I’ve passed the eight month milestone since Mark’s death, and these months are the blink of an eye and an eternity.


    I’ve been sitting down with a new friend, T, occasionally for coffee or happy hour.  She and I first met through mutual friends at an outdoor movie screening one evening in our local park this summer.


    We don't have too much in common, other than that we’re about the same age—and the unhappy coincidence that her husband died a few days before Mark did. We stared in each other’s startled eyes when we first realized what connected us.


    When T and I met a few days ago, our conversation turned, as it usually does, to our losses and traveling through grief.  Despite the differences in our background, we’ve walked the same road.  Although we’re just a sample of two, and thus hardly a scientific study, our experiences and impressions are remarkably parallel.  We are both surprised when we have long conversations with old friends, and they don’t mention our husbands.  I think our friends want to be kind and are cautious about not upsetting us, but we both miss the comfort of hearing others remember them.   We both have moments when we mentally send out “Enough already, I’m done with this, come on back now,” messages to our husbands.  Even now, we sometimes forget that they’re gone and are never coming back.  When my plane touched down on my recent trip to a yoga retreat, my first fleeting thought was, “I should text Mark to let him know I’ve arrived,” followed, of course, by the stab of pain when I remembered.  


    But the worst, we agree, is the overwhelming aloneness.  It’s a very specific sensation.  T has lots of family in the area, and she (like me) has a son who is currently living at home.  I feel well-connected in Seattle now, with friends I’ve gleaned from volunteer work, pottery classes, my writing group, my hiking group and my book group. Friends from Alaska come through Seattle frequently.  I’m busy.  But what’s missing, the gigantic tear in the fabric, is that T and I don’t have our Special Someone, the person whose bond with us provided such richness in our lives.  Mark was my sounding board, my cheerleader, the person who reasoned with me when I was heading out on a strange tangent.  


    And of course, Mark was there in the night.  I still ache for the soft huff of his steady breath and for the warmth of his sleeping body against me.  My book group just read Our Souls at Night by Kent Haru.  This longing for connection in the night, for intimacy, is at the center of this novel.  I wanted to throw the book across the room when I finished it.  (Luckily I restrained myself, since I was reading on my Kindle.)  The final passages are so grim and hopeless, as if there is no possibility of escaping the loneliness of the widowhood road.  I don’t buy it.  I may not be there yet, but if I didn’t believe that there were better times ahead, I don’t think I could go on.


———————--


    Slowly, bit by bit, my house is taking on the quality of “mine” instead of “ours.”  As time passes, I make changes, and I’m acutely aware that each acquisition, each discarded item, each move of a piece of furniture reflects a small step into the future.


    The last remnant in the house of Mark’s illness and struggle was the cache of Ensure.  It represents one of our last desperate efforts to pump some nutrition into him, before the doctors told us that his stomach had been eaten away by the cancer, and there was no way he could absorb food.  I had two dozen or more bottles stashed in a closet, rapidly approaching their expiration dates.


    On Saturday morning, I toted them over to the local food bank.  I wove between clumps of customers in the long line to get to the door, those waiting huddling under dripping umbrellas or just letting the steady, light rain fall on their hoods and scarves.  The kitchen staff at the food bank were happy to have the Ensure; it was on their “wish list.”  I pushed the bag into the kitchen aide’s hands and hurried away.  


    And then I started to cry, tears just slipping down my face, right there in the car.  I was so eager to get that bag out of my house and yet, the dilemma is evident…each step forward into the future is also one more step away from my life with Mark.


    


    

From 80 percent to 100 percent...

Our front door handle fell off a couple of weeks ago.  As I pulled the door open, the screws released and the entire piece came free in my hand.

The house remodel has a two year warranty, so I texted Blair, our project manager.  “I can come tomorrow,” he said, “but you can reattach it yourself, easily, with an allen wrench.”

A slight pause in the telephone conversation…

“What’s an allen wrench?” I ask.

Mark and I had disagreed about the allocation (or misallocation, as I saw it) of the work associated with maintaining our household.  I would get frustrated and accuse him of doing only about twenty percent of the chores.  He wouldn’t dispute that he didn’t do half, but he called the split more of sixty-forty.  I still think I was right.

