Tom Sonday

Weather permitting, and with ample helpings of God’s grace, 16 of Tom’s relatives and friends and I will be on a cruise starting Sunday for a week.  I am so looking forward to spending time in a different climate.  Even if I spend the week at the Fort Lauderdale airport awaiting my luggage, it’ll be a great change of pace.

Daughter Gigantor has come home to care for the critters, mine and Tom’s brother Jim’s canines.  Someone asked if I’d be worried about her being all alone for a week.  Well of course, because Moms worry about everything.  And well, of course not, because she won’t be alone.  Fluffy, Puffy, Shiloh and Melvin the 800-pound cat will follow her from room to room.

I took off my wedding bands Thursday; that was a huge step.  What precipitated it was the engagement ring getting hung up on the interior fibers of my glove yet again.  I removed the glove with the ring still caught inside and spent a while untangling it — a long while, which gave me time to reflect.

As it has been pointed out to me, the vow was “to death do you part.”  We’re parted.  The ring seems to have a greater attachment to my glove than it does to me anyway. 

But seriously … this was a small move but emotionally huge.  Removing the rings has everything to do with me starting to come to terms with the fact that he’s gone and I need to remake my new life, and nothing to do with wanting to pick up sailors on the cruise.  As it has also been pointed out to me — wedding rings never stopped anyone from picking up people, and that’s not my style anyway.  Plus, logistically I’m not sure how I’d pick up a sailor, what with sharing a cabin with my son, and my mother-in-law and Tom’s brother in the cabin next door! 

So … I’ll blob with y’all in a week or so.  Thanks for your continued support.

Charlotte

Hello faithful readers.

Please recall the post of about a month ago, where I shared that we’d lost three hives. 

That’s the bad news.  But, the good news is — there’s honey available!  Daughter Gigantor helped me extract and bottle, and even though we saved over half of those beautifully filled honeycombs as a “welcome to your new hive” gift for the newbies (new bees?) that will be arriving in April, we still have several dozen containers available.

My daughters and I have been busy working on a new charitable foundation website, from which it’ll be easier to obtain honey and make donations to Tom’s favorite charities.  But, it isn’t done yet.  (I must’ve gotten distracted by extracting and the activities that inevitably follow extraction — cleaning honey off of every door knob, railing, light switch and handle.  It happens no matter how careful I try to be, but in looking for the blessings in it — finding the cat is easier when he’s stuck to the window ledge.  (The cat was never really stuck to the window ledge, he was just a little sticky and will use any excuse to lounge for hours in the same location.))

If you’d like to obtain some honey in exchange for a donation to Meals on Wheels or Loaves & Fishes, contact me via a comment here or primahub at aol, and I’ll tell you how it works currently.  (I’ll post here when the new site is up.)

Last fall Jim, from Illinois, had obtained some honey, and asked me to let him know when more was available.  I emailed him this afternoon, and was delighted to see his request for several more bottles tonight.   A smile broke across my face, and I turned to my honey after reading the email to tell him that his honey was beeloved by others … and then reality set in.  Tom’s laptop is still sitting next to mine, but his chair is empty.  Sigh.

But, I’m happy to say that the realization that he’s gone didn’t floor me.  Progress in dealing with this?

And I’m happy to say that I felt, well, happy!  I know that somehow Tommy knows this honey-for-charity thing is working and is pleased.  Not only will it help feed hungry folks, but the words of encouragement that Jim sent fed my soul also, and so maybe Tom’s making me take over his bees was his way of ensuring that I find people who keep me going in this sometimes-struggle to define my new life.  I’m not in this alone, although sometimes on a dark, snowy night with an empty chair beside me it feels that way.

Perhaps I should put some honey on the chair and stick the cat there …

Last week I would’ve said I was having a meltdown … except it was too doggone cold for that to happen!

“Torpedo’d” is a more apt description of what went on:  Like a boat in rough water, I was slowing moving forward (although sluggishly and often in a choppy seas), when out of nowhere something took me down.  That “something” was grief, coming at me in high velocity because some of the other defense mechanisms that may have slowed it down were not working. 

