Island Magic

I have been back on the Big Island all of 16 hours and I feel like I've come home.  That is how Tom and I always described our arrival, it was like coming home.  Perhaps we inhabited these islands in another life--this has always been our happy place.

To say that I had some fear and trepidation about making this trip, fear of being overcome with memories and feelings, would be an understatement,   I've certainly had memories come popping up left and right, and I've been a little teary eyed too.  I expect more of it in the coming days.  And its OK, because I have a hunch that this trip will be magical in its own way.  I both feel the presence of Tom's spirit and the absence of his being.  But the magic remains.

I arrived after dark last night, which was a really good thing.  I couldn't see the approach and landing.  We would always have our noses pressed to the airplane window, excited about being here and the days ahead of sand, sea, golf and spa.  We would take the early flight out of SFO and arrive on the Island before noon.  As soon as we arrived at the hotel, we told them to send our golf clubs on to the course.  When we had checked in, we'd head straight to the golf course, have lunch and tee off.  It was what we always did, except for the time that the airlines sent our clubs to Maui and we had to wait a day before we could play.  So last night I arrived after dark and drove to the condo that my friend and I are staying in, which is located right on that very golf course that we played every year.  When I awoke this morning I immediately opened the window to hear the sound of the island.  And the first memory that popped in my mind was how Tom would always go golf ball hunting in the lava, looking for those errant balls, preferably Pro-V1s.  It was a good day for him if he finished a round using the same ball he started with and found a few more.

This morning my travel companion had coffee made when I got up, which was so lovely.  Tom was a coffee snob.  We always had about 10 pounds of coffee in the house.  When we first started coming to the Island we would visit the coffee plantations.  As I was pouring a cup this morning two memories came popping back up.  We would always go to the local grocery store when we arrived for supplies.  And as soon as we hit the aisle where they sold the coffee, he would be like a kid in a candy shop.  He couldn't decide which one he wanted to buy.  It was fun to watch.  The second memory that my brain retrieved was about Tom and his play on words.  There is a coffee chain here called "Kimo's", with a shop at the Hilton where we were staying.  In the morning Tom would say, "It time for me to go get my Kimo-therapy".

The memories are so sweet, so rich with a life well lived and full of love.  Today is 21 months since Tom has been gone.  I've struggled mightily over these months, always holding out hope and a vision for the future, but always uncertain about how to get there.  The grief has weighed heavily on me and I've worked hard to work through it.  And while I've always had a vision for the future, I've not had any idea on how to actually get there, I just didn't see the path.  I have kept plugging along, doing the next right thing, trying to move forward.  But something has occurred in the last week.  I've a hint at a path forward, many things have come full circle, life has been a series of synchronicities.  I feel in my bones that a tectonic shift is going to occur.  And I have a feeling that this trip will be the beginning of it.

Whatever the outcome, I need to be able to reclaim this island for myself, and not just for the memories that Tom and I had here together, but for the magic that it is.  I may never return, or I may. 

I believe in Island Magic.

I'm Tired

Every time I say those words, in my head I hear Madeline Kahn singing the song in Blazing Saddles.  While the reasons why I am tired are very different than the reasons of which Ms. Kahn is warbling, I'm still kaput!

One of the things I did not expect from mourning is how physically and mentally draining it is.  I expected emotionally draining, but it has depleted me body, mind and soul.  My grief counselor has repeatedly told me that it takes all of our life force to mourn.  I easily accepted that at first.  But, come on, its been 20 months, that should no longer be the case.  Sadly it still is.

Feeling my feelings takes a lot of energy on any day.  Then throw in the hidden land mines that are unexpected, like cleaning out the kitchen cabinets and opening the cabinet with all of Tom's coffee.  Tom loved him some good coffee.  If we didn't have 10 pounds of coffee in the house something was wrong.

Now add in the self care.  Being so depleted meant that I really had to look deeply into my nutrition as well as stress management.  So there are regular grief counseling appointments, massage appointments, acupuncture appointments, naturopathic appointments.  And then there were the two eye surgeries with the myriad of appointments and four times daily eye drops for over two months.  I haven't even been able to think about getting back to the gym--soon I hope.

