tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-92001345147596784262024-03-13T07:01:11.145-07:00A (broken) Soul's JourneyThe not so straight journey through love and loss and recovery.Beth Radohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18240992790818467328noreply@blogger.comBlogger1520125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9200134514759678426.post-15335810901748166192022-03-07T21:29:00.000-08:002022-03-07T21:29:29.628-08:00No, Not Me. You must have me mistaken with someone else.<p> It started like this. There was this thing called a pandemic. It was only going to last a few weeks, or maybe months. But then it didn't. And people put off routine screenings because why risk going into a hot bed of the rona for a routine screening. I made appointments, which were really hard to come by, for my annual mammogram. And then news got worse and I put it off longer. And then it became impossible to get an appointment--my HMO based healthcare provider who covers half of the county population only had one mammography machine available two-three days a week. And since in all of my years I've never had an issue, have no familial history, have normal risks factors (other than living in one of the counties with the highest rate of breast cancer in the country), I figured it could wait. Then things got busy. I went in one day for my appointment, but after waiting over a half hour with no clue when I was going to be seen, I left. I finally made an appointment for the day the sale of my house closed and less than a week before I was leaving town. I went in and had my scan and went home, ready to move on to the next thing.</p><p>That afternoon I received a call back. "We'd like you to have a diagnostic mammogram and an ultrasound. Can you come in the day after the holiday?" Sure. I had had my vaccine, there had been a lot of false positives due to lymph node enlargement. I figured they were just being safe. So the following Tuesday I went for the next two scans, not at all worried.</p><p>Now the facility where you go for this type of imaging is old and outdated and cramped. Pretty much third world type. Ironic since I have designed some kick-ass beautiful breast health centers. Where I was treated was not one of them.</p><p>I went in for the mammography portion of the program. There were five seats in the waiting room, and only three were available for sitting since the others were blocked off for social distancing. And, by the way, extraneous visitors were not allowed. Of course one woman brought her husband, who filled one of the chairs meant for the patients.</p><p>Several pictures later, after the radiologist kept asking for more, I asked the tech what she was looking for. She showed me. "Huh, that does look like it doesn't belong there," I thought to myself, "probably a cyst". Time to move on to the ultrasound. Well, that department is half-way across the hospital, through main corridors with patients, staff and materials. They give me a double gown and I carry my sorry bag of clothes and purse down the public hall, trying not to think about the fact I'm half dressed and feeling very vulnerable. </p><p>After what felt like a half-mile trek, I arrived at my destination (at least I was escorted) and prepped for the ultrasound. The tech did her thing. Then she called in the radiologist and she did her thing, staring intently at the screen and taking the ultrasound doppler across my breast and arm pit. Then she says that there is a suspicious mass and the only way to know for sure is to do a biopsy, they could do it right then or I could schedule it. I'm planning on leaving town the next day so I say "Do it".</p><p>The team scurried around, they brought in a nurse and collected supplies. A sachet of lavender was pinned to my gown and I was positioned for the biopsy. It wasn't horrible. A little numbing medicine for the breast to go along with my very numb brain. "This isn't happening, they just have to rule it out and I'll get on with my long awaited next chapter of my life," I was thinking. Five core samples were taken and I was bundled back up in my two gowns and walked back to mammography through the very public halls because they needed new pictures to be sure the clips were in the right place, or some such thing.</p><p>And back into that mammo waiting room I go with the husband of a patient still filling one of the three seats and other patients in the remaining seats, also looking a little shell shocked. There I stand, in a gown, holding an icepack to my breast and no where to sit after having five holes punched in me and there sits the big fat male, feeling entitled to a chair in a tiny room filled with women in gowns. What the actual fuck? Male entitlement at its finest. The staff then had me and another patient wait in the stereotactic biopsy treatment room on rolling office chairs for our next turn at the torture device. Finally I was called back into the scan room and had more pictures taken, with an additional few pictures for good measure and then told to get dressed and go home. And as I left, the entitled male was still occupying one of the few chairs available for patients.</p><p>For the record, I can understand why someone would want their husband or loved one with them. Hell, I wanted my husband with me too, except he's dead, so there's that. This man appeared oblivious to all that was going on around him and the discomfort of women who may have actually had breast cancer. He was an interloper. He could have waited 30 feet down the hall in the imaging waiting room, where no one is waiting in a gown and made everyone more comfortable. Also for the record, a state-of-the-art breast health center has an outer waiting room, where patients wait before gowning and where loved ones remain during the process, and an inner gowned waiting room for patients who have disrobed and wearing a thin hospital gown. I know this because I've designed more than one. Just my luck I am insured by the system with the least consideration of patient's dignity. Oh, and did I mention, COVID? Yes, no extraneous visitors. I think that is also a horrible way to go through this process, but we are in the middle of a pandemic and some pigs are not more equal than other pigs (Animal Farm reference).</p><p>I left the hospital and got in my car. I sent a text to my friend who is a 20 year survivor of Stage III breast cancer and told her I had a biopsy. Her response was "that's not good". And I responded, "Oh its nothing, just have to rule out this weird thing". </p><p>I went home and fell asleep for two hours, clinging to an ice pack that had since lost its cold. I was exhausted. The next morning I got up, packed up the car, picked up my friend and hit the road to the Midwest. This wasn't going to change my plans. It was nothing. I don't have cancer until someone tells me I have cancer.</p><p>Three days later, at a truck stop in Sydney Nebraska, I return a phone call to the breast care coordinator. "The biopsy came back positive for lobular carcinoma," she said. "But its tiny and you probably won't lose your breast and we can treat this." The next words out of my mouth were "What's next?" and she went on to describe a meeting with a surgeon which she set up for the next week. My friend and I looked at each other. "What the fuck." "I knew it, " I said. "I would say I have breast cancer to myself and there was no emotional reaction. I had a gut feeling, even though I kept trying to talk my way out of it."<br /></p><p>I have cancer. Someone just told me I have cancer.</p>Beth Radohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18240992790818467328noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9200134514759678426.post-38298933392480002062022-03-07T21:24:00.000-08:002022-03-07T21:24:15.661-08:00It doesn't end, does it?<p>There are just longer breaks between it. It. The sneak grief attack. It happened again today. Why today? Why not? I am subtly aware that 25 years ago today we moved into our beautiful home in California. The home that was filled with life, love, joy and grief and sorrow and recovery. And I am glad to have let it go. Today it was music. Don't Stop by Fleetwood Mac. The signature song of RuMoRs. The song they closed with at every gig. It snuck up on me. The wailing cry coming deep from within, the expulsion of all of the feeling mixed together--the missing, the fear of the future, the frustration with my misbehaving heart, the letting go, the surrender, again. Then the hour spent searching desperately through files to find a recording of a gig with Don't Stop. I wanted to hear HIM counting in the band and hear HIM play the finale with the final crash on the cymbal. In my mind's eye I could see him grabbing the edge of the crash to quiet it, leaning forward over his snare looking at his band mates with that smile, drench in sweat. The exchanges between them, enveloped in the bliss of having come together to play an awesome gig, each giving from the depth their soul to an appreciative audience, happy and smiling from an evening on the dance floor. The exhilaration and the exhaustion in his stance. But most of all the joy and the contentment of doing what he loved. </p><p>There was nothing left to do but break down. I would dismantle the sound system, wrapping cords--the one's with the green tape were ours, the ones with the blue tape were Dave's, the one's with red tape were Bruce's (is that right?), collecting the snake and winding it back into its black and yellow box until the next gig. Tom breaking down the drum kit, putting the hardware and stands into their rolling case, the cymbals (the crash, the splash, the ride, the gong and the high hat) into their case, and stacking the drums for me to put into their cases once the sound board and all of the pieces were packed up. I had a system for putting each drum into its individual case, with a minimal of wrestling between drum and case and me. Tom would load the car, there an order to that as well. Everything had to go in a specific way in the game of Tetris to get all of the piece into the Jeep and later the CRV. I would drive home, Tom being so tired from playing. They say that drummers are elite athletes given how physical it is to play with all four limbs doing something different. It was usually a short drive home where we would unload everything into the garage (also known as the drum storage room) and yes, there was a technique for how things were put away. We'd let Zora out for her nighttime zoomies, she had been alone all evening and had energy to expend. Once inside, we would partake of our traditional post-gig snack of White Castle sliders, potato chips and Trader Joe's dill pickles. As we ate, with Zora giving us the death stare waiting on a chip, we would discuss the gig, who had missed a cue, how the band sounded in the back of the house, and could everyone hear their monitors? And then we would head to bed, tired and sore and spent, together, looking forward to doing it all again on another night in another venue.