But, now that he’s not here, I’m at a hundred percent, and that added twenty percent is weighing on me.  

Mark wasn’t much handier around the house than I am, but he would have known what an allen wrench is.  He might have fussed and complained, but he would have reattached the door handle.  I think I know a lot about many things, but those things have never included tools. 

So, first I do my research:  “An allen wrench is an L-shaped metal bar with a hexagonal head at each end, named for its manufacturer, the Allen Manufacturing Company of Hartford, Connecticut.”  Simple enough.  Off I go to Lowe’s, where unfortunately I encounter one of the nasty employees.

Lowe’s employees seem to come in two categories:  Some are charming and helpful, sometimes condescending (but I can deal with that).  Others are totally disdainful of a clueless woman trying to figure out a simple task.

I got one of the latter.  He glared at me over his glasses and jabbed his finger towards a set of bins.  “Over there,” he said.

The bins were filled with collections of small tools, but nothing was labeled as an allen wrench.  He watched me stare from bin to bin but he didn’t come over to help me.  I gave up and went back to him.  “I don’t know which one is the allen wrench,” I had to confess.

With a deep sigh he walked to the bins and pointed out the folding hex key sets.  But one bin had red ones and one bin had blue ones.  “Why are they different colors?”  I asked.

Another deep exasperated sigh.  “Because one is SAE and one is metric.”

Having no idea what I needed, but unable to tolerate any more of the conversation, I just got one of each.  

None of this stuff is hard.  It’s a good thing to know about tools and how to make minor repairs.  I’m sure I’ll be a better person (at least a more competent one) when I learn all this.  It’s just that there’s a lot of it.

Like replacing the furnace filter…Easy-peasy, once you’ve done it.  But the first time you have to figure out the right filter and where to get it.  (Amazon is the answer to the last question.  Amazon makes it so easy I can’t resist buying from them any longer.  Boxes arrive magically on my doorstep.)  Then you have to find the furnace manual for instructions, and hope that the whole thing won’t blow up in your face as you snap the old filter out.  What’s the big deal, you ask?  The answer is that it isn’t a big deal at all, but the first time it was…scary.  Furnaces are serious pieces of equipment.

On the other hand, I’m darned proud of myself each time I figure something out.  Wonder Woman here!

Ho-Ho-Holidays…

Chris and I attended a hospice seminar about getting through the holidays.  About twenty of us clustered around a rectangle of conference tables, boxes of tissues strategically placed in front of us.  

We introduced ourselves by reciting our losses.  Deaths of mothers, fathers, wives and husbands, our voices stumbling over our words.

Most of the seminar information wasn’t new to us.  I’ve read about the stages of grief, and what to expect as time passes.  I know each person’s journey is different in nature and in pace.  I know that the only way out of grief is through it.  Nevertheless, it was comforting and reassuring to hear the words said aloud.  I didn’t think I would get emotional, but there was so much feeling in the room that I needed that box of tissues.

The best advice from the seminar?  Think about the holiday traditions that are important for you to keep, and don’t be afraid to let go of the ones that won’t work for you now.

So we didn’t put up a tree this year.  The idea of opening those boxes of decorations floored me.  The handmade ornaments Chris made in school, now falling apart as the white glue dries and flakes and the cottony Santa beards thread away—memories of other happy holidays.  Each year Mark would buy me an ornament that was reminiscent of the year that just passed, the year that we had spent together.  When I was pregnant the ornament was a gold baby carriage.  The year we skied in Austria, it was a silver snow flake.  Those memories need to stay in the box a little while longer.  

But we did decide to have a big dinner Christmas Eve with friends, the way we always had in the past.  The extension leaves were popped into the big table and I pulled out the reindeer candelabra with the tall red candles.  Friends arrived with wine and gifts and good cheer.  The smell of roasting prime rib filled the house.  We toasted Christmas with glasses of champagne.  Yes, I was wistful, but I was happy too.  It was a good decision.

My Wedding Ring

I’ve stopped wearing my wedding ring.  After Mark died, it was of great comfort to me, and I couldn’t imagine ever taking it off.  But then, at some point, it became a symbol of my loss.  I would twirl it around my finger and grieve afresh for all that’s gone.  I’ve seen some of my friends glance at my bare finger and they must wonder, but no one has asked about it.  I’ve put the ring away in a safe place.  From time to time, I’ve felt the urge to put it back on, but I’m not going to.  I don’t know where my life is leading, but as much as I love and miss Mark, I’m on my own now.  