Did I mention all of the death duties?  Estate matters, paperwork.  Disposing of Tom's personal effects, which is both emotionally and mentally exhausting--decisions to be made and then the actual "letting go".  And then I must deal with all of my estate matters--trust, will, power of attorney, etc. 

How about a dash of daily living?  Shopping, cleaning, cooking, bill paying, pet care, laundry, auto maintenance, home maintenance.  I have made more trips to the hardware store in the last several months than I did in the last several years.  I swear that the light bulbs in my house have band together to go on strike and burn out!  I can't believe how many I've replaced this year.  I didn't know we had that many lights in the house.  I used to have someone to share all of these chores with and now I must do them all alone.

For grins, lets add in making a living.  Going to work, running a business.  I certainly haven't been able to apply the usual energy that I would to my career, the intensity that I would work.  But working is something that I must do, both financially and emotionally necessary.  So much of my self identity has been wrapped up in my career.

And then there is the energy that goes into relationships--maintaining the relationships that I have, and fortunately there are many.  There is very little left for cultivating new friendships, but there is still a void to fill and a future to rebuild. 

There is one thing that is really missing and that is FUN!  Not much left for fun.  But I have had some and I need to have some more.  I am looking forward to going to Hawaii at the end of the month.  It will be bittersweet since it was our happy place.  It was also a place we went for restoration and I'm hoping to have that again. 

And finally, there is the emotionally energy it takes to look forward, to remain hopeful for the future, and to remain optimistic.  No wonder I am tired.  I can't imagine what it must be like for those still raising children or caring for others.  They must have more reserves than I have to survive that.

I have beaten myself up over my "laziness" because I've not been able to force myself to do all the things that need to be done.  I've been expecting myself to do the impossible.  In reality I am not able to do so.  Job number one is to recover, and to re-engage with life.  It is going to take much longer than I thought and certainly much longer than I had hoped. 

Missing

Missing doesn't really describe the big void that is in my life, but it will have to do.  At last month's dinner with my widow/er's group, we were talking about how the "missing" has set in.  And so it has.  I seem to miss Tom more than ever.  Even as I continue to recover from his loss, I miss him so much.  I miss him in our daily life.  I miss the partnership, the help with daily living, the laughter, the support, the sound of his voice, the reverberation of his snore, the warmth of his hugs and the tenderness of his kiss.  I miss him taking Zora on walks around the valley, the smell of his coffee in the morning, the silly word games, cooking for him.  I just miss being with him.  There is a depth to this emptiness that cannot be measured.  It is different than it was, perhaps because it feels so real and so very permanent. 

I am amazed at how the process of mourning the loss of my husband continues to unfold.  It is a constantly changing landscape.  It reminds me so much of the topography of the Big Island.  Tom and I would vacation there just about every year.  The first time we went there and drove out of the airport, I thought we had landed on the moon because the black lava created such desolate terrain for as far as one could see.  But then there would be a twig of green or white coral graffiti on the side of the road.  In the distance we could see the green of the mountainsides and the deep blue green of the ocean beyond the moonscape. 

Mourning is similar.  At first I felt like I had landed on the moon.  The terrain was rugged, desolate, and unfamiliar and went on forever.  Then I started to see little tufts of green, regrowth, show up--those moments of happiness, sometimes hope.  Then I started to see the lush green in the distance, abundant life.  Sometimes the road takes a turn and all I see is a field of lava, and then it turns again and there is green in the distance, the road starts to go uphill for a while and the going is harder, but the view is of the beauty of the sky and the clouds so I push on.  Then the road turns again and green valley and blue ocean are in view but I can't reach it yet.  But I see it, and I know that such abundance is in the future, but I have to get off the road to get to it.  That is where I am.  I see the green in the distance, its not as far away, but it isn't right here, although there are patches of green around me.

About three months after my dad died I remember the day when I said to myself "I don't want my dad's death to be what defines my life."  After my mom died, it took about nine months until I reached that point.  At twenty months since Tom died I am not yet ready to say that.  But what I can say is that I don't want the rest of my life to be defined by my loss.  I'm not ready to make that jump, but I see it in the future.  But until that time, I will continue on this twisting turning road through the rugged terrain of grieving, embracing as best I can experiences of this journey until I reach the portion of the road where joy and happiness is a part of the scenery.