</p><p>Oh how I miss these times, the being a part of, doing what I could, watching and supporting the band to be the best they could be on any given night. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgR1q_Fovs6Th9qVXrSrhIS8Khg8iskx7lUo-dI63nslr80A4KLDdTT8XQ02KrOZt-gnsd_dm-edf6VNXuTLFc3N1OyPHtBfsZ6dqGgYYcLAeYFP0dx2v1LtaasFDHq8I1EOiTk8zvxmvUaAB9CGu2ITvLmqjIIGGQOrR55f1ymNdk_tHCQr-tKlgV4=s2574" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2059" data-original-width="2574" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgR1q_Fovs6Th9qVXrSrhIS8Khg8iskx7lUo-dI63nslr80A4KLDdTT8XQ02KrOZt-gnsd_dm-edf6VNXuTLFc3N1OyPHtBfsZ6dqGgYYcLAeYFP0dx2v1LtaasFDHq8I1EOiTk8zvxmvUaAB9CGu2ITvLmqjIIGGQOrR55f1ymNdk_tHCQr-tKlgV4=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg4a8fJPWKMVeTw-IfPEy-Zl0reHBaGu-CpiyaPDvMHkaAr26z2s4S5h8CSRPM37iPT9Wh1qWNFiwzThl8xhERwS4Ccg3fxGsaETDzA-y0meSrGp3JKLh-B7-v7bbBLKdsE4PLmrZDpfAHtRZ8uoyhYeYDCagwdwfPPLbNhk6aAmRLew2Lpq9VDigJW=s2352" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1680" data-original-width="2352" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg4a8fJPWKMVeTw-IfPEy-Zl0reHBaGu-CpiyaPDvMHkaAr26z2s4S5h8CSRPM37iPT9Wh1qWNFiwzThl8xhERwS4Ccg3fxGsaETDzA-y0meSrGp3JKLh-B7-v7bbBLKdsE4PLmrZDpfAHtRZ8uoyhYeYDCagwdwfPPLbNhk6aAmRLew2Lpq9VDigJW=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhYfCPmI_-nv5Uy1gZoa9phr35LXKapBVXYtaHPEdiy_PD0PElJ6JgUgjGIk3Tx5TwGOfBApCuMRCfh5somp_sT7qRePKTl9iGxc33ywPF8x8fjuk3uxVju6buRlPyhKmZ9tMUE-LrMx5Sb7-MjxE1nQFxEBnGZBYkxQRcZDmexLrOopsldNwpnjeZI=s2878" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2302" data-original-width="2878" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhYfCPmI_-nv5Uy1gZoa9phr35LXKapBVXYtaHPEdiy_PD0PElJ6JgUgjGIk3Tx5TwGOfBApCuMRCfh5somp_sT7qRePKTl9iGxc33ywPF8x8fjuk3uxVju6buRlPyhKmZ9tMUE-LrMx5Sb7-MjxE1nQFxEBnGZBYkxQRcZDmexLrOopsldNwpnjeZI=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Beth Radohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18240992790818467328noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9200134514759678426.post-70034977803707587362020-01-19T13:45:00.000-08:002020-01-19T13:45:04.023-08:00Heart Strong<div class="_2cuy _3dgx" data-block="true" data-editor="b430r" data-offset-key="b737e-0-0" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #1d2129; font-family: inherit; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0px; orphans: 2; padding: 6px 0px 0px; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: pre-wrap; word-spacing: 0px;">
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The 5th anniversary of Tom's death is in 8 days. In the last 5 years I've dealt with Tom's illness and death. I've had cataract surgery on both eyes. Then 848 days ago, while having dinner at a local Mexican restaurant, my heart went into a strange rhythm. It had happened once before but converted back to normal quickly. This time it didn't. I kept thinking it would. But it didn't. A week later I took myself into the ER and was diagnosed with persistent aFib. I was put on medication and sent home. A month later I had my first cardioversion to put me back in normal rhythm. It didn't last. It began my long journey through various medications, multiple EKGs, 5 echocardiograms, one angiogram, one stress test, one cardiac MRI (soon to be two), four cardioversions, one surgical ablation (heart surgery), one catheter ablation (heart surgery), and a bout of constrictive pericarditis which caused diastolic heart failure (since resolved), a thoracentesis, a 14 day monitor and a 30 day monitor. Last week I received the results of that 30 day monitor and my cardiologist has declared the last ablation a SUCCESS!!!!! My heart is still in the healing process from what is believed to be a flare of the pericarditis from the second ablation. But I am HEART STRONG! Today I felt good. And its good to feel good.
</span></span><span data-offset-key="20njv-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><span data-text="true" style="font-family: inherit;">Up for 2020, two joint replacements. And I've done all this while continuing to work, redoing my house, learning to ride a motorcycle and just trying to recover. Dayum! That is a lot of stuff. I am pretty awesome if I say so myself. And yet, it could be so very much worse. I am grateful for what I do have, a home, an income, health insurance, great friends who have helped me through this. And Zora--who is the only reason I got out of bed the next day.
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It has been a long hard difficult journey. There were days I didn't think I'd make it through and days I didn't want to make it through. I know the joint replacements will be very difficult surgeries to recover from. But, hell, if I can survive the last five years, I think I will get through it just fine. Its the last thing I need to do to reclaim my life, which has become limited due to the constant pain when walking or standing.
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />Beth Radohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18240992790818467328noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9200134514759678426.post-77461646130846819552020-01-19T13:18:00.000-08:002020-01-19T13:18:17.766-08:00Our House<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Twenty-three years ago today, on January 19, 1997, we first walked into the house that was to become our home. We arrived from Chicago the day before and were looking for a place to rent, not buy. The moment we entered we knew we absolutely had to have it. We put in an offer the next day. It took some finagling and the help of family and six weeks later it was ours. <br />
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It has been the happiest of places, filled with love. It has been the saddest of places, the home of a broken heart. It has provided shelter to three dogs and two birds, a devoted married couple and a devastated widow. It has been a place of refuge and a place of angst (think nasty neighbors). It has hosted band practice and countless dinners. Music and laughter still echo from its corners. It is the place where we fought and made up. It is the place where we laughed and cried. It echoed with the howls of anguish after a failed IVF cycle. It is the place that recharged us after long days of work and a week of business travel. It is the place we returned to after learning of the death of my dad and fourteen years later, the death of my mom. It was the home to which Sonnet traveled across the country with us to spend her last four years and the home that Kona traveled from Texas to live in with his new family. It is the home that Zora traveled to from SoCal to bring joy to two people recovering from the loss of their goofy lab. It was the home that Bubba settled into after being abandoned by his family of twenty years and where he passed being loved on. It is where Phoenix would scream his lungs out and where he would cower when a hawk would fly close to the window. It is the very sacred space where Tom took his last breath It was <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fm-q0ELuk1A" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #0066cc; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: underline; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">Our House</a>. And it was a very very fine house.<br />
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I love it today just as much as the first day we moved in. I still remember the feeling walking down the stairs the first morning thinking "this is ours". I felt it was the beginning of something great, that we had arrived. We would stand on our deck at night and marvel at the stars, which could never be seen in Chicago, and admire our view and talk about our home in Chicago where the view was of two brick walls, a used car lot and a tree. <br />
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This place, these four walls and the roof, this mass of concrete, wood, metal, glass, gyp board and paint, is far more than a house. It is a home, <i>my</i> home. I am extremely grateful for it. Every time I walk through the door my heart and breathing slow and my shoulder relax because I am home. Of course the happy greeting by Zora will always make me laugh. It is now my home--the place where I have healed. It is still filled with that love and good juju.<br />
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<u><span style="color: #000120;"></span></u><br />Beth Radohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18240992790818467328noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9200134514759678426.post-366861206999238962020-01-19T11:05:00.001-08:002020-01-19T11:08:09.025-08:00The Photographic Journey Part Five <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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My photographic journey has been an experience. I never really thought about it as experience, focusing more on the outcome, the photos. I neglected to understand the most important part of the process, the actual shoot, the day you stand in front of the camera and contort your body to make yourself look good. Do not underestimate the value of good lighting and professional hair and makeup to change your everyday self into your "OMG is that me?" self.<br />
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The photoshoot with Zora was really two parts. The first, Zora in the studio. The second, Zora and I in the park. The images of Zora in the studio are precious. She was such a good girl and worked really hard to please me.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTZdziuksJD4vH7mjl37oiVDo4QzuWOFzStbvpxJHTlT0RXJ3bN2MmJo9ypzlD-uHlvqYwIotVGWi6IB09VW_BNehrd4JwJQLl0icVaYB2D7cHlCjJDfJt2pB0N16_JyStAC2HPxaVGyE/s1600/Z18.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1143" data-original-width="1600" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTZdziuksJD4vH7mjl37oiVDo4QzuWOFzStbvpxJHTlT0RXJ3bN2MmJo9ypzlD-uHlvqYwIotVGWi6IB09VW_BNehrd4JwJQLl0icVaYB2D7cHlCjJDfJt2pB0N16_JyStAC2HPxaVGyE/s400/Z18.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
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Zora the Pathetic Abused Dog</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zora the Catcher</td></tr>
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The photographer captured her personality. And her beauty.<br />
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The images from the park captured exactly what I had told the photographer that I wanted, our interaction. What surprised me was how much Zora looked to me, how she would focus on me. The shoot provided some amazing art.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset Silhouette </td></tr>
