Tom Sonday

Because we’re having July in March, I’ve been puttering about the yard the last few days, doing yardwork and preparing the hives for the arrival of the new bees, due in two weeks.

Sun, ducks quacking from the lake, an ever-changing orchestra of birds, and trees that change hourly as they begin to bud — Spring is fantastic.

And, manual labor outdoors is fantastic.  I get lost in the progress of raking up leaves, or picking up fallen branches (which the dog carries from the pile back into the yard.)

Spring is a time rich for the senses, and rich with memories.

For the past two years, I’ve spent much of Spring in the yard, because Tom was home convalescing.  In Spring ’08 he was recovering from emergency surgeries and a month in the hospital, and between daily visiting nurse appointments and weekly multiple doctor visits, when I wasn’t tending him, I was tending to his gardens or bees.

Spring ’09 saw us in the throes of various chemotherapy attempts, along with trips to Chicago for targeted liver radiation, and enjoying each other in a renewed relationship that was blossoming most beautifully.

I worked in the yard when I could, wearing both phones on my belt — the home phone in case someone called, so I could grab it before it woke Tom, and my cell phone, so if Tom needed me — he could call.

On the days when he felt lousy, I’d check on him hourly, taking him a few slices of strawberries or cheese, and encouraging him to drink.  Looking back through the filter of time, I think there were more good days than bad, more good hours than lousy ones.

Sometimes when I checked on him, he’d be working in bed on his laptop — trading stocks, trading fantasy baseball league players (probably more often), or surfing the internet to find new plants for the gardens or gadgets for the bees because he was always always always planning for the future.

And almost every time, except on the lousy days, if he did nothing else all day, he’d fix me an awesome dinner.

I love getting lost in the manual work of the yard during this lovely weather, until I return to the house.   Only the obese cat is lying in bed, no Tom.  There is no tantalizing smell of dinner cooking … in fact, there’s really not much in the fridge — even if I had the knowledge to prepare it.  UPS no longer makes multiple trips to the house each week, dropping off little brown boxes containing tangible proof that Tom was planning on a long future here.

That didn’t happen, and re-realizing it, sometimes several times a day, causes actual physical pain.   That sucks, severely, but at least this gnawing of grief wears me out such that I sleep easily and deeply, most nights (and some afternoons!:))

I’m doing better now, but damn — there are hours / days when I really annoy the cat but make him move out of the exact middle of the king-sized bed anyway so I can curl up and cry.  Some of the tears come from frustration at doing all the “firsts” (taxes, turning on the sprinkler system, grilling, etc.), and some of the tears come from having to do all these firsts.  That certainly wasn’t in our plans.

Tom was so good at planning many things — gardens, dinner, what we’d do with our lives together, our vacations, our retirement.

I did what I was good at, and let him focus on all of that.  Except the “what I was good at” category was pretty limited (knitting, swimming, managing his bees and keeping him calm about doctor visits), and none of those “skills” is helping me as I try to figure out my future …

I never really thought about what to do with myself, because I stupidly never thought that it would just be “myself” to think about — I was too busy living in the moment to let cancer eat the hope that there might not be a future for us.  Naive, yes — but that’s what you do when you take each day as the gift it is while trying to keep that huge pile of worry piling up from engulfing you.

Golly Tommy, I miss you.

When I got home from work today, I was greeted by a beautiful yard … if you look beyond the brown grass, sticks, rocks and other winter detritius.  The crocuses bulbs that Tommy and I embedded year after year in the lawn had come up and were open in the unusual warmth of a Michigan March.

A photograph doesn’t do their vibrant delicacy justice, but here’s one anyway …

There are three different groups of them — Tommy and I put in bulbs each fall — Tom insisting on using a variety of fertilizers and other nutrition agents to ensure they did their best.

The most brilliantly color group (upper right, and the most spectacular only because it is the newest) was slammed in by me alone last fall — without any special supplements other than perhaps a few tears.  Tommy had purchased bulbs last Spring for fall planting, and I put them in begrudgingly, because I couldn’t return them without a receipt.  (BTW Tommy– check ‘em out.  You don’t need all those high-end bulb fertilizers!)

I’m glad I put them in, as they are a most welcome sight.

It’s like Tommy “brought me flowers.”

Probably because I finally got the taxes done! 

Thanks Tom!

(With sugar and honey on the top!)

