angry. Very recently, I went into a yelling, screaming, cursing rage fit.  Ninety minutes later, I was so embarrassed by my own self, I was in tears.  Thank goodness family understands.  I am controlled by this grief device.  I just never know which button it's going to push on which day.

It's too bad that this grief magnometer is a final sale item.  I cannot return it.  The thing it came in to replace is permanently gone, and it is permanently here.  I think I can change some habits and surroundings and learn to live with it, but I wouldn't if I didn't have to.