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One of the things that I came to realize during the photoshoot and shortly thereafter was the job that Zora took on after Tom died. I believe he told her to take care of her mama and she took his request to heart. She has become much more protective of me. And while she has people in her life she absolutely adores like her buddy Christine and her Aunties Mary, Dawn, Holly and Rena, her first priority is her mama. She looks at me with love, mostly.<br />
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On the Bridge</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In the Park</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the Bench</td></tr>
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This dramatic image now hangs in my bedroom. There is something about it that speaks to my soul. My pup and me gazing out over the valley and admiring the sky, together.<br />
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And finally, our "Gone with the Wind" photo. It hangs on the mantle, and it says everything about surviving, and moving forward. Me and my pup.<br />
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<br />Beth Radohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18240992790818467328noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9200134514759678426.post-80462436972687665782019-11-08T22:37:00.001-08:002022-03-07T21:46:01.908-08:00Regrets and Lessons<div>I wrote this in 2019. The lesson has been driven home even more since then. My beloved big brother died in August of 2020. Tom's big brother, my "udder brudder" died five months later. And not quite a year after that, a few short months ago, my brother's wife and my precious sister-in-law also left us. These words, which I hadn't yet published, are still true, and ever more powerful. We've survived a pandemic, One of the things to come out of the pandemic is the "Great Resignation". Workers have re-evaluated what is important to them and are making hard choices. Employers are also having to adjust if they want to keep qualified workers on their teams. It is, in my opinion, a good thing. A little late for me as I slide toward retirement in the next five years. Take heed. </div><div><br /></div>"It has been a long few months. Work has been intense, and fast paced, and frustrating, and brutal. I have worked more hours in the last year than I have in several. And in all of the work, I gave up so much of my life. Work has taken over my life. It has taken from me the time to care for myself, my home, my health, my sleep, my pup. It has taken the fun from my life. When I do have a day off, I'm so tired that I can't get on my motorcycle. I don't get on it when I'm tired. It is dangerous. Work has taken my time and energy to build a new life. It is not a new story.<br />
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After a particularly intense work-filled weekend I headed into a two-week run of meetings. On that Monday morning I approached the trailer, rolling my case along with me I thought "I don't want to do this." That isn't how I usually feel as I approach a round of meetings. I'm usually excited and pumped to do it. But that morning I had nothing left. I realized that I did not survive the last five years to work like this. I did not survive Tom's illness and his death, two heart surgeries and a rare dangerous complication to do "this." This is not what I want for my life. Don't get me wrong, I love the work. What I don't love is the unrelenting pressure and the demanding schedule. This is not the quality of life that I now want.<br />
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I harken back to the biggest friction in our marriage--it was how much I worked. And how much I traveled. All of that time that I put into my job and for what? My clients didn't care what I sacrificed. And the firms I worked for certainly didn't care. All they cared about was how happy the client was (I always had happy clients) and how much money they made. But they didn't care about me, or my life, or my husband's life. That was true for most of my professional life. I will say that I have been fortunate that in the last six years I have worked with a stunningly good firm and had stunningly good clients who were so very kind to me when Tom died. I was blessed at that time to be working with good-hearted, solid kind people. The antithesis of my previous experience where I spent so much time crisscrossing North America for a different firm that didn't care at all. Some individuals may have cared, but the firm and leadership as a whole did not.<br />
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The hard pill to swallow is that I am not the victim here. I made the choice to do those things. I thought that there would be some special reward at the end of the line. Some type of recognition. There wasn't. Any loyalty was not reciprocal. I had been sold a bill of goods about working hard and being rewarded for your hard work. I bought it hook line and sinker. And the sad part is that I learned way too late in my life it wasn't true. I don't know why, exactly, that I have been so driven to get on that treadmill and put so much effort into a project. I do love the work and the process. And I love solving problems for my clients and building the relationships. But why am I pushing so relentlessly, and why do I continue to do this to myself? At this point, the only way out is through. And I will need to endure and try to find ways to lessen the pressure cooker. I am certain that the stress contributed to the reoccurrence of my aFib and the need for a second surgery. Trying to answer this question will take more than a blog post to unravel. Bottom line is that I am the only person who can change this. And I will have to figure it out.<br />
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As I was bemoaning my situation Friday to my brother (who is just like me in this regard--actually he is much worse), I wanted to drive home the point that time in finite. Time with the people you love is finite. One will never know when a moment could be the last. And all of the extra time spent at the office or working for the client or being on the road to land the next big project or trying to impress the boss--<br />
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<i><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>YOU. NEVER. GET. IT. BACK. </b> </span></span></i></div>
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<i><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>EVER. </b> </span></span></i></div>
Work is a necessary evil and can also be a rewarding experience. I've enjoyed my career. I've felt drawn to and committed to the work. I have believed it was important work, that it made a difference in some small way. Even if the only thing it did was support us so Tom could do the work he was meant to do, which really was important work. My work serves it purpose. My problem is balance. I suck at it. I keep trying and I keep failing. I have had the hard lesson put right in front of my eyes. All Tom wanted from me was to spend time together. It was that simple. What a fortunate woman I was, and what a clueless one as well.<br />
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I know you have heard it before but I am the lesson. Put first things first. Spend time with the people you love. That is really all they want from you. And it is the very best gift you can give them. You. Your time. Your love. They are what matters. And you are what matters to them."Beth Radohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18240992790818467328noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9200134514759678426.post-79206297019781715122019-10-19T21:34:00.001-07:002019-12-07T13:37:53.404-08:00The Photographic Journey Part Four<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I've said many times since Tom died that Zora saved my life. She was the only reason I got out of bed the next morning, and every morning after. She couldn't lose both her daddy and her mama. She needed me. And I needed her. She has made it her mission to protect me, to take over for her daddy. She has taken her responsibility very seriously and done it very well. I wanted to honor her and do a photo session--a professional one since she isn't a big fan of Mom behind the camera. Zora's walker had told me about a photographer who does amazing pet photography and I had been following her page on FB. I loved her work and reached out to her to talk about a shoot. I told her I wanted to capture the many personalities of Zora and our interaction together. Barbara had us come over to her studio to talk and to see how comfortable Zora was in the environment with the lights and camera. Zee was a trooper and did great. We scheduled a date, which we had to reschedule at the last minute. Then a coveted Saturday date opened up and I jumped at it. <br />
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So on a Saturday evening Zora and I jumped in the car and made our way over to the East Bay spending way too much time sitting on 37. Once we arrived Zora quickly set about checking out the space which was all set up and ready for her. We started the shoot and Zora did great. She listened well, did as she was asked and was easy to bribe with Charley Bears. Barbara said that Zora was part of the 1% of dogs who get to be in the studio without a leash. After we finished in the studio we headed to a local park for outside shots with both of us. I was much more comfortable in front of the camera this time. The photographer said she should send all of her clients for their goddess shots before coming to see her. I was easy to direct and she could focus on the dog. Again Zora did great, even with all of the new smells.Barbara noted that Zora wouldn't take her eyes off of me. When we are at home she either ignores me or runs away because she thinks I'm going to do something to her ears or her toenails. I didn't realize how much she focused on me until we had this experience. I saw a few of the shots in the camera and they looked fabulous. After two hours of shooting we got back in the car and Zora conked out--she was exhausted. I was so very proud of her and how well she did. And I found the experience with her bonding. <br />
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A week later I received the proofs. They were awesome. And it was so amazing to see how much Zora kept looking at me. The photos of us together were so sweet and loving, you can see the connection. And the studio photos of Zee were great. <br />
