Regrets

Blessing for the Brokenhearted

There is no remedy for love but to love more.  --Henry David Thoreau

Let us agree

for now

that we will not say 

the breaking makes us stronger

or that it is better

to have this pain

than to have done

without this love.

Let us promise

we will not

tell ourselves

time will heal

the wound,

when every day

our waking 

opens it anew.

Perhaps for now 

it can be enough 

to simply marvel

at the mystery

of how a heart

so broken

can go on beating,

as if it were made

for precisely this--

as if it knows

the only cure for love

is more of it,

as if it sees

the heart's sole remedy

for breaking

is to love still,

as if it trusts

that its own

persistent pulse

is the rhythm

of a blessing

we cannot

begin to fathom

but will save us

nonetheless.

--Jan Richardson

Tomorrow (or today depending upon when I actually post this) will mark four years since Tom died.  The week leading up to this anniversary is generally more difficult than the actual day itself.  That day was the culmination of the anticipation of what I knew was coming, but did not know the exact day, time or experience.  And each day this week I have relived the circumstances.  Two days before a hospital bed was delivered to our home.  I asked Tom about it, and he really didn't want to, perhaps because what it meant to him.  I explained that our bedroom was our sacred space and I wanted to keep it that way, that I didn't want a lot of strangers traipsing through it.  He understood and reluctantly agreed.  So began our last two nights together, me sleeping next to him on the couch, him in a bed.  He was so weak and I woke up every 45 minutes to help him.  I was getting cranky from all of the awakenings and then I remembered something my friend, also a widow, told me about the time caring for her husband.  She wished she had stayed in the love.  That clicked into my brain and it changed how I approached the day, I wanted to stay in the love.  So on that Monday morning, the day before he died, I lovingly bathed him and shaved him (he was pretty scruffy) and changed his clothes.  Hospice came by in the afternoon to check on him and tweak his meds.  That evening our niece and nephew stopped by.  As we were getting ready to go to sleep, Tom looked at me and said "I think it is going to be tonight".  He never ever talked to me about dying.  I restrained myself from saying "Don't say that." and instead asked why he thought that to be the case.  He said he was so weak.  I reminded him that his brother was arriving the next day.  I so wanted him to hold on until his brother arrived.  I have only one regret about that night and it is I didn't further the conversation, that I didn't ask him if there was anything that he wanted to tell me.  And that I didn't get a chance to tell him how much he meant to me.  I lost that chance.  I was too busy doing to take care of him that I didn't allow the space for what was really important.  That is what I regret from 1,460 nights ago.  He knew how much I loved him, and I know how much he loved me.

A lot has happened in the last four years  It has been a brutal journey made more difficult with the onset of heart rhythm dysfunction which led to surgery which had a rare complication from which I am still trying to heal.  Tom's death figuratively and literally broke my heart.  I've been in the process of rebuilding my life, albeit more slowly because of recovering from my heart challenges.  I've reclaimed my home--paint and carpet and other changes to make it my home, not our home.  It has been two steps forwarded and one step back.

I find it astounding that my heart has kept on beating these past four years.  Even though it took a left at Albuquerque when it came to its rhythm, it has stayed solidly in rhythm for the last eight months, even with this complication.

When this man came into my life, it changed everything.

Tom

1952-2015

And when he died everything changed again.

Crossroads: I'm Not Afraid to Die, I Am Afraid to Live

December 2018

I am at a crossroad, yet again.  But I think this one is so much more profound.  My heart has taken another left turn at Peoria and I don't yet know what is causing the problem.  After a month of just about every test possible, I have another one scheduled in 10 days.  Hopefully my physicians will be able to determine a diagnosis and a treatment plan.  The potential problems could range from mildly annoying to life altering.  And I have gone down the rabbit hole a few times.  I feel sidelined AGAIN, waiting for another level of healing.  I know there is a strong connection between the emotions and the physical.  I've experienced that to be true more than once.  But this time I have had a hard time connecting the two, in fact I've been a bit defiant in wanting to connect the two.  For some reason I isolated the very real, very physical symptoms of my heart's dilemma from the very real emotions of where I am on my journey now. Clearly I do not do a very job of listening to my body since my heart feels the need to be such a drama queen--making all these big melodramatic gestures to get my attention. The more I think about it, I can acknowledge the emotional in the physical.  This feels deeper, more intense, and more visceral than each layer of the onion that I've peeled since Tom's death.  It is a rope that is all looped and knotted.  And the more I struggle, the tighter it gets.  I didn't think there was another level to go.  I thought I had done all of the work and it was time to move forward.  I guess not.

I have decided to stay in our home for at least another year and to invest in it to make it my own, not our home, but my home.  I had the entire place painted.  I replaced the carpet.  I changed out the window coverings.  I changed out all the door hardware and the electrical outlets and switches.  I changed the color, which I loved, but only slightly.  Furniture has been rearranged, all of the artwork has been changed or relocated.  The house feels lighter and brighter and beautiful and peaceful and mine.  Tom's energy is still here, but it isn't heavy.  I can hear his laughter lightly bouncing off of the angles of the walls and the ceiling.  The love is still infused in the molecules of the house, his protection seeped into crevices.  His presence is here, but in a lighter way, like how he is always a part of my life and my heart, allowing room for what comes next.  It was a huge step for me to take to redefine our home.  And this year I had the desire to decorate for the holidays.  I did not want it to be nostalgic.  I wanted it to be neutral.  I bought a new artificial tree.  I only used ornaments that I loved.  I am happy with the way the house looks, and how I feel in it.

But now I have another conundrum.  There is another level of work I need to do.  One of the things you learn when you walk through a terminal illness and lose the love of your life is that most things just don't matter. I discovered that I am not afraid to die.  To me, death is an acceptable alternative.  But let me be really clear, I do not have a death wish or a plan or any intention of doing anything about it.  What really frightens me is living.  I've said that I'm afraid of living disabled.  But really, I am afraid of falling in love with life. I want to, but I am terrified. For me to be in love with life, means being in love with someone. And being in love with someone means the very real possibility of facing another shattering  loss.  I am afraid I wouldn't survive it a second time, I barely survived it the first time.  If I am going to live, then I want to live fully, ensconced in the joy of it, not marking my days waiting until I feel better so I can participate.  I've spent far too many days over the past four years waiting to feel better.  I do not consider it living, it was survival. I've done the hard work.  I guess there is more to go.  But I am tired.  I thought I was on the precipice of launching into the next chapter, but this heart stuff is slowing my roll and harshing my mellow. My heart is holding me back in a different way this time.  It seems more is being asked of me and I've given so much, I don't know what else there is for me to give.  This next level of work is getting to the very heart of the matter (pun intended). I am tired. But I think I am ready to surrender (or not).  Time will tell.