You see, one of the silver linings in death for those of us left behind is that life goes on.  We still get up, eat breakfast, laugh — and those all take on a joy in their simple normalcy as well as providing heightened enjoyment.  (Once I started actually tasting food again — a couple months after Tommy died, I was amazed at how good it tasted.  (And I haven’t stopped eating since!))

One of the downsides of death for those of us left behind is that life goes on.  We have to do the normal things like change the furnace filters and pay the bills, in addition to lots of non-normal things like retitle a car, decide it is time to stop smashing the coat closet door closed and finally sort (very sadly) Tommy’s winter boot collection, and change the furnace filters with no one to stand next to you holding the flashlight in that awkward, spider-filled space.  These little “life goes on” events — normally not waves that would knock me over — knocked me over when coupled with bigger waves.

The bigger waves included a lost cell phone, kids who were hurting because their Daddy is gone, car trouble, my own father’s health challenges.  Normally I could handle any of them (mainly because life doesn’t give you a choice), but when they all came at me at once, and all came at me the week leading up to Valentine’s Day, I was torpedo’d.

Why did I smack bottom on Valentine’s Day?  It wasn’t that I was missing Tom because it was the day of romance and chocolate.  (In fact, I didn’t miss his ranting about “it’s a made-up holiday for the greeting card companies and florists …”)  It’s because of historical events.

On February 6, 2008, Tom finally saw a doctor after years of putting it off (and nagging from many concerned people.)

On Friday, February 8, after reviewing the lab results, the doctor scheduled Tom for the first available colonoscopy on Monday.

That Monday the doctor performing the procedure said there was tissue of concern and to schedule an appointment with his office in a week.

Twenty-four hours later the doctor’s office called and said he needed to see Tom asap.

When I came home from work on February 14th, 2008, (Tom refused to let me go to the doctor with him), my husband “greeted” me with the news that he had stage IV colon cancer.  Happy F-ing Valentine’s Day.

So, of all the holidays and firsts that have passed since Tommy passed, why was I torpedo’d by the days leading up to February 14th ?  I think it is because Valentine’s Day marked the 2-year anniversary of when I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the life Tom and I had envisioned would never be.   I have a girlfriend who lost her husband to a car accident.  The day of Joe’s death is when her life veered in an entirely different direction.  Valentine’s Day 2008 is when my did.  I very strongly suspected (and probably knew deep down) that Tom would never see our grandchildren,  take our niecelettes fishing, or haul that truckload of dirt he had dumped in our back driveway to the new garden spot.

But, I was hopeful and helpful following that news — and joined Tom in the fight.  Sometimes during those 18 months we were even optimistic.  But, that Valentine’s Day, 2008 — I knew life would never be the same.  I’d ridden the no-cure-for-this-cancer roller coaster for three years with my Mother.  The roller coaster can level out and you can coast from time to time, but — in Mom’s case, and in Tom’s case — you could never get off the ride and the seatbelt just kept getting tighter around your lungs.

So, after thinking about all this (and blobbing it, because blobbing helps) I understand why I’m grieving so much this time of year.  My grief therapist affirmed that this was all part of “getting through it,” and loaned me an awesome book (“Loving Grief”, by Paul Bennett) that noted that pain submerged is pain left to do “anonymous mischief.”  Pain has to work its way out somehow.  So, better tears than tension headaches, losing your car in the parking lot, punching a wall, and / or cracking your tail when you slip on ice in your driveway because you were too distracted to notice it.  (All things, except for punching a wall, that I did last week.)

The book also likened grief to an undertow.  You’re constantly fighting grief with emotional energy whether you realize it or not … and you can run out of energy before you realize how much you were expending.  Like fighting a rip current, only when you give in and go with it for a while can you gradually start to get out of it.

I’m swimming out of it now.  A trip to Ann Arbor helped — not only to see daughter Becca, but also because there’s a Baskin-Robbins (which I visited both upon arriving and as I drove out of town.)  Blobbing about it helps, as has curling up with the cat and vegging in front of the Olympics.