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The first finalized photo is so dramatic. As I was reviewing the images with Barbara, she described what she saw in this image as this <span style="color: black;">"<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; display: inline !important; float: none; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><i>What I see in </i></span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; display: inline; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><i>this image is a devoted pup looking so lovingly at her Mom who is recovering from her horrible loss and has begun to spread her wings in a life affirming and sassy way! Sniff...."</i><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"> I fell in love with the image in an entirely new way. Remember, one of the things that I wanted from this journey was to see how others see me. </span></span></span></span><br />
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Beth Radohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18240992790818467328noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9200134514759678426.post-35622079546617910742019-10-12T17:39:00.001-07:002019-10-12T17:58:44.428-07:00The Photographic Journey Part ThreeFour weeks can go by so slowly when you are waiting for something you want. My wedding anniversary was approaching and I was hoping to get at least the images in my wedding dress in time for my anniversary. I was anxiously checking my email awaiting notification that the images were ready. And then on a Saturday evening, the email arrived. Heidi had told me to look at the images on the biggest screen available and to not review them on my phone. I found it interesting that I was nervous about looking at them. I was afraid I would be disappointed, that these fabulous photographers would somehow fail when it came to making me look good. I put off looking at the images. I made myself a lovely dinner. Then I figured out a way to hook my laptop up to my television. It was time for the reveal. The first image came up. Wait, what? Who is that? That couldn't possibly be me. Wow. I continued to scroll through the images, amazed at each one. And then this photo appeared.<br />
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It took my breath away. It was amazing! It so clearly conveyed a story, the story I wanted to tell, of love and loss and beauty and grief and memories and beauty within tragedy and power. It was all of those things and more. I was stunned. And I was stunned that I could use the word stunning about any image of me. I scrolled through the images again, and again and again. I went to bed with so many thoughts running around in my head. I woke up the next morning and looked at them all again. Do I really look like that?<br />
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Or this?<br />
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Or this? <br />
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Who is this person?<br />
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I certainly wasn't disappointed in the images, I was awestruck. The outsides look fabulous. But what I really noticed is that these pictures reflected my insides, my spirit. I could see me, different sides of me, different looks of me. When I look at the series of selfies I've taken, they all look alike--same head tilt, same smile, same angle. I edit the picture that I put forth to the world. We all do, we see ourselves as one dimensional when we self-edit. We criticize everything we don't like about ourselves and nit pick every imperfection in each of our photos. In an unusual twist, these photographers do not give you all of the proofs to look at then choose the ones that you like for further editing. They make the selection, do the editing and then send them on to you. It is a scary thing to put one's trust in others to choose, it limits one's ability to self edit and reinforce the self perception that one puts out into the world. But I put my trust into the process and I wasn't disappointed. As a photographer I know that when I review images after a shoot, there are ones that grab my attention and those are the ones I focus on. It was an act of faith to let the control go. And it was very freeing because it took the responsibility off of me to decide. <br />
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About a week later I shared my photos and the story in the FB widows' group that I have been a part of for almost five years. I received lots of compliments but that really wasn't the point. What struck me is how some women viewed themselves in such a negative light. They, like many women, have negative self talk in their heads. They also have survived tragic and devastating loss which further impacts their self image. It sparked something in me. I'm not sure exactly what to do with the thoughts. One thing I do know, the process of going through the first two shoots has been transformative.<br />
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And there are two more to go.<br />
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Photo Credit: <a href="http://www.inherimagephoto.com/" target="_blank">In Her Image Photography</a><br />
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Beth Radohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18240992790818467328noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9200134514759678426.post-84439269292266433612019-10-11T22:13:00.001-07:002019-10-11T22:13:55.643-07:00The Photographic Journey Part Two<span style="background-color: white; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">Preparation for a photo shoot is a process. There are decisions to be made about clothes. What is the image one wants to project? What photographs well? What looks good on my body? What colors look good on camera and against the skin and the backdrop. And what jewelry to wear with outfits? What about shoes? Will they be seen in the shot? And then there is hair and make-up? Do my own? Hire a professional? Decisions. Decisions.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">I had learned that when doing a photo shoot you need a lot more make-up than one would normally wear because the lights and camera absorb it. What would seem in the mirror to be the amount of make-up a hooker would put on before heading out to work, looks like you've barely put on enough make-up to define the fact that you have eyes and lips. During the previous week I did a dry run. I tried on different outfits to see how they would look and fit and if they would look good on camera. Its a deal. There is a reason people hire stylists.</span><br />
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The morning of first photo shoot dawned. It was August and it was warm. The photographer was going to come to my house to do the head shot and then we were going to head outside. I had spent way to much time doing my hair and make-up. I had decided to do my own for the first photo shoot. I was ready. Selfie to start.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhAs2UefhwMaxzgimjR4EAHAy3qeK1Jtn3gkuGSwB9tDYrqtY_jsPQc42tLaL2KvajF9NSBtj1Zl5F6nu0srVtRVQKREQbJRmKEDu3-8m6pRFWTcKFqMdeW2sVP3IMs9b9qI_7Foo5uQg/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhAs2UefhwMaxzgimjR4EAHAy3qeK1Jtn3gkuGSwB9tDYrqtY_jsPQc42tLaL2KvajF9NSBtj1Zl5F6nu0srVtRVQKREQbJRmKEDu3-8m6pRFWTcKFqMdeW2sVP3IMs9b9qI_7Foo5uQg/s320/1.jpg" width="319" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Selfie before the first shoot</td></tr>
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I was nervous, after all, I'm used to being behind the camera. Dennis, the photographer arrived and set up. We did the test shots. I was so uncomfortable. I felt stiff, I looked stiff. I was worried about how I looked and how I was smiling. I was doing a lot of negative head talk. It showed. We finished the head shot and then headed to downtown to do some outdoor shots. It was hot out. And I was still uncomfortable. There was a lot of snapping going on but, truth be told, I was literally a hot mess. It was so warm that we called it a day and Dennis agreed to finish up a few days later. I could see in the photos that I was really not having a good time.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDnU8ebgOtCHWwakQqen-LIZExlLK5pA8FDOZssrq3VtYGVUy-Sh1DzC1NwefBPaFIlhIpgkfXlGLRMoW4fZwEkaW4l_qpMlqI3TeIDvO6xXUSfgZK3hk492LZXKCmAceH1D8Hb8u43_o/s1600/Beth_71I3330.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #0066cc; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; orphans: 2; text-align: center; text-decoration: underline; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDnU8ebgOtCHWwakQqen-LIZExlLK5pA8FDOZssrq3VtYGVUy-Sh1DzC1NwefBPaFIlhIpgkfXlGLRMoW4fZwEkaW4l_qpMlqI3TeIDvO6xXUSfgZK3hk492LZXKCmAceH1D8Hb8u43_o/s320/Beth_71I3330.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Day One </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMiJdvSF-CiE-u_RPvuY76m5BMVDqCzUW1ZTn5u4063bZioHqmkQ4UBybp5lX5g5Rhk-xaKo17-dEsUsBnuauiHXkpGhXXu9l-W4ZcnAnhZurQK4Sf9GHNOBxKarxvOI4N889ek6nOXco/s1600/Beth_71I3339.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1065" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMiJdvSF-CiE-u_RPvuY76m5BMVDqCzUW1ZTn5u4063bZioHqmkQ4UBybp5lX5g5Rhk-xaKo17-dEsUsBnuauiHXkpGhXXu9l-W4ZcnAnhZurQK4Sf9GHNOBxKarxvOI4N889ek6nOXco/s320/Beth_71I3339.jpg" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Day One </td></tr>
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There were several more shots taken after these. The photographer didn't even show them to me. They were <i>that</i> bad.<br />
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Two days later I was scheduled for my goddess photo shoot (not the word I would use about myself, but it works). I had my outfits picked out and I had booked professional hair and make-up. In my prep sessions with the photographer I told her that I wanted to do a shoot in my wedding dress--my 25th wedding anniversary was coming up and I loved my dress and I wanted to honor the day. She was so supportive of the idea. So on Saturday I loaded up all of my stuff and headed up to the studio. I met the make-up artist and was glammed up. All the while with the negative self talk--I'm too old, my eyelashes had almost disappeared because of the medication I had been on, my jawline was slack, blah blah blah . . . She was wonderful and she did a great job--I looked almost presentable.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk-ku938uMnknxho4G_rlW2HHMWQ-0vRkZophDkKiVIPxoeEpQX3k8lWFJ-FRzhugcI6h_sDmBn3WGKyVkIKItW5LW-r-jk4oCA6o3tUmqIe-0E2tw8KYirnbFFWW5X8qHd6W7P1P3BXI/s1600/IMG_1159.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk-ku938uMnknxho4G_rlW2HHMWQ-0vRkZophDkKiVIPxoeEpQX3k8lWFJ-FRzhugcI6h_sDmBn3WGKyVkIKItW5LW-r-jk4oCA6o3tUmqIe-0E2tw8KYirnbFFWW5X8qHd6W7P1P3BXI/s320/IMG_1159.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ready for the Shoot with Elise the Magician</td></tr>