Talking with your dying spouse about what will follow his death isn’t easy.  I’d avoided the conversation as long as I could.  When Mark was still undergoing treatment, we both only wanted to focus on vanquishing cancer, somehow beating the terrible odds.  When Mark entered Hospice, we wanted to stay hopeful, managing his symptoms as best we could, desperate for a few more months, a few more weeks. 

When it became apparent that Mark didn’t have much time left, I took his hand and carefully pitched my voice into neutral.

“Do you want a memorial service?"

He shrugged.  “Well, I don’t.  You can have one if you want one, for you.  Don’t do it for me."

“Where do you want me to scatter your ashes?"

“I don’t care."

But I persisted…In the ocean?  In Alaska?  In the desert?  How about in the ponderosa pine forest at the top of the Palm Springs aerial tram?

He first hesitated, and I thought he was going to tell me again that it made no difference to him.  But he answered:  “Yes, the pine forest.  I love it up there."

In the end I didn’t schedule a memorial service.  I don’t know if that was the right decision, but when I envisioned a formal ceremony, I didn’t think I could make it through it.  Mark had been blessed with opportunities to see beloved friends and associates in the weeks before his death, and he’d said a lot of goodbyes.  Dear friends visited and sat with him, recounting old stories, sharing memories, and telling him how important he had been in their lives.  Although his physical state was weakening daily, he managed a final trip to see his golf buddies in southern California, and he even played a couple of holes of golf.  He was exhausted and could barely sit upright without help, but he relished his time with his friends and family.  In my mind, the important stuff had already happened.

It’s the positive side of dying from a lingering illness rather than from a sudden death:  There is great suffering to endure, but there is also the opportunity to say what should be said, to close doors gently, to cherish the love and friendship in your heart, bittersweet with the knowledge of the change on the horizon.

Last week, just about six months after Mark’s death, our son Chris and I packed up his ashes and headed to Palm Springs.

I originally thought that there would only be three of us walking Mark’s ashes into the forest:  Chris, Mark’s sister JoAnn and me.  But in the end we were twelve, a lovely accretion of friends.

There were some minor obstacles to overcome.  I wasn’t quite sure (ahem) though I hadn’t researched it (ahem) that scattering funerary ashes in a California state park was—shall we say—a condoned activity?  I knew that scattering a small box of ashes in a remote area wouldn’t be harmful in any way, but there are those pesky rules…  And in order to access the tram, all backpacks and packages are inspected at a security checkpoint.
 
Mark would have enjoyed the humor of my stashing his ashes at the very bottom of my backpack, under our packed lunch for the twelve of us who ascended the mountain.  He would also have appreciated that I traveled through the security line right between his sister and her friend, both Catholic nuns in habits, to enhance my image as a law-abiding, rule-following passenger—not that carrying the ashes should have created any security concerns.  I just didn’t want to answer any questions about them.  The security guard patted down the backpack and felt the hard box at the bottom, but when I opened my pack for inspection he declined to dig below the slippery mass of sandwiches in ziplock bags. 

From Mountain Station, we walked down the long ramp into the forest.  The top of the tram is over 8000 feet above sea level, and the scenery is stunning.  A series of trails wind over ridges and through meadows, huge honey-colored rock formations and stands of ponderosa pines.  It was one of the tram's busiest weekends, but as we descended, we left the crowds behind.  (Mark and I found this to be true every time we took the tram to the forest to hike.  I estimate that only about one percent or less of those going up the tram make the effort to walk to enjoy the forest.)  We found a meadow area a short distance off from the trail, and the twelve of us were on our own, in silence.

The day was cool and the ground was covered with a thin layer of snow, but the sun had some warmth and the air was still.  We opened the box of ashes and I asked each person to help with the scattering, saying any words that they wanted to say.  We passed the box from person to person.  Sister JohnEllen and Sister JoAnn offered a prayer.  Mark’s ashes tumbled into the snow, ivory against white.  

It was very simple.