Anyway …  if you’re still reading this by now — please don’t worry.  It is all part of this my awesome grief therapist tells me, and I’m doing much better now.  I’m sharing this only because you might have wondered about me (if you were one of the people I cried all over last week), and in hopes that I can help someone else (sometimes you have to give in to the grief), and because … who knows?  Maybe Baskin-Robbins will read this and open a location in my living room.

Earlier this week I did “bee outreach,” speaking at a local preschool about our friendly insect friends.  I thought I’d be talking to about 15 kids (one of whom is a friend’s daughter.)  Instead — because of the interest — I was swarmed by 60 little very cute but very wriggly, very inquisitive children.

A bee hive’s population starts out about 5,000 in the spring, and can grow by 10 times throughout the summer.  Same with preschoolers.  Within 20 minutes there were seemingly alot more of them, or maybe its just that they were all sitting waaaaay closer to me.  Corporate execs I can handle.  Non-stop sneezing / coughing / jumping-bean children?  Aaaaahhhhhhhh!!

They were a wonderful group.  I read them a story (Bee and Me), and did a show and tell on what’s inside a hive, what honeycomb looks and feels like, why I wear a bee suit and what it looks like.

At this part of the presentation I usually put on a hood, and then ask the kids what else I need to protect me.  The hood kept falling aside, so I removed it, saying “Let’s pretend my hood is still on.  What else do I need?” and waved my bare hands around.

“You need to put the hood on!” the chorus said.

“OK … let’s pretend it is on.  What else do I need to cover?” I said, again waving about my bare hands.”

Again:  “you need to put the hood on.”

So much for our game of pretend.  I put the hood on.

I had two dozen dead bees mounted in closed, clear containers kids could see if they wanted to do so.  Most kids were fascinated, and scrutinized them.

Some kids didn’t watch to hold a dead bee, even if it was inside a plastic vial.  Understandable.

A couple kids asked if they were candy.

Actual honeycomb got passed through 60 sets of hot sticky hands, and actually came back looking mainly like honeycomb!

I then asked if there were any questions … and this is where things sort of fell apart.

Q:  “How do you get bees?”

A:  “I order them from a catalog.”

Follow-up Q:  “What’s a catalog?”

Or:  “My sister is allergic to bees.”  And:  “I once saw a bee in my house.”

One of the teachers stepped in about then and reminded the kids what a question is, and we got back on the right track with “how do bees make honey?” and “how do they get in and out of the hive?”

Those are questions I can answer.  I know it is silly, but when a little boy randomly asked me “do you have an orange watch,” it stumped me.

Turns out his brother has one, in case you were wondering about that.

The relevance of that to bees?  Well, that’s what I’m wondering about!

One thing that’s changed around here since Tom “left” is that animals are now allowed on the bed.  Mind you, they got on the bed when he was here, but they were smart enough to do it when he was sound asleep or elsewhere.  Now, they’re not only allowed, but this time of year, they’re encouraged.

Every night, if they’re not already sitting on me, I call for my “Animal Support Team” when I wander to the bedroom.  Shiloh the Dog and Melvin the (obese, lazy) Cat quickly assume their snuggling positions.

Yesterday I was chilled all day, so I definitely needed them in bed.  Shiloh escorted me to the bedroom, but Melvin (who spends 99.999% of his time sleeping on the couch) was a no-show.

I climbed in between cold sheets, and needed hefty Melvin for my right side, so I called again.  And again.  And again.

And a few minutes later he jumped up on the bed, dropping the mouse he was carrying on my chest.

I’m a farm girl, mice don’t bother me.  I was also cold and tired.  I scooped up the limp mouse in a tissue and deposited it in the bathroom trash, taking care to shut the door in case Melvin wanted him back.

I hopped back under the covers between the animals … and then I thought about what I’d just put in the trash — a very warm mouse.  It must’ve been just killed.

Or it was still very much alive and just napping …

While I appreciate that Melvin recruited a third member for the Animal Support Team, and Melvin was EXCESSIVELY pleased with himself for doing so, I started thinking about that potentially live mouse in my bathroom.  Sure, the door was shut … but if closed doors kept mice from entering the house, I wouldn’t have a mouse in my bathroom in the first place.

