THE FIRST ANNIVERSARY

I haven't written since November 12th, eight days before the Anniversary of Ted's death. I have been preoccupied a great deal during this time. I've muddled with lots of different thoughts and emotions. My judgmental self has decided to rear its head and make me wonder: am I doing all right? Should I still be feeling so sad at times? Why haven't I been writing my "blob?" Is it okay that I still would like to nap and bury myself in a book? Is it okay that I don't want to do things like decorate my house? Eat chocolate sundaes and cereal?

I can give myself lots of understanding and empathy and even knowledge about the grief process, the kind of time it takes, the individuality of it, the necessity for being kind to oneself, the self-indulgence, the tears, the frustration, the anger, the listlessness, and on and on. I "shouldn't" need to have an outsider tell me I'm "doing just fine." After all, I'm somewhat of an expert myself what with enduring the death of my father when I was seventeen (he was 49); the death of our first child Brian at the age of 13 months; the death of Ted's mother 2 years after that; the death of my father's identical twin brother when he was 60; 8 years of counseling trying to resolve my lingering grief and sadness; the many, many books I read on grief and loss.

My reality: Ted is gone and never coming back. I can't hold hands with him anymore. I can't hug him, kiss him, sing with him, share "a moment" of connection with him. I must accept those things that I regret. Whenever people say: "you can't do that; you can't have regrets," I bristle inside. I do have regrets and I must face them, put them in a perspective that allows for them. The "if onlys," the "I wishes," are just part of the grief process to be endured, to learn from, to forgive, to embrace as human.

The anniversary brings back the events of that week. The anniversary is a reminder of how quickly time goes by and is stunning in its truth that a year has passed and there will be many more. It is so difficult to grasp. There still is the fantasy of wanting to do it over and do it better. To say what I didn't say. To realize that he was dying and maybe, then, doing somethings differently. I feel I missed the chance for the two of us together to recognize that he was dying and be able to acknowledge and share a goodbye. Did he know that he was going to die? I wasn't with him when they put him on full life support. So I never got to see him awake again. I never knew what he thought before they put him "under." We never got to say one more time "I love you."

To face these uncomfortable thoughts and feelings by putting them in writing where I can "see" them and others can to, is cathartic and healing. Somehow knowing that this will be viewed and "witnessed" by others is comforting.

Thank you for your listening ears and your loving thoughts that you send my way.

The Brick Wall

The Brick Wall  The Brick Wall  The Brick Wall

This image has been with me for years. Since my baby Brian died. I kept running into it. Bang. Again and again. Over time and with much counseling I no longer bang into it. But it is still there. Since it is merely an image my mind created when my anguish and frustration was so intense and relentless, I wonder what would happen if I removed the image? I'm not bumping into it with rage like I did for years, but I know its there. I also know that bumping into it causes heightened pain and frustration and nothing changes. The wall remains.

The brick wall appeared when nothing changed the Truth: my baby was gone. That truth was so painful that it felt like banging my head on a brick wall. Since Ted has died the brick wall remains, but more as a remembered image than an obstacle of anguish. When Brian died, I did not want to face the truth of that. But now, I want to move forward faster. I'm not young. I don't have years available to torment over my loss.

I need to integrate memories into my life, but not let those memories rob me of my present. I look forward to replacing the image of the brick wall with many, many images of life with Ted and my life today: my family, my dear friends, my experiences, beautiful vistas and more to come. It should be easier to say goodbye to the brick wall and hello to images of my life. I would rather "see" those I loved than bang my head on a brick wall or even see that image and what it represented.

I love you Ted. It was a year ago that you entered the hospital the last time. When I went to see you early the first morning, you wept. The inflammation in your lungs had spread. Even then I couldn't imagine you not getting better. One week later you left me forever. I have a wonderful imagination and many photos so my memories can provide joy and laughter and delight for years to come.

I can see your face with tears in your eyes. Better than a brick wall.  I can hear your voice and your laughter. Better that a brick wall. I can see the beautiful blue of your eyes. Better that a brick wall. I can see your hands. Better than a brick wall. I can see you with Gwennie (our doggie) snuggled  together in your recliner. Better than a brick wall. So many more images. Better than a brick wall.

Thank you for helping me find a way to remove the wall without denying the Truth.

Ebb and Flow

     After writing a post for this blog, I usually feel very high, exhilarated, and have a sense of well being.  But the "elevator effect" is still in effect at times and I tend to get melancholy again soon after. It is difficult to be motivated to write at these times.  I resist sharing the self-defeating messages that roam around my head. Even when I have thoughts of subject matter for a post, I don't sit down to write. Well, be that as it may, if my memory serves me well, I can recall the ideas later. If not, so be it. The last thing I want to do is beat myself up because I feel a little low. I truly believe these are the times when insights can be had.


     As I have learned, putting my feelings (especially when they threaten to overwhelm) in a broad perspective, seeing them at a distance or as they reflect natural and recurring events, helps me cope with the sadness and frustration: the ebb and flow of the tides; the death of some plants in the winter only to see them return in the spring; the tiny green shoots pushing though thick layers of ash (death) to go to the light and life to name a few. I ponder these and reflect on my gloom and am encouraged that these feelings are part of a natural process that I will come through.