I don’t believe that Mark is in those ashes.  They are the mere remnant of his physical being.  Nevertheless, standing in that forest with those lovely people who cared about him, watching the fine ash drop to the ground, is something I will never forget.  It didn’t given me closure (I have a way to go for that) but it has given me great comfort.

Down to the valley floor in Palm Springs, at night, Mountain Station beams a single white light.  The brown mountains disappear into the darkness, and the light becomes a low-hanging star.  I look at the star and bid Mark good night.  

I’m going to sidestep from my blog series about my experiences of widowhood to announce the re-release of COMPASS NORTH this week.   It’s now available in the Kindle version on Amazon (http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B017QUWBZ8) and will be available in paperback very soon.  I hope you like the new cover.  


It’s been a long road.


The story of Meredith’s escape into a new life in a small town in Alaska had been rattling around in my brain for several years before I attempted to write it.  When Mark and I relocated to Seattle, I finally had the time to put pen to paper (well, fingers to keyboard) to see if I really had it in me to write Meredith’s story.


Writing a novel is a mammoth undertaking.  I’d always considered myself a writer.  I earned my  MFA in Creative Writing-Fiction at the University of Alaska, Anchorage as the culmination of several years of night classes.  I’d published a couple of short stories, but nothing prepared me for the ultra-marathon of novel-writing.  


Producing the first draft was excruciating.  I found that I preferred to work in chaos, writing scenes as they appeared in my head, not following an outline or in any logical order.  As a result, my early work was a whirlwind mess of characters, scenes and situations.  After the first draft was at last sorted out (whew), a new kind of work began.  I’d revise and revise and revise.  Soon, I was sick of my story.  I’d spent too much time with it.  After putting it aside for a while, I revised it some more, and went in search of a publisher.


A small publisher offered me a contract, and COMPASS NORTH was first released in December 2013.  COMPASS NORTH remained with that publisher until August 2014, when a peculiar set of circumstances resulted in an opportunity to recover my rights, which I elected to do.  My plans going forward were a bit squishy but I was optimistic.  There were changes I wanted to make to the book, including a new cover design.  I was considering whether I should finish the sequel, A LATE HARD FROST, before doing anything further with the first book.


Then, on October 31 (yes, Halloween) of 2014, Mark was diagnosed with stage 4 pancreatic cancer.  He struggled valiantly for seven months, and died in June of this year.  


After Mark’s diagnosis and until very recently, I found it impossible to move forward with much of anything.  I continued to write my blog, first about our experiences as Mark traveled through treatment, and then later as I entered the foreign world of widowhood.  Working on A LATE HARD FROST or planning a route to republication for COMPASS NORTH wasn’t in the realm of possibility.


But sometimes help (or a prodding forward from a sharp stick) comes when you least expect it.  Recently a fellow author, Ceci Giltenan, offered to help me with the republishing process.


I first encountered Ceci after the initial publication of COMPASS NORTH, when I was struggling to understand the world of book promotion.  As a first time published author, I had an enormous amount to learn.  Publishing a novel is only the first step on a strange and confusing road, and I was clueless.  I had to learn about social media, and blog tours, and virtual launch parties.  I had to learn about catchy tag lines, and positioning, and what it takes to get a novel into bookstores.  I went to writing conferences, where the advice given in publishing workshops was sometimes contradictory, and often not helpful.  


Along the way, I’d noticed that Ceci (then also with the same publishing house) was having enormous success with her first novel, HIGHLAND SOLUTION, the first of an ongoing series of Scottish Highland romances.  Although my book didn’t fall in that category, I emailed Ceci and asked her for advice.  She most generously shared her thoughts and experiences.  With Ceci’s help, I participated in some on-line launch parties and she featured some of my work on her website.  Although we’d never met in person, Ceci went out of her way to help me.


Not too long ago, Ceci contacted me and asked if I had a short story to include in an anthology she was compiling, TANTALIZING TIDBITS. I sent her a story and she placed it in the collection. Ceci recently emailed me and offered her help in sending COMPASS NORTH back out into the world.  Without her encouragement, generosity and assistance, the re-release wouldn’t have happened, at least not now.


So I’m moving forward.  I’m dusting off the partial draft of A LATE HARD FROST.  I’m still struggling with the aftermath of losing Mark, and I imagine I will for some time.  But I can see that there will be a way out of the fog.