I’m keeping myself (waaaaay too) busy by going with 13 hives of bees this year, and setting up a charitable foundation so all honey profits go to Tom’s favorite charities.

In investigating honey containers, I found some new ones, so our theme-dressed bears now include large ones, and two small ones that are way too cute (not practical, but way too cute.)  I need your input, but first — some background.

The “regular” bears hold 12 ounces; the giant bears hold 24.  While they look the same as the 12 ounce, their size makes them rather formidable, so Tom’s Mom crocheted incredible hats to soften their image.

So the giants have hats and scarves, the regulars have scarves — what do I do with the 4 ounce baby bears, and 8 ounce adolescent bears?

I can make them graduation bears … what do you think?  Any other ideas?  And if you like graduation bears, what’s a reasonable price?  (I’m thinking $9, $5, $4 and $2.50 for the 24, 12, 8 and 4 ounce bears.)  Do I offer different color tassles and mortarboards?  Other than the forthcoming foundation website, how else can I market them?  Your thoughts please, and thank you!

Last August, I brought my husband of 28 years home to die from the cancer he’d been fighting for 18 months.

It was the most horrible thing.

I’ve got some distance on the nightmare now — almost seven months — but I have much to emotionally work through when I open the lid on last August’s box of heart-piercing memories, and it makes my stomach churn and my shoulders tighten to even write this much about it, and the oxygen is suddenly awfully thin in the room.

It was hell on the kids and I, watching the strong, capable man we loved die by inches, being executed by failure of cells and then organs as the cancer internally rampaged.

Yet, given that hell, it was such a blessing.  I am grateful that I had the ability, resources and support to bring Tommy home to die.  And the weeks that the kids and I stumbled around as numb zombies — laughing, crying, freaking out, occasionally hating each other but really just the circumstances we were in … we’re better people for it.

Surprisingly, because it was anticipated and I thought I was very strong, Tom’s death shattered me.  “Shatter” is such an appropriate word:  my volume was still here, but for the first many months I was a bunch of disconnected pieces, and disconnections make it difficult to remember things easily or clearly.

Shattered pieces also have sharp edges that are painful, and shattered pieces don’t easily fit together again.  I’m still working on assembling the pieces and reconnecting them in a functional fashion.

Someone told me that things like the death of a spouse can make you bitter or better, and most days, “better” is winning.

I’ve had discussions of that concept with all three children lately.  We concur that it sucks that he had to die, we are better people for having been what we went through, and a better family unit for having stumbled through it together.

About midnight last night I got home from Ann Arbor, where youngest daughter Becca attends the University of Michigan.  I’d made this two-hour drive for four main reasons:

1. the high-mileage car (Tom’s) that Becca was driving was dead by the side of the road, and while this Mom can’t help with the issues that arise when your father dies your senior year of college, or tough classes, I could help get the car to a garage
2. I need to occasionally get away to keep from slipping back in to the depression that lurks in my life,
3. Becca has joined the Peace Corp, and there was a meeting to explain to us parents what our kids have gotten themselves into, and
4. while I’m still in denial that a year from now she might be in Mongolia or Mexico or India or whever, I figured I’d better take every chance I have to see my baby.  (Yeah, I’m freaking out a little bit.  OK, alot.)

There was an email from Becca awaiting me when entered the dark, empty house.  Addressed to me, and her brother and sister, it said simply:  “can I get an amen since we have the best family in the entire world?”

Amen.

And, a happy face! 

I’m not sure what warranted that shout out — my paying for a new alternator?  Having a long lunch together at her favorite vegetarian restaurant?  Not freaking out (visibly) at the Parents of Peace Corp meeting?  Whatever it was, I’ll take it.

Things like that help glue the pieces back together, even stronger.

First, thanks all for your supportive, insightful comments regarding my last blob entry.  That one was tough but therapeutic to write.

In response to it, a friend sent me the following, which is very appropriate for me:  ”She wasn’t where she had been. She wasn’t where she was going… but she was on her way.”

I’m on my way, and continue to do better since returning from vacation.  Part of that is undoubtedly the scent and sounds of spring (!!!) in the air, and some of it is because I’m keeping myself terribly busy out of fear falling into that depressed rut where I was prior to vacation.

Now that my head is generally above water again, I’m trying to find the blessings in my “situation” (being widowed at age 48, when I was planning on growing old (older?) with my spouse.)  One of those blessings happened today–the census form.  It claims it takes an average of 10 minutes to complete.