     I don't feel so alone. I feel more patient with myself. 


     I feel hope.


     

And Time Goes By

Liz and Ted Walker hanging out at Hamburger Patties, 

showing how time goes by.

Anna Perry sent this photo to me this week. She found it going through old photos. Their restaurant is now Perry's on Fremont and we have been friends for quite a long time. I barely recognize us. I have been looking at more mature faces of late. And of course I haven't been able to gaze on Ted's face for almost a year. I'm delighted to say I think he looks fabulous and handsome and he was mine.

Almost a year. Wow! I can't believe it. Much has taken place since last November 20th. My life has been full and greatly enriched by family and friends. A year's worth of reading, water aerobics, visiting, babysitting, hugging, crying, laughing, some traveling, enjoying shows, a little TV, walking Gwennie (my dog), eating chocolate sundaes and cereal, pulling my "widow" card whenever I feel like being helpless,  etc., etc. All the kind of everyday things that can take up a year of one's life.

Despite all that, it still feels like yesterday that Ted died. 

And Time Goes By!

Meandering through my Mind

Sometimes I need to just start writing to find out what I want to write about. This kind of "journaling" has worked well in the past and often has produced some wonderful insights.

Paying attention to what is around me, to what my senses are experiencing is a fun exercise. My skin feels the warmth of the sun with the coolness of the wind skimming over the surface...very pleasant and relaxing. There is a glare off of the water and with my eyes protected I can enjoy the sparkling effect of the sun as the wind creates movement on the surface.

Because of the wind and a dramatic proliferation of weeds in the lake, the view is distinctly different. Where the weeds grow above the water, "islands" are created, surrounded by little "streams" that appear to flow.  The lake is a patchwork of green "islands" and blue "streams." Seeing and feeling the effects of the wind is wonderful, as is the sound created by a combination of breezes and gusts. Its great to be alive!

A Belted Kingfisher calls out his familiar greeting. There are just a few birds I can identify by their call: this is one of them. My first bird was a robin that, as a child, I thought was beautiful. It still is and I recognize his call. Ted got very good at recognizing and remembering bird song and calls and he loved to identify the different species as they visited throughout the seasons. This was a great place to be for his last years on this earth. He would be pleased to know that I am getting so much pleasure out of being here. The geese love foraging around the weeds and seem to be enjoying the afternoon as much as I am. There is no franticness around me.

Without Ted sitting next to me sharing the sights and sounds, the writing helps me feel less lonely. He loved to be out on our dock with a book, the binoculars, a fishing rod in the water, a glass beverage sitting nearby. It is a pleasure being here and remembering his enjoyment. It seems strange to sit on the dock when he used to be there so much and I loved to join him. Interesting how I have gravitated to this deck off the upstairs bedroom where I can look down on all that we shared. Every night and every morning Ted would meander out on this deck or sit on our bed and look out when the weather didn't permit. He started this habit on day one in this house and continued to until he landed in the hospital for his final days.

I can't see a bird, a bicycle, a lake, a mountain, hear the wind, the sound of music, our grandchildren, feel the caress of the wind, the sun on my skin without remembering our shared moments. It is in these moments that I feel the closest to Ted and remember best the bond that we had. I remember how I love him.

Purpose

Purpose will be a recurring theme. Is there a purpose for this "blob" other than to provide an outlet for the myriad of complex emotions and thoughts that swirl around in my brain? Do I treat it like a journal: felt mired in mud this morning . . . who cares? Do I continue to explore words to describe my varying states of mind? Do I describe the incredible, intense longing in my chest as I play the piano? Do I take into consideration that there will be people who will read this? What effect "should" that have on content and choice of subject? I intuitively feel that I need to continue to be true to whatever is my driving need and what the struggle may be to take action in response.

I was playing the piano and thoroughly enjoying the music . . classical, but not very difficult arrangements so I could play the pieces easily and be able to express emotion. I loved hearing the sound of the chords and the notes. After playing for about an hour, I really started longing for Ted to wander in as he so often did when I was playing and appreciate the music with me. Sometimes we would sing together; I loved his voice. I recalled growing up and playing for hours while family life went on around me. I remembered after  my dad died at the age of 49 and I was 17 I used to play the piano all the time and cry and cry.

Pretty soon, I was bursting inside with emotion. I was interrupted by my phone. My friend Margie called me. A turtle from nowhere was up by her front door. He was at least 5 to 7 inches long. She was feeling frantic about keeping her cat away from it. Mind you, I was still filled up inside with powerful feelings. Calmly I said, "Do you want some help?" The answer was yes. I got up immediately from the piano and left the house, picking up my garden gloves and a bucket on the way and headed across the street.
When I climbed up the long, long hill that is her driveway and arrived at the entryway, there was this cute turtle just resting next a brick wall with nothing but concrete around him.