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The photographers arrived and I felt so unworthy and insignificant until we started to interact. When we first started we did a lot of talking, they asked about things I liked, anything to get the conversation going and get me comfortable. As we talked, Heidi would give me directions on how to pose and Tara would assist with lighting and wind. We would laugh and talk and then I'd be in a different pose--sometimes I felt like a contortionist. We joked that it wasn't good unless it hurt. I now have an entirely new respect for models. After the first outfit change we jumped in the car and headed out to a park where more photos were taken. A quick clothing change in the car and it was round three. We headed back to the studio and did the last outfit before it was time to put on my wedding dress. I had a vision in my head what I wanted and I shared it with Heidi and Tara. I was asked what song would be appropriate to the vignette. I chose "Color My World" by Chicago. It was the only song that Tom sang with the band and he would always dedicate it to me. It was followed by several other tunes by Chicago. Tara was working the lights and the fan. I looked over at her and I saw that she was tearing up. Heidi then asked me what my favorite dance song was--"Uptown Funk" She told me to get up and dance. How often do you get to dance in your wedding dress again? I remember how much fun it was to dance in at my wedding. By the time we were done for the day I felt so different. I felt confident and comfortable and mentally and physically exhausted. I don't know how to describe it, but the day was an event, a transformative one. I would not see the images for another month. It was going to be a long wait.<br />
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The next day I had the follow-up shoot scheduled with the first photographer. I slept in the makeup since it was so awesome. It held up well overnight. I should always look this good in the morning.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpOwCVmWmxP1rs49ZJiCGuEW8t00vUEy6ADekTnrC3fR1xcNQP7zPKsKwUPS2Dpe1FsbBF19K76INQW2MJ1C3jEoGhptCIqbi5Oc-OZ7AlgI0xXlkdwwoiLq3sf9O32BNJAQNsn8kTpMo/s1600/IMG_1195.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1201" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpOwCVmWmxP1rs49ZJiCGuEW8t00vUEy6ADekTnrC3fR1xcNQP7zPKsKwUPS2Dpe1FsbBF19K76INQW2MJ1C3jEoGhptCIqbi5Oc-OZ7AlgI0xXlkdwwoiLq3sf9O32BNJAQNsn8kTpMo/s200/IMG_1195.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Makeup Survives the Night</td></tr>
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It was going to be another hot day and I really didn't want to be a hot mess again, but it looked likely. I changed into my outfit and waited for Dennis to arrive. We did the first several shots in my house. I wanted to stay cool. He didn't have lights with him, so we worked with reflectors and he took some interesting shots. It was different this time, I was so much more comfortable in my body, how to position it, and in following direction. The pictures showed that I was more relaxed. We headed over to the bridge over the creek in the valley for some outdoor shots. It was really hot out, but we were able to get some work done and we wrapped it up. I had images within a few days. I was happy with them. I could see the difference from a few days earlier. <br />
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I was half way through my plan. <br />
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<br />Beth Radohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18240992790818467328noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9200134514759678426.post-43580354930152868692019-10-05T09:29:00.000-07:002019-10-11T22:21:44.677-07:00The Photographic Journey Part OneTransformation comes from the darnedest places in the most unexpected ways. Sometime in August I had a niggling idea to do a utilitarian photo shoot. I needed a new head shot. And I needed some decent photos to enter the online dating world. Selfies only take you so far.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizMPW-tSp-m0E-LpQnGJWJ0kGM8Q_WyuJ-9I25Z5bMIdz7DK_0NLeOV87UVSSPFqPVnXr7eC2tgVWacOCLKM4aXhDJGpxMDCoOS5i8WCYmQbejfRMbHqilgKr4IpqgsFOoQsT4_sLMCGk/s1600/IMG_0339+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizMPW-tSp-m0E-LpQnGJWJ0kGM8Q_WyuJ-9I25Z5bMIdz7DK_0NLeOV87UVSSPFqPVnXr7eC2tgVWacOCLKM4aXhDJGpxMDCoOS5i8WCYmQbejfRMbHqilgKr4IpqgsFOoQsT4_sLMCGk/s200/IMG_0339+%25281%2529.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">May 2019</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">June 2018 before Widow Sister Wedding</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">April 2019</td></tr>
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So I decided I would do it, and the idea started to expand. I wanted to showcase who I was now. How do I do that? What things do I represent? There is me, my motorcycle, my dog, my professional life and my casual side. I researched photographers and found one that looked like a good fit. I scheduled a date for the first shoot. I shared about my idea on one of my FB widow's group. One member reached out to her photography group and provided me a lead for two other local photographers who would be interested in working with me. What started out as a pretty utilitarian idea started to morph into something else. I realized it was a stretch to expect one photographer to accomplish all things. I decided to reach out to different photographers, matching their best skills to what I envisioned. One of the photographers that was referred to me from my FB widow sister happened to be in nearby Petaluma. I checked out their website and was blown away at what I saw, their passion to help women find their inner Goddess. I knew these were photographers with whom I wanted to work. I also knew of a pet photographer that did amazing work. And a friend who is finding her footing in photography and a motorcycle rider seems like a good fit for the motorcycle shoot. An overall plan started to take shape. And then it started to happen . . .<br />
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Self doubt. So much self doubt. The rationalization of why I would do this. Its a lot of money to spend on a luxury. And how vain is it to want to have pictures taken of you? I had lots of good reasons to do this. First of all, I've had a good year work wise and there is a little bit of extra money. I needed a new headshot for business. And then there's that whole dating thing, a thing that I find embarrassing to talk about it. In my mind I believe everyone is wondering who would want to go out with me? Who do I think I am to hope for a second great love in my life after having such a wonderful husband. Shouldn't that be enough? Oh, and I've lost about 14 stone over the last year and half (do the math on that one). And let's not forget the piece de résistance--in the last five years I've survived Tom's diagnosis, illness, death, two cataract surgeries, numerous heart tests, two heart surgeries and constrictive pericarditis. Wow. A Lot. I survived. Its not the typical milestone event like graduation, engagement, weddings, children, etc. Widowhood is its own unique milestone and not one to be celebrated. Surviving and thriving, perhaps. Finally a good friend told me to stop justifying my desire to do it. It wasn't necessary and I didn't need any one's permission. That's why we have friends. To state the obvious and push you in the direction you want to go.<br />
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The story started to change for me. Besides the obvious reasons, I am in still in the place of rebuilding my life, trying to figure out who I am now and who I want to be. And one of the keys to that, for me, is seeing myself through other people's eyes. Which is not the same as seeking other people's approval or compliments. We only see ourselves through the mirror or in photos. In this age of selfies, we self edit what we put out into the world so that it is in alignment with how we see ourselves. It can be very limiting to our self perception. <br />
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So the journey has begun.Beth Radohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18240992790818467328noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9200134514759678426.post-64052755476004763822019-09-28T07:16:00.001-07:002019-09-28T07:16:57.377-07:00The Wedding DressMany little girls dream about their wedding day, marrying their Prince Charming and most importantly, their wedding dress. I was one of those little girls. I was engaged when I was 19 and fell in love with a wedding dress that I hoped to wear. It was simple for the time, a soft jersey with an empire waist, A-line. It had a high neck with beading which continued down to a placket. It also had long sleeves. No lace. It was simple, like how I perceived myself at the time. That wedding never happened. I never had the chance to try on a wedding dress.<br />
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Fast forward seventeen years to when Tom and I were engaged. An important part of the wedding planning is finding just the right dress. I started shopping nine months before the wedding. My mom didn't live locally so my shopping buddy was my bestie Mary Beth. I went shopping with her six years earlier for her gown. We went to the standard bridal places and since they only stocked tiny sample sizes, I was never able to try on a gown. Mary Beth was my personal mannequin. But nothing we saw came even close to what I thought I wanted, even though I didn't even know what that was. I was a bride in my mid-30s (considered old in the 90s) and most thought the appropriate dress would be a pale pink fitted suit. That wasn't what I wanted. I also preferred more tailored clothes back in the day so I wanted something more subdued.<br />
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On a cold December Friday afternoon, Mary Beth and I drove down to Orland Park, a suburb about 40 miles southwest of Chicago. In that little town was a bridal salon that represented a local designer, Jon Bradley. We didn't know it when we made the appointment but the owner of the salon, Andrea, was the same woman who was the salesperson who helped Mary Beth when she purchased her gown. Her headpiece was also a Jon Bradley design.<br />