And, Ceci Giltenan, all I can say is…thank you.

I’ve become a bit obsessed with the obituaries published in the newspaper.  They are as varied as the people they must represent.  Some are warm and personal.  Some are modified resumes, reciting in chronological order the accomplishments of the deceased.  

I don’t even read the obituaries for those who were over 80 when they passed.  Those deaths, though a great loss for family and friends, seem in accord with the natural order of things.  We are all going to die, and to have lived a long and fruitful life before that happens is a gift.  The deaths of the very young are tragic, most often the results of accidents or offered up in the obituaries without an explanation.  Suicide, I suspect, in some cases.

I scan for people who died at about Mark’s age.  Sometimes, when I find those, I’m frustrated because not all obituaries provide the cause of death, which is what I’m searching for.  When the cause of death is included, it’s almost always the same.

Cancer.  Not infrequently, pancreatic cancer.

When I find these I pause and then reread the obituary carefully, imagining the life and death reflected by the words.  I can see another spouse, another family, another circle of friends crushed by this terrible disease.  Maybe it’s vampirish, sucking at someone else’s loss and sorrow, but I don’t get a thrill from these recitations, nor comfort.  Perhaps it’s just a jolt of reality.  

Maybe, selfishly, I just want to be reminded that I’m not the only one who has been on this journey.

***

After Mark was diagnosed, I spent many hours researching pancreatic cancer, looking for new treatments, scrounging for hope.  Even now, I still occasionally come across articles about pancreatic cancer.  

I just found a 2010 study from John Hopkins Medical Center, titled “Surprise Finding:  Pancreatic Cancers Progress to Lethal Stage Slowly.”  Some of the timeframes the article put forward:  “…it takes at least a decade for the first cancer-causing mutation that occurs in a cell in a pancreatic lesion to turn into a full-fledged cancer cell…After the first cancer cell appears, it takes an average of nearly seven years for that cell to turn into the billions that make up a cancerous tumor the size of a plum, after which at least one of the cells within the tumor has the potential and ability to spread to other organs.  Patients die an average of two and a half years after this metastasis.”

In all likelihood, Mark had the ticking time bomb of pancreatic cancer inside of him for years, perhaps decades, before he suffered the baffling symptoms that triggered the diagnosis a year ago.  All these years, we continued on our life path, making our plans for the future,  not knowing that this dreadful disease was taking hold in his body.  

This realization has been nagging me ever since I read this article. All those years, and we had no idea.  This world is a bewildering place.


***


This week I visited my doctor for my annual physical.  Nothing extraordinary:  flu shot into the right arm, pneumonia shot into the left arm, several vials of blood sent off to the lab.  

I’ve been Dr. R’s patient for several years.  She’s practical, pleasant and an engaging woman to boot.  We always chat about our lives during the exam.  I’d gone to see her right after Mark’s diagnosis, when I was a sniveling mess, just to talk to her.  As I told her now about the end of Mark’s life, she radiated sympathy.

We were getting close to the end of the exam, all the appropriate boxes checked on Dr. R’s laptop.  My hands were cold, and I was looking forward to dumping the paper gown and getting back into my warm clothes.

Dr. R stared at the laptop screen and hesitated.  “I don’t want to offend you,” she said, “but I think we should talk about sex.”

That stopped me in my tracks.

She continued, “I’m not suggesting that you’re necessarily going to have sex anytime soon.  But it could happen, and…”

She looked right at me.

“Your age group has the most dangerous sex habits of any age group.  Most teenagers have safer sex than those in your age group.”

For some unknown reason, I suddenly felt guilty—on behalf on my age group, I suppose.

Dr. R hurried to explain.  “So as people are widowed or get divorced after long relationships, they’re out of touch with the realities of sex today.”  She talked about herpes and HPV, and how some contagious diseases that have very serious consequences for women can be asymptomatic in men.  “You should keep all this in the back of your mind.  It’s not like any man you'll have sex with is going to be a virgin.”

I think my mouth must have been gaping open.  I couldn’t come up with an appropriate response.  Wowsers.  

This widowhood business is certainly not for the faint of heart.