I got him into the bucket and then we went into the house. All of a sudden I burst out with the depth of my longing and the tears flowed. Margie put her arms around me and I cried. I was not alone. Then she fixed me a snack and we chatted. She said that was Ted's turtle because of the timing. It was such a bizarre thing:  to be called because of a turtle. And it got me to a place where I could release my intense feelings with someone. As I was about to leave with the turtle, the skies also burst forth with intense rain echoing my release of tears. We stood under cover to watch until it subsided enough to journey out.

I took the turtle down by the lake and released it among some rocks, mud and grasses not far from the water. Did the turtle have a purpose showing up at Margie's door? It feels like a purpose was served by each of us in the scenario described. I no longer feel so mired in mud. The intense emotions are not trying to explode out of me. I feel comforted and understood. I feel I was useful to a friend. I don't know how the turtle felt but he did have a purpose. My friend engaged my help and offered comfort and food and easy chatter.

I need to search for purpose when I am feeling adrift. Or, just be awake to the call to action. I keep coming back to being true to myself. Can that be a purpose?

COLOR DRAMA SELF-CONFIDENCE

Who knows? Maybe they got up feeling melancholy, but check the attitude. I received these via email today. More to follow...sometime.

ENERGY

ENERGY!               

     VITALITY... VIGOR... LIFE... LIVELINESS... ANIMATION... VIVACITY... SPIRIT... SPARKLE... SPIRITEDNESS... STRENGTH... STAMINA... FORCEFULNESS... POWER... DYNAMISM... DRIVE... FIRE... PASSION... ARDOR... ZEAL...

    ZIP... ZING... PEP... PIZZAZZ... PUNCH... BOUNCE...

OOMPH... MOXIE... MOJO... GET-UP-AND-GO...                  VIM & VIGOR... FIESTINESS

Many mornings when I awake oh so slowly, I have noooo energy. Look at all that is "lost."

My quest is to search for ways to "find" how to reach that which is inside me that becomes energized under certain conditions.  What energizes me when I have no energy to reach out? 

Humor and glorious scenery...
all is not lost

Bewildered

Bewildered seemed to best describe the feeling I had immediately after Ted died. I still feel that way at times. I decided to look up the definition to see how close the word comes to what I experienced:  become perplexed and confused is what my computer says. In the Thesaurus are these words: baffled, mystified, bemused, perplexed, puzzled, addled, confused, confounded. Informal: flummoxed,  fazed, stumped, beaten, left scratching one's head, discombobulated.  Antomyn: enlightened. (Wow)


When I was young, I disliked looking up words in the dictionary because the words used to define my mystery word usually opened a "can of worms," requiring more look ups and on and on. I just wanted to keep reading and not be interrupted. In this instance, I find all of these words that describe "my word" enrich the meaning for the way I felt and still feel fairly often. Cool.

I like to find words to describe the indescribable. Those indescribable times and experiences for me are very powerful and often provoke a sense of helplessness, powerlessness, despair. The more words I find to express how I feel, the more I get back my power it seems. The more I know, the better I will be able to confront in myself the self-defeating thoughts that threaten to overtake me.

 Bewildered does describe for me the feeling of limbo that comes over me.  Energy starts to be rekindled when I start to understand what I am feeling and attaching words to describe the feelings.

Elevator Effect

When I was a little girl, mom used to take me and maybe a sister, too, downtown to Meier and Frank to shop. At lunchtime we would take the elevator up to the 10th floor to the nice restaurant. After lunch we would take the elevator back down again.

As a small child standing in the midst of tall people, I felt queasy sensations as the elevator lifted up, and again as we traveled down. At other times in my life, even when I wasn't in an elevator, I would experience a similar sensation. I call it the "Elevator Effect . . ."

 . . . First day of school, before a doctor appointment, going off to camp, driving up in the ski bus (yes, I'm maybe a little neurotic), driving home from a week out of town shortly after the death of our first child, Brian; flying in a plane to Idaho where our son Craig had been taken by LifeFlight after being thrown out of his truck which rolled over him crushing his lungs.

. . .  And, now, after time away from my home doing whatever, I find myself in my car heading back to the house that no longer has Ted in it. Melancholy sets in.

Birthing a Blog

Processing my life outside of my head helps me to clarify my thinking and better get a grip on my "journey" of grief and transition.  (The color of the background may be a bit pastel but  maybe a new background will evolve later.) One of my four sisters suggested a blog to record some of my struggles with impatience with my fluctuating moods and low energy after 10 months living without my husband Ted who died November 20, 2010. A blog might acquaint me with others who are going through a similar transition. At the very least, with myself.

I've never followed a blog or even seen one, so I am finding my way as I go.

Ted and I met on a blind date spring term of my senior year in high school. He was a student at Oregon State. We were married in 1965. In all those years our lives have been intertwined and our thoughts and emotions have been shared as we went along. Now it is bewildering without that "touchstone" so available.   Where do I turn now to reflect who I am and thus feel less "invisible?"

So now I've written my very first "blog." What does blog mean anyway?