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When asked what I was looking for, I could only describe what I didn't want--something that looked like a 20 year old would wear. I wanted something that fit my personality. Andrea brought out several beautiful samples, fabulous one-of-a-kind gowns that Mary Beth modeled for me. They were all beautiful. But nothing was speaking to me. I was worried that I wouldn't find one. Andrea gave me a sideways gaze and said she had one more, it was from the previous year's collection so the sample was a little beat up. Perhaps I'd like to look at it. When she pulled it out of bag, Mary Beth and I looked at each other and just knew. As I held it up in front of me in the mirror, the Hallelujah Chorus started to play on the radio. It was the song we were using as our recessional. It was my dress. I looked at Mary Beth. She had tears in her eyes. <br />
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Since the cost of the dress was above the budget I felt that I had to discuss it with Tom before committing that much money (it was a lot). I worked with Andrea to make some modifications to bring the cost down, but it was still a lot. Tom, in his usual fashion said, "If its what you want, you deserve it. Get it." And I did. I love the dress. We used to joke that it cost so much we should just stuff it and use it as a couch. Tom said it was so big that he would need a hand truck to move it. <br />
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It was so much fun to wear and to dance in. It was also a challenge to maneuver in. But I loved it. I still love it. After the wedding I had it cleaned and stored it in the closet. I would put it on occasionally for the sheer joy of wearing it. I had a special area of our closet designed to hold it. I had always hoped that we would be able to have a renewal of our vows and I would get to wear the dress again.<br />
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Two years ago I did a photo shoot of the dress on our anniversary. I noticed, for the first time, that the detail on the trim was a rose. A rose. I had the dress for over 20 years. I adored the dress and I didn't realize until 2017 that the trim was a rose. Talk about not being observant. Geez.<br />
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On the occasion of our 25th wedding anniversary I wanted to honor the day and wear the dress. It was to be a prop in documenting what it feels like to be a widow on such a milestone. And that's what I did. I tried the dress on and it was too big. I had to have it taken in. Not something the seamstress had heard very often--a twenty-five year old dress that need to be taken in, not let out.<br />
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The dress holds the energy of that day. And the memories. It is precious to me. And it is still just as gorgeous. Perhaps not as timely, but gorgeous just the same. Its 90s big. And its me. And us.<br />
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<br />Beth Radohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18240992790818467328noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9200134514759678426.post-34533881649065702142019-09-28T07:09:00.001-07:002019-09-28T07:09:35.978-07:00On the Occassion of our Twenty-fifth Wedding Anniversary<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Tuesday September 24, 2019 will be the twenty-fifth anniversary of the day we married. It is an auspicious day, both joyful and deeply sad. It marks the day, <i>that day</i>, twenty-five years ago, that we united in marriage. A marriage that brought us both incredible love and joy and commitment and humor and devotion. A marriage that at times humbled us to our knees with human<span style="background-color: white;"> frailties </span>and lifted our hearts to incredible joy. A marriage that was a spiritual journey for each of us as individuals and both of us as a couple. A marriage that taught us what it means to be really committed to another human being, how to love deeply and accept each others' shortcomings even when those shortcomings drove us to distraction and frustration. It was a marriage that ended far too soon, after only twenty years on the physical plane. <br />
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<msreadoutspan class="msreadout-line-highlight"><span style="background-color: white;">I </span><span style="background-color: white;">always wanted <msreadoutspan class="msreadout-word-highlight"><span style="background-color: white;">to</span></msreadoutspan> be married. I was engaged when I was 19 to my first love. My parents divorced</span></msreadoutspan> the next year and things did not go well for the next decade or so on the relationship front. Tom had been married and divorced. I met him about a year after his divorce and he was still deeply hurt. He said he never wanted to marry again. I had to chase him until he caught me. We were together for six years before he was ready to try again. The one thing I know is that he never regretted taking the plunge again and that he believed it was the best thing he ever did.<br />
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I am so saddened about this milestone. And angry that we didn't get to twenty-five. I feel cheated. It isn't fair. I think that goes without saying.<br />
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I wanted to mark this occasion. To honor the day, the beauty of it and the sorrow it now holds. I still have my wedding dress. I LOVE my wedding dress. I had a photo shoot done with it, The photo captures exactly what I wanted to show. The beauty and the sadness, the loneliness, importance.<br />
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The day we married it was raining. In fact, it was raining for the entire week prior to our wedding. And we had planned an outdoor wedding. Fortunately we had a plan B, moving the ceremony and the reception inside. <a href="https://www.glenviewparks.org/wp-content/uploads/2014/02/Redfield_History-2016.pdf" target="_blank">The Redfield Center at the Grove</a>, designed by George Elmslie, a follower of Louis Sullivan, was a architectural gem for our intimate wedding.<br />
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I think I remember every moment of that day, and what I have forgotten can be recalled by our wedding video or any of the many photographs taken. My father, who had waffled at coming to our wedding, did not attend the rehearsal the day before. My sister-in-law urged me not to worry about the situation. I told her I was getting married no matter what. My parents both came to the wedding and were cordial to each other, it was the first time they had seen each other since they divorced eighteen years before. I remember seeing Tom's face as I walked down the aisle. I felt so loved, by my family, our friends and most of all, the man that I was marrying. It was a beautiful wedding. And as we left that evening, the rain had ended, the moon had come out and there was a low ground fog over the meadow in front of the house. They say rain on your wedding day is a sign of good luck. One source says it signifies the cleansing of tough times or sadness in your past. True for me Another source indicates it is because it symbolizes the last tears that the bride will shed for the rest of her life. I don't know about that. I've cried gallons of tears before Tom's death and particularly after. We had a happy marriage, built daily by the minutia of life.<br />
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The 24th is a special day--a day I will always remember.<br />
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Beth Radohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18240992790818467328noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9200134514759678426.post-40554281402637062932019-02-10T12:53:00.001-08:002019-02-10T12:53:29.940-08:00Turning the Corner . . .Or is that an oncoming train?There are moments when it takes my breath away when I realize how much grief and loss have demanded of me, and how much is continued to be asked of me. I look backwards four and half years and am amazed that I am still standing. I've proclaimed mightily how hard I've worked to recover, and it is true. It has taken everything that I have to get this far but unfortunately the damage from the loss is more than emotional, but incredibly physical as well, something I was not expecting. The last year and a half I've had to deal with aFib (brought on by the stress of the loss), and a surgery to treat the aFib. I had made the commitment to stay in our home and to update it last fall, which I did. But then I developed a late onset rare complication from that surgery. Two and half months to get a diagnosis (the physicians in the practice had never seen this complication in my type of surgery). I was pretty ill. I kept soldiering on, doing the best I could to work and live life, but there was nothing left in the tank. I missed the holidays with my family. The treatment is long and the pace of improvement has been glacial. Two months into treatment and I was feeling like it would never ever get better. My doctor reminded me that it was a long treatment and improvement would be slow, but after being ill for four months, it felt like it would never get better. I kept hoping that one day I would wake up and feel better, a lot better. But it didn't happen.<br />
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And then, last week, I had a long busy week. I did my best to parse my energy to get through a 60 hour work week, which a month before would not have been possible. I realized I felt better, I had more stamina. And although I was worn out after that long week, I wasn't debilitated. I could breath better. I'm not fully recovered, and that will probably take a lot more time. I didn't realize how ill I was until I started to feel a little more like myself. I also acknowledged that I have just passed through the most difficult weeks of the year for me, the anniversary of Tom's death followed closely by my birthday--both accompanied by a lovely cold. There is a heaviness to those days, and it was a difficult anniversary this year. In the last month I finally turned off Tom's cell phone and his car has been rehomed with our nephew. Two emotional steps. I feel like I've cleared the decks, that I'm ready to move forward in an entirely different way. I no longer want to talk about how far I've come (no promises there, though), I want to live how far I've come--and how far I may go.<br />
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As I was driving home on Friday night and the thought occurred to me, actually it was a sense of knowing, that the very best of my life is yet to come. It is an awesome feeling, knowing. The person that I want to most share this with, who would be happiest for me, is Tom. There is no doubt that he is beaming and saying "that's my girl."Beth Radohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18240992790818467328noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9200134514759678426.post-61293070193461263612019-01-26T23:01:00.002-08:002019-01-26T23:01:57.067-08:00Regrets<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Blessing for the Brokenhearted</b></div>