    It’s a brittle glittery fall day here in Seattle.  The leaves are turning and the wind has a sharp bite.  I love the transition seasons, spring and autumn.  They remind me that change is afoot.  

    But of course change is always upon us, the only constant, regardless of the season.      

    Each day is different for me.  Grief still lurks, waiting to pounce, but I’m following the advice of my counselor.  Instead of dreading and fearing the onset of grief, I’m trying to recognize that episodes will wash over me from time to time with terrible pain, but then, they will recede.  So when grief shoulders its way in, I tell it, okay, bring it on, knowing that it will sink its teeth into me, but then I’ll get through it and past it.  And that’s what happens.

    And though it seems counterintuitive, it’s strangely comforting to remember that I am, in terms of the universe, merely a speck on a speck on a speck on a speck on a speck on a…  My whole being is tinier and more insubstantial than a dust mote in the entirety of existence.  Even though I feel my loss intensely, it’s personal to me, not universe-shattering.  When I listen to the news every day, it’s clear so many others have suffered exponentially greater losses and tragedies.  No life will be untouched by grief and loss.  

    What helps most right now is a recognition that life still offers joy.  A dear friend lost his life to pancreatic cancer a couple of years ago, long before Mark received the same terrible diagnosis.  Just this last month, his youngest daughter gave birth to her first child, and the pictures of that new family clustering close and rejoicing in their very tiny baby made my heart swell.  We all wish her father was still here to celebrate with them, but the world just didn’t unfold that way.  He was fortunate enough to walk both his daughters down the wedding aisle in his final year before succumbing to that dreadful disease.  None of us will get all of what we want.  

    And as goofy as it may sound (especially to those who aren’t “animal people”), having the enormous ungainly puppy here is incredibly life-affirming.  Rusty is one year old now, but as is common in large breeds, he won’t lose his “puppiness” for at least another year.  He’s rambunctious and awkward and a lot of work, and he’s quite a bit bigger than the breeder told me he would be.  If Rusty and I  had conversations, they would sound like this:

    Me:    Oh, it’s such a gloomy day.

    Rusty:    Let’s go for a walk!

    Me:    Makes me want to sit on the couch and brood…

    Rusty:  Let’s go for a walk!

    Me:    —sigh--

    Rusty:    It’s a great day for a walk!  Hey!  Let’s go!

And so, we go for a walk, and the world suddenly is a more cheerful place.
  

Three months.  It’s been three months.

The third of each month is going to clang like a discordant bell for some time, I think, as a marker of time passed since June 3, when Mark died.

Hospice has written to me:  “It is not uncommon for people to describe their grief as ‘getting worse’ or describe their grief as ‘stronger’ three months after the death.  People often report their natural supports have begun to fade away, which may intensify any feelings of loneliness after a loss.”  They ask me to call if I want to talk.

Right now, I don’t want to talk.  What I want, of course, is to have Mark back.  I want him to walk through the doorway and give me a hug, and I want to realize that this has all been a long bad dream, one of those dreams that make you shudder when you wake up, cold all over from the realization that in your dream state you believed the horror was real.

Last night I dreamt that I was on a wide beach struggling to run away from the ocean, but I was mired in sand and couldn’t make much headway.  Behind me, I could sense massive dark waves mounting and climbing, coming my way, but I didn’t dare look back.  I didn’t want to see them.  I just kept pushing ahead, until I woke up.

Most days are better now, because the passage of time has started to work its inevitable magic.  I’m no longer constantly surprised at the turn my life has taken.  I can’t say I’m used to the changes, but I’m following this path with my eyes open, sometimes trudging with determination, but there are many intervals when I feel, well, normal—my new normal.

I’ve found comfort in the poetry of grief.  These poems are not new to me, but they have a different resonance now.  Rumi’s “The Guest House” urges me to be open to all the feelings that sweep through my life.  Rilke’s “Pushing Through” reminds me of the universality of the experience of grief.  It begins:


          “It’s possible I am pushing through solid rock
            in flintlike layers, as the ore lies, alone;
           I am such a long way in I see no way through,
           and no space: everything is close to my face,
           and everything close to my face is stone.
           …”

Perhaps it is Rilke’s poem that is the inspiration for the observations by the grief counsellors that the only way out of grief is through it.  