It was 11:35.  When it is too late to call neighbor Wayne?

I analyzed it as Melvin purring loudly on my chest.  If the mouse was alive and came out of the bathroom, I was protected (allegedly) by my bed buddies.  I listened for scratching but — as I said –  Melvin was purring loudly on my chest.  I fell asleep.

When I got up during the night, I used the bathroom down the hall.  I wasn’t ready to find a mouse perched on my toothbrush.

This morning I remembered the dilemma, and got neighbor Rose on the phone in case, when I opened the door, an enraged mouse flew at me swinging a razor.  Sure, I could’ve taken Melvin with me instead of the phone, but it takes a lot to carry Melvin, and if I had to throw him at the mouse, I’m not sure the floor would support it.

Dead mouse.  Whew.

I’m wondering which warm animals will show up when I go to bed tonight.

That’s actually the title of a book, recommended to me by my grief therapist.  I haven’t picked it up yet, but — I strongly recommend a grief therapist.

I saw this angel in my life on Monday.  I shared with her that when I’d mentioned to a small group that I was seeing a grief therapist, most of them looked at me with disbelief, and one even commented “Still?  It’s been five months!”

Yeah.  Sorry.

Not over it yet … but I’m grieving as fast as I can.

Sorry folks who think I should be moving along more quickly — I just don’t feel that’s possible.  I think the “one year” rule-of-thumb is very accurate — even if, like many of us, you knew it was going to happen sooner rather than later and thought you had somewhat prepared for it.  My grief seems to swell as I go through the many firsts, and hopefully after a year I’ll be through most of them. 

The “firsts” hurdles were high and thick throughout the holidays.  I’ve hurdled many more since then though.  An exceptionally high hurdle for me currently is the taxes.  “We” always had someone do them, but getting together the pounds of paperwork is a dazzling and overwhelming task.  Sorry Tommy — for not appreciating more that you did that!

For the most part, life is getting back to “normal,”  normal being a new normal.  Tommy the Night Owl always used to tuck me in and then do whatever he did late at night.  I know he sometimes dreaded tucking me in, because only after I’d climbed into bed did I remember that the cat needed to be fed, I needed to take a medication, my cell phone needed to be charged, the gallon of milk was still in the car, the laundry needed to go to the dryer, etc.  He’d always take on the task list, because once I climb in bed I find it almost impossible to rouse the energy to get up again.

The first few times I had to muster the energy to get up again, growl.  But, I’m getting better at remembering to charge my medications, take the cat out of the car, and put the milk in the dryer before I go to bed now. 

And, I no longer think “oh, I’m going to bed all alone.”  While I am, it is starting to seem normal.   I allow the dog in bed (not that she gives me much of a choice.)  When she snores, as Tom would do, she gets elbowed … like Tom did.   Melvin the 80# cat also joins us.  While the animals don’t pig the covers like Tom did, they lay tightly next to me atop of the blankets, sometimes pinning me down.  That’s fine for these chilly nights, but come summer I may need to remind them who is really in charge around here (Melvin, it’s NOT you.)

There have been a few times recently, when I’m tired and not thinking clearly, that the thought passes through my head that it is time to get back to normal:  the hoopala of holidays is over, the kids are back to where they go, it is time to return to the way it used to be … and then I am jolted by the thought that I can’t get back to the way it used to be.

While that has deeply and forever wounded my heart, I rarely have a pity party when I’m reminded of the reality.  I’ve learned the same “peace” that my Mom, who also died of cancer, once explained to me.  I’d asked her if she got depressed or frustrated with having leukemia — she always shrugged and said “it is what it is, you just got to keep going.”  I now better understand that.  I don’t like where I’m at in life — it certainly wasn’t part of the plan.  I know I need to envision a new future for me and start finding my way there, but I keep tripping over the hurdles and that keeps me from gaining much speed in moving forward.  But, it is what it is.

And I’m grieving as fast as I can.