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<i>There is no remedy for love but to love more. --Henry David Thoreau</i></div>
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Let us agree</div>
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for now</div>
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that we will not say </div>
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the breaking makes us stronger</div>
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or that it is better</div>
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to have this pain</div>
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than to have done</div>
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without this love.</div>
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Let us promise</div>
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we will not</div>
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tell ourselves</div>
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time will heal</div>
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the wound,</div>
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when every day</div>
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our waking </div>
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opens it anew.</div>
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Perhaps for now </div>
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it can be enough </div>
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to simply marvel</div>
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at the mystery</div>
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of how a heart</div>
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so broken</div>
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can go on beating,</div>
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as if it were made</div>
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for precisely this--</div>
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as if it knows</div>
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the only cure for love</div>
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is more of it,</div>
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as if it sees</div>
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the heart's sole remedy</div>
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for breaking</div>
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is to love still,</div>
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as if it trusts</div>
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that its own</div>
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persistent pulse</div>
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is the rhythm</div>
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of a blessing</div>
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we cannot</div>
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begin to fathom</div>
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but will save us</div>
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nonetheless.</div>
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<i>--Jan Richardson</i></div>
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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. <br />
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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 <i>my</i> home, not <i>our</i> home. It has been two steps forwarded and one step back. <br />
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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.<br />
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When this man came into my life, it changed everything.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB-4yZOCJ5kk6mTGDOYCbXqQZ5pLqnobZ8LVScRxUiWDv_32X3rCv4khyAoskI1IZQ2rlQmTnqWvgZtwo5iLfYpYAGAIPDSgn_YmmToM_cOBZgj5A3gqFpAomRVXSu5hLUttffp-H3Abw/s1600/Tom+cropped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="377" data-original-width="346" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB-4yZOCJ5kk6mTGDOYCbXqQZ5pLqnobZ8LVScRxUiWDv_32X3rCv4khyAoskI1IZQ2rlQmTnqWvgZtwo5iLfYpYAGAIPDSgn_YmmToM_cOBZgj5A3gqFpAomRVXSu5hLUttffp-H3Abw/s320/Tom+cropped.jpg" width="293" /></a></td></tr>
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Tom</div>
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1952-2015</div>
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And when he died everything changed again. Beth Radohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18240992790818467328noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9200134514759678426.post-5154805967531203482019-01-26T23:01:00.001-08:002019-01-26T23:01:36.483-08:00Crossroads: I'm Not Afraid to Die, I Am Afraid to LiveDecember 2018<br />
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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.<br />
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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<b> my</b> 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.<br />
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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.<br />
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<br />Beth Radohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18240992790818467328noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9200134514759678426.post-57622740945815732122018-08-19T23:05:00.000-07:002018-08-20T08:36:51.089-07:00Surviving the Storm<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This so aptly describes where I am right now. Being back in my hometown reminds me so much of my past, of the beginning of my happy life with Tom. As I look back at the last four years I really don't know how I even survived. There were many days when I really didn't want to go on. There have been awesome people who were there for me, those who altered their lives to help me live through mine. And my puppy dog. The morning after Tom died I was awaken by her sloppy kisses and knew that this little girl needed her mommy since she had lost her daddy. She kept me going when I wanted to give up. Perhaps it is sheer stubbornness masquerading as fortitude, or perhaps some strange whisper of hope that I could one day be happy again. Whatever it is, it has brought me to a new place in my grieving process, another level of letting go of Tom. There are days when I embrace it as an important step in moving forward. And then there are days that my heart stamps its feet and yells in defiance "I don't wanna and you can't make me!" You see my heart seems to have a mind of its own which it has so clearly demonstrated by its funky beat. We need to get on the same page. There are so many moving parts in my life right now which will determine what my future may look like and all I can do is turn it over and have faith that the outcome with my best interest will present itself. </div>
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One of those moving parts is my heart's recovery. It has been three and half months since surgery and I am coming off of my meds. The next month will tell whether the procedure was successful or if I will need to have a second one. This weaning period is causing some stress. Every funky beat, every palpitation has me focused on what my heart is doing and what the future holds. It is scary stuff. I really don't want to go through this anymore. I am now feeling more like myself as I decrease the meds that have kept the ticker on track. And now that I am on the precipice of my "new life" fear has set in. It was one thing when my "new life" was a hazy thought in the future, when I had to deal with the business at hand of grieving. While I will never be "over" Tom's death--it is a part of my life and who I am--the loss has, and will continue to, fade and be woven into the fabric of who I am and not the only thing that defines me. The shiny new life (at least that is what I am hoping for) is more clearly in sight. And with that comes the fear of the unknown, of the possibilities, of the risks, and of the rewards. I sometimes wonder if I have it in me, if the last four years have drained me of my essence. But I think the truth is that almost everything about me has changed. There continue to be shifts, some moving at a glacial pace, and some like California's earthquakes--unexpected with the ability to quickly shake things up and grab one's attention. </div>
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What I do know is that I am not the same anymore. There are parts of me that are familiar but many that are not. I look in the mirror some mornings and I can see the experiences in the reflection of my eyes. And I wonder how it is I am still standing. It's pretty awesome that I am. I expect it of myself while at the same time I am surprised by it. I don't know which moving part is going to click into place next but whichever part it is, it will take me on a new adventure. </div>
Beth Radohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18240992790818467328noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9200134514759678426.post-506782318623762152018-06-30T23:14:00.000-07:002018-06-30T23:14:39.169-07:00ParallelsIt has been two months today since my heart surgery. I am recovering well, although not quickly enough to suit me. We will not know until late summer if the procedure was successful, it takes a long time for the heart to heal and scar tissue to form, which will stop those errant signals from creating chaos in the heart rhythm. The surgeon wasn't able to complete the procedure due to an anatomical aberration in my heart. They were able to do about 70% of what they intended to do. So the odds of a successful procedure went from 90% down to 50%. If my aFib triggers were in the area that they ablated, the procedure may be successful. If they weren't, then I may need another ablation later this year. It will be a much less invasive procedure, and hopefully an easier recovery.<br />