There is still so much to be done, and so much of it still seems impossible at the moment.  I picked up Marie Kondo’s book, The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up:  the Japanese art of decluttering and organizing because everyone seems to be talking about it.  My first observation is that Kondo must be a trifle insane.  I don’t really believe that the socks in my drawer can’t rest because they are balled up together.  Nevertheless, serious decluttering probably is life-affirming.  I just don’t think it’s time for me to do it yet.  Mark’s half of the closet remains untouched, except for the items Chris has taken to use.  (Fortunately, Mark and Chris shared the same size in almost everything.)  I started to fuss over what to do with some of Mark’s clothes.  Mark had a large collection of absolutely beautiful designer silk ties.  Chris may be able to use one or two, but what should I do with the others?  When I mentioned this to the counselor I was seeing, she asked me why I felt I needed to do anything right now.  Just pack them away, she advised.  You don’t need to deal with them now, she said.  

She’s absolutely right.  There is a lot more pressing and immediate business to address than disposing of Mark’s ties.  Now is a time to triage, and to only take on what needs to be taken on.  The rest can wait.

I’ve been to see a counselor a couple of times, to try to get a handle on this grieving business.  The conversations tend to go like this:

Me:  I’m so forgetful.
She:  That’s perfectly normal.

Me:  And I have so little energy.
She:  That’s normal.

Me:  I feel I’m getting better, and then I have a crash, and I feel terrible again.
She:  That’s to be expected.  The grieving process isn’t linear.

Me:  I get so easily overwhelmed.  It’s so difficult for me to formulate any plan.
She:  Perfectly normal.

Me:  What can I do to fix all this?
She:  Nothing.  You just have to be patient.  Time will help.

Patience.  Not one of my strengths.  I want to charge in, take the cure, be back to “normal,” whatever that is.  I never want to forget Mark, and that won’t happen, but it would be so great to be able to see beyond the murky horizon that this brain fog has created.

The counselor’s message:  “When you have mental conversations with yourself, talk to yourself the way that you would talk to a friend.  Don’t be judgmental.  If a friend was in your situation, you’d be supportive and forgiving.  You need to be that way with yourself.”

I can tell there’s some wisdom there.

Recently I talked with an acquaintance who has trodden a similar life path. Five years ago, Kathleen lost her husband to a horrible cancer, after he battled it for 14 months.  Now, she’s in a new home and has a new committed relationship, and she seems so settled and balanced.

We met for happy hour at a local restaurant.  “How did you get through it?”  I asked her, as we sat at the bar and sipped our wine.

Kathleen thought about that for a while before answering.  “Three things helped me.  First, yoga, for the breathing practice.  Second, I found a personal trainer, and I still work with him though it’s expensive, to take care of my body.  Third, for a while I saw a counselor regularly, so I had someplace to go and just cry.”

Then she paused.  “And of course, most important, was being patient with myself.”

That patience thing again…

I feel like I’m treading water, but I guess I don’t have the personal resources to swim forward yet.  I’m trying to avoid making mistakes.  Another piece of advice I’ve been given:  “Don’t make any important decisions for at least a year.”  That’s good advice too, I sense, though after your spouse’s death you’re forced to make a lot of important decisions right away, whether you want to or not.  

I guess my plan is, for a while, not to have a plan.  That is so not me.  I’ll try to be patient.  Grief will take its own fine time, and it won’t be rushed.  Right now I can believe in my head that joy must still be out there somewhere, but my heart denies it.  I’ll try to be patient and wait for my heart to catch up.

My brain fog is lifting, little by little, although this isn’t a linear process.  Sometimes I still am so forgetful.  I also tire quickly and unpredictably, and I find myself from time to time sitting in a chair, staring into space, bewildered and confused by my life.  Fortunately, Hospice warned me to expect all these symptoms, so I know I’m grieving, and not losing my mind.

And slowly, I’m getting done what needs to be done.  I recently sold Mark’s car.  I’d never sold a car before, but friends gave me good advice and I did my research, so I muddled through the process.  It made no sense to keep the car, but it was emotionally difficult to peel away another piece of Mark.  He loved the car, and everything about the car reminded me of him. I sold it to a friend who is thrilled to have it, and it was comforting to me to think that Mark would have approved.