Hey — when there’s only one person living in the household, it takes only about one minute.   Ha!  What will I do with the extra 8.5 minutes that most of you won’t have?!

Well, I could do the taxes … because someone around here has to do them, and I’m the only warm body in the house with opposable thumbs … so that leaves, um, just me.  (Hey, I was already busy as I’m also the only one to do laundry, rake the leaves, grocery shop, clean the fridge, etc.  I really have to do the taxes also?!)

For about the last decade, we always had our taxes “done” — which I took to mean “someone else did them.”   Tom always coordinated it.

Well, having spent a couple hours going through the extensive tax preparation booklet the tax-doer-sort-of sent me, I think I will rephrase that “we had our taxes done.”

About half the taxes will be done by this person who calls herself a “tax preparer.”  The other half — the “crap, I didn’t know I needed that!  Is it in the pile where the cat sleeps?!” … the really hard half I must do.  Sorry Tom — did I ever thank you enough for doing “our” half?

To assist in doing (her half of the) taxes, the preparer sent me a handy little preparation-organization booklet — which I am to complete.

Sure, I could complete it, if it wasn’t so doggone incomplete.  There are lots of  tables to fill in, and lots of “YES” and “NO” boxes.  But, there is no place to answer the questions with my true responses, such as:

• I have no idea–you’ll have to ask Tom.
• Really?  What the F is that?
• You’ve got to be kidding me.  I was supposed to track that??!!

Sigh.

Only death and taxes are certain, right?

That sounds fairly ominous … because I think doing taxes is going to kill me.

Daughter Gigantor, who didn’t cruise with us last week, had suggested I take a few of Tom’s ashes to sprinkle overboard.  In the nearly three decades we were married, Tom and I, and various family members and friends, enjoyed many cruise vacations, thus scattering some of his ashes would be appropriate.

I found a small plastic vial, and Bec moved ashes into it.  That didn’t go as easily as planned, and she noted that Tom was really messy.

Some things never change. 

Our insane sense of humor keeps us rather sane, so there were plenty of other wisecracks — about things like how to transport ashes internationally, and their resemblance to substances of a higher street value.

When I hooked up with son Ben in Florida, we discussed spreading the ashes, and decided to share the option to participate with others in our party.    You never know how people are going to react to handling of someone’s remains, so we tried to be a little sensitive about tossing parts of Tommy overboard into the frothy seas … especially knowing Tommy would’ve preferred to be tossed into a vat of frothy beer, given the choice.

On the Charlotte emotion-meter, the cruise was harder than I thought it would be.  While I knew there’d be alot of memories because we were travelling in a very familiar mode, I thought having so much of Tom’s family around me, and a different cruise line, would make it different enough to not expect to see Tom around every corner.

Wrong, again!  When cruising, Tommy the night owl and I (who goes to bed with the chickens) generally did our own thing, hooking up for dinners or occasionally unexpectedly in the cabin during the day.  Bopping about the ship on my own was nothing unusual.  As I wandered about (constantly searching because I swear they relocated my cabin every few hours), my mind would often float off.  Unfortunately, that meant practically every time I (finally) found the cabin or the dining room–and I realized Tom wasn’t there–it was a blow to my heart.  When I went on excursions, I found myself thinking “I’ll need to show Tommy these pictures when I get back,” or “I should buy this for Tom” followed by the piercing recollection that he wasn’t lounging onboard in a deck chair.

The other thing that was harder than expected was seeing couples.  I don’t begrudge any of them … even when they’re embarrassing themselves by squabbling in public over stupid, pointless things.   I just miss having someone to throw their suit jacket around me when I’m chilly, remember where our cabin is, and squabble with in public over stupid, pointless things.

Anyway, we decided to scatter the ashes before dinner, the 5th night of the cruise.  We would do it from the balcony of Tom’s Uncle Tom’s stateroom as we cruised out of Cozumel.

At the appointed time, we all met in Uncle Tom’s stateroom, and opened the door to the balcony overlooking the amazing turquoise waters.

The 40-mph winds blasted us back into the stateroom.  Even in the best of circumstances getting those ashes to drift down eight stories would be questionable — the severe winds made it out of the question.  Having Tommy with us in dinner would’ve been awesome, but only if he was there in person, not in pieces on our clothes.