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It has also been four years ago today that Tom was diagnosed with appendix cancer. I remember every moment of that day. The waiting room, the sunlight, and the shock. He went in for what was anticipated to be a routine appendectomy. After six weeks of doctor's visits, we were led to believe that they really didn't think he had this rare cancer. So we walked into the hospital that day thinking we would get this taken care of, put the scare behind us and get on with our lives. It wasn't to be. The surgeon got in there and realized what he saw was what he had suspected and that a more invasive procedure would be needed. He closed him back up and sent him to recovery. I remember the surgeon calling me out into the elevator lobby and telling me what had happened. I was not able to retain my composure because I knew what it meant. We were about to embark upon a journey we didn't want to be on. The surgeon had one more case, and he and I would tell Tom together. I sat in the waiting room crying my eyes out. I was alone. There was no privacy. The only other person in the waiting room looked at me and said "he's a young healthy strong man". I just stared at him. I had no words and no idea what to think or say. Later the nurse took me back to the recovery room, where they usually don't allow visitors. Tom was awake and his face lit up when he saw me. He wanted to know how it went. I tried to dodge the question, telling him the surgeon would talk to us. He was insistent. He saw that I had been crying. He knew something was wrong and wanted to know. So I had to tell him. I told him that they didn't remove his appendix. I don't remember anything else I said. And he was pissed off! Really angry, cursing away the way only Tom could do. He wanted it done and over with. The surgeon finally came in. After that I had to go to the pharmacy to pick up his pain meds. I had to stand in line, shaking with fear and tears running down my face, to pick up his prescription. Thinking back on it now, what a brutal, cruel thing to make someone go through. Let's give you some devastating news and then send you to stand in line to pick up a prescription. We came home that night, both exhausted and in shock. We had 200 more days of hospital stays, ER visits, chemotherapy visits, procedures. Ups and downs. Hope and despair. Our world would soon become out of control and all we could do was plod through it, holding onto each other desperately. Every single memory of the hospital includes the lack of appropriate facilities to support a family going through such trauma. Many would not even notice it, but as an architect who has spent my career designing spaces to support healing, the irony was not lost on me of having to spend the most difficult times of my life in an old, cramped, outdated facility that in itself made the process more difficult.<br />
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I had my surgery in a different hospital in a different town. But that hospital was also old and cramped and outdated. My room looked and felt exactly like the rooms in which Tom had spent so many days and nights. My only meltdown occurred when they transferred me from ICU to Telemetry and they put me in a two-bed room so small I could lay in bed and reach out and touch the person in the next bed. It was hot and with the curtain pulled I couldn't see out the window and had no idea if it were day or night. Anyone walking by could look directly at me laying in bed. I wasn't having it and let them know that this wasn't going to do, that environment mattered and Kaiser's own design standards were for private rooms. The nurse manager calming listened to me and told me they were having a discharge that afternoon and would transfer me. I was grateful that they did. I had a friend purchase boxes of See's candy that I could give to the staff. I didn't want them to think I was an entitled Marinite. Given all of the interruptions I had all day and night, I can't imagine what it would be like if those interruptions were doubled because of a roommate.<br />
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The routine and pace of activities each day were the same as those that Tom experienced during his hospitalizations. I knew what to expect. The only difference was that he wasn't there with me. One of the things he taught me by example was how to be gracious while a patient. I certainly wasn't gracious when he was the patient. I was a mama bear, fiercely looking out for and protecting my injured mate. I didn't intend to be a bitch on wheels, but the most important thing was Tom and his care. My job was to advocate for him so he could focus on healing. During my hospital stay, I had to be my own advocate. I had friends that would do that for me if I was unable to do it for myself, but was able to be clear about my needs. And the care I received was excellent. <br />
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When Tom was discharged after his first extended hospitalization, he was weak and needed to build his strength. Every evening, around 7 pm, we would take the dog and go on a little stroll. At first it was to the mail box and back. We extended the distance a little at a time. When I was discharged, I also needed to rebuild my strength and give my heart a gentle workout. So in the evening, around 7 pm. I would take the dog and slowly make the same journey. My friend, who was caring for me, walked with us. At first it took all I had to walk 150 feet to the mailbox. It felt surreal. It took me back to those evening of walking with Tom as he recuperated. The sunlight was the same, the temperature was the same, the smell and feel of the breeze was the same. It has now become a nightly ritual, two months later, that I take Zora on a walk. At 7 pm she sits in front of me and stares. And every single night I remember those strolls with Tom. It is one of the parallels.<br />
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During Tom's illness he developed orthostatic hypotension--feeling lightheaded and dizzy when he stood up. He was a big strong fellow and he didn't feel strong during those episodes. It was one of the reasons I would walk with him and stay close when he was up. This week I developed a similar problem. It is a part of the recovery process as the medications I must take for another month have greater side effects at their current dosage. It has happened twice this week, the lightheaded and dizzy feelings when I get up. It can be scary. But I look at it as progress, as my body healing. My doctor has prescribed more salt in my diet and a lot of fluid. It is another parallel.<br />
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This last day of June is not a day I care for. I am a person who focuses on dates, and experiences. Even when I don't want to, it is how I am wired. As I experience these parallels, I begin to wonder if it is time for me to consider moving. Our home has been a refuge, a place of comfort. It is the place where we lived our lives, the happy times, the bad times, the ups and downs, the place of laughter and love. It is the place where Tom died. It has been a place of security, of grief, of pain, of memories and of renewal. And while it is still deeply held in my heart, I am beginning to feel that it may be possible for me to let it go, or at least move from it. Perhaps it is time to leave the nest and move into my future. I am now in another place of transition. It seems never-ending, the different stages of transition. I'm in a different waiting room. It has been a long journey, which started four years ago today. I do not know what comes next, but I am willing to be open to the possibilities. As my heart heals not only from the surgery, but from the loss of the love of my life, I search for the next right step in my life.Beth Radohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18240992790818467328noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9200134514759678426.post-7402826956979393272018-01-25T15:29:00.000-08:002018-01-25T15:29:21.903-08:00He Broke My HeartFiguratively and literally, Tom broke my heart when he died. <br />
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In the last four months I have had two aFib episodes which did not resolve without medical intervention. It is not lost on me that the first one was the night before our wedding anniversary (and a few weeks before his birthday) and that the second one was four days before his angelversary. I do not believe these are coincidences. The body never forgets, it keeps score. And while the emotional charge surrounding these events is not a strong as it was the first two years, evidently the somatic memory still carries power. So I've done a lot of work to recover from this loss and my body is betraying me. $#*! This is not what I had intended. In some ways the aFib has spurred me on to take better care of myself, which I have. I've done everything that I can to change the dynamic but it is a long slow process with small increments of success and some setbacks (like these stupid aFib episodes).<br />
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Having heart stuff is scary. After the first episode in September I had a full cardiac work-up which revealed I'm in good shape, no cardiac disease. But in the midst of feeling bad, it feels like I'll never feel better again. It would be so easy to let fear and worry and this disorder run my life. But I refuse. I will not live on medications that sap my energy and zest for life. I watched my mom's doctor's throw medicine at her and the impact it had. It took my intervention to get her off of the ones that were unnecessary and to change the doses to ones that were appropriate for her, not just what the protocol said. Whenever I deal with the medical system, I feel like I have to arm myself for battle. I had to do that for Tom. Now I have to do it for me for there is no one else to do. It is exhausting, particularly when not feeling well. I miss that about a partnership, someone having your back and to fight the fight when you're weary. Actually, there are a lot of things I miss about a partnership. I was a happily married woman until cancer stole my husband.<br />
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I am committed to building an awesome life and doing things that I love and give my life meaning. No little ole irregular heartbeat is going to stop me from doing so. I sound brave, bold and badass. I didn't sound that way yesterday in the Emergency Room. <br />
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<br />Beth Radohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18240992790818467328noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9200134514759678426.post-11384825251924055022018-01-14T21:39:00.000-08:002018-01-14T21:39:35.141-08:00Sucker Punched. AgainDamn it! That wicked old grief has jumped back in and sucker punched me in the gut. Again. Two weeks ago I was saying that I was feeling content. And the last week has been a roller coaster of grief, anxiety, overwhelming emotions and tears. Big snotty, raging, screaming out loud, pleading tears. That hasn't happened in a very long time. I do not welcome the revisiting of the memories. In fact, unless I really think about exactly what day it is, I do not connect it to the events of each day three years ago. But my body has not forgotten and thus my mind has not either. Three years ago Tom was