But then I wondered, why do I feel this way?

What do we owe to the dead?  Some years ago, I read an article asserting that we owe the dead nothing.  We do our best for those we love and those to whom we have obligations while they’re alive.  But after they’re gone, they’re no longer a part of our world, which continues to change and evolve.  So, the author argued, the living are free to behave as they will, in accord with their own needs and conscience, without regard to what the dead would have wanted.

I recall that the article focused mostly on deathbed promises, the vows made to a dying loved one.  Picture the young son, grasping his mother’s hands as she whispers out her last words:  Promise you’ll never abandon the family business.  Promise you’ll never marry that horrible girl.  Promise that you’ll take care of Toto.  Yes, he says, yes.  Anything to give her comfort in her final hour.  But how seriously must he take those promises after she passes?

I made no such promises, nor did Mark ask me to make any.  Mark rarely imposed his judgment on any of my decisions while he was living, so wherever he might be, I don’t imagine that he’s passing judgment on them now .  Yet I find myself imagining his reaction to my actions, as if I should take his opinions into consideration, and I find these imagined reactions quite compelling.

Years ago, Mark’s mother and my mother passed away within a few months of one another.  Mark and I each received an inheritance.  We decided to use them to pay off our house mortgage.  I remember that our decision was reinforced by our confidence that our mothers would have found this a good use of this money, even though we didn’t imagine them hovering above watching us.  Making a decision that we thought was in line with our mothers’ values was comforting and reassuring to us.  

The truth, I believe, is not that it’s a matter of obligation, moral or otherwise, to consider what the dead would want or feel about what we do.  As I think it through, I believe it’s a way of keeping those dear to us close and honoring them, even when they’re gone.  Perhaps it’s our way of extending their time with us, through our recognition that although our loved ones are gone, we’ve incorporated some of who they were into the core of ourselves.

This is a true story.  Since Mark died, I’ve held this story close and, until now, only shared it with a few trusted friends.  

As a fiction writer, I know that “it really happened” doesn’t count for anything.  Most likely, if I included this story in a fictional account, readers would scoff and find it implausible.  Simply not credible.

But this isn’t fiction.  This is what happened.  Make of it what you will.

Mark died at 8:40 in the morning.  I was by his bedside.  He hadn’t spoken in over 24 hours, and seemed unaware of anyone’s presence.  His breathing was labored, his eyes half open but unseeing, until finally his breathing stopped.

Hospice and the funeral home were called, and Chris came home from work.  Chris and I sat with Mark while we waited for the funeral home attendants to arrive, which took about two hours.  

Two men in poorly fitted black suits arrived.  They looked like thugs but they seemed kind.  They murmured, “I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am,” a phrase that would be directed at me with great regularity in the weeks to come.  After I signed some paperwork, they brought in a gurney and undertook the task of removing Mark.  It took some time.  The gurney was awkward to negotiate around corners and through doorways.  Finally, they wheeled Mark out.  He was encased in an opaque zippered bag.  

Chris and I sat on the living room couch.  My world had just shattered and I wasn’t sure what to do.  I told Chris, “I’m going to make some coffee” and we both moved into the kitchen.

Suddenly, we heard music.  I looked at Chris, puzzled.  I realized the music was coming from my pocket, from Mark’s phone, which I had been carrying with me.  The phone was password locked.

The song was one I had never heard before, and I’m assuming it was streaming from a Pandora station.  It was “The Barricades of Heaven” written by Jackson Brown, and sung by Mark Knoffler, Mark’s favorite performer.  Even played on the tinny tones of the IPhone, it was beautiful.

As I held the phone in my hand and Chris and I listened to the song, the air around us suffused with Mark’s presence.  I cannot explain it, but I was drenched in utter joy.  I remember smiling.  For a few very brief moments, Mark surrounded us in love, and then, just as suddenly, he was gone.

Recently I asked Chris, my very rational and logical son, what he thought happened in those few moments.  He paused and answered, “I have no idea.”

The song lyrics are about yearning, and childhood, and the passage of time.  In part:

“…
Childhood comes for me at night
Voices of my friends
Your face bathing me in light
Hope that never ends
…

Make of it what you will.