So, Plan B — scattering the ashes off a lower deck from the back of the ship after dinner …

About every 30 feet on the deck rails is a placard that says do not throw anything overboard.  Of course, we respected that.  And you might want to stop reading here.

For those of you still reading, we temporarily ignored that.  Assisted by gusty winds (thank goodness for our huge meal so we didn’t blow overboard), we strolled to the back of the ship.

I was too emotional to speak.  So, while Ben and I were group-hugged as we stood poised over the protected-from-the-winds railing, Tommy’s Uncle Tom led us in a salute to a bee-loved husband, father, son, brother, nephew, uncle and friend, in that surprisingly calm area of the ship.

I then scattered the small container of ashes overboard, expecting them to drop down.

The ashes did.  The dust–which was significant–did not.  Instead it hovered in the air above our heads for a looong minute.

Nine-year-old niece Squamantha said “look everyone, a heart!”  and she was right.  The shimmery grey ashes reflected the running lights of the ship as they formed an undeniable, perfectly heart shape that stretched about ten feet wide, ten feet above and away from us, just off the stern.  Hallmark could not have formed a more perfectly shaped heart.

Just then, eight-year-old niece Squidney, in her endearing, matter-of-fact melodic little girl voice said without hesitation: ”We love you too Uncle Tom.”  There was no doubt in her mind that it was a message from the uncle who loved her, and all of us, immensely.

I don’t doubt it either.

We tried to photograph the heart, but the camera couldn’t capture it.  Some things defy photography, but that doesn’t mean they don’t exist.

And, some things defy explanation, but that doesn’t mean they’re not real.

We love you too Uncle Tom.

I’m back — and I’m not at all happy about it!  I just spent 6 days cruising the Caribbean with 16 family members and friends.  Sure, it was a very emotional (and sometimes very hard) vacation (Tom and I cruised often, and often with many of these same people), and it was unseasonably cool.  (I only wore shorts two days there, and that’s because I’m from the midwest where 62 is a heat wave.  The Mexicans were wearing winter coats.) 

Even with those shadows on the vacation, I wasn’t happy at all about returning.  It is better feeling alone while surrounded by thousands of other people on a cruise ship in the Caribbean — than actually being alone at home in March in Michigan … especially because many of those thousands of people were bringing me food or drinks.

The Caribbean was unseasonably cool — the same as it is here.

Some of you are going “wait a minute!  We have 40-50 degrees and sunshine …”

Sorry — let me clarify.  I wasn’t talking about outdoors, but instead in my house, where the thermostat says 62 even though it is set at 70.   Sometime while I was gone (must’ve been fairly recently as it is still 62 in the house) — the furnace stopped working.

Daughter Gigantor (Becca) spent her spring break from U of M at home, babysitting three dogs and Melvin the gigantic cat.   When I got home late Saturday night, I sensed immediately the house was chilly.

Becca hadn’t noticed, not surprisingly.  She usually lives in student ghetto housing; 62 is toasty to her.  And, she babysat three medium to large dogs. all who think they are lap dogs.  Becca never had a chance to be chilled (or sit alone in a chair.)

So, I checked the breakers … everything looked good.

I stared at the furnace … everything looked normal.

I called 1-800-Wayne, who wandered over at 11 p.m.  in a sweatshirt because it was 40 degrees in Michigan.

Fortunately Wayne feels the same way I do, which is that 40 degrees outside is acceptable — but 62 degrees inside is not.  He stared at the furnace for a while as well, and then opened it to do some of those mysterious things taught at Man Camp.  It wasn’t long until there was warm air magically blowing out of the floor vents. 

It was the first warm breeze I’d felt in over a week!

Turns out there is some furnace switch that must still be on vacation, but nothing a little duct tape couldn’t override until Monday.  I’ll post more ramblings when my fingers thaw out.  But, for now, that’s a picture of me rock wall climbing aboard the Independence of the Seas.  Yes, I made it to the top.  And yes, I was wearing long pants, a thick sweater, and three shirts!

Below is a photo of (back row left to right) Tom’s sister Sooz, Tom’s brother Jim, our son Ben, and then niece Squidney, Tom’s Mom Nelda, and niece Squamantha.  Tom’s little bro Jim married my little sister Linda (legal … weird, but legal.)  Linda and I huddled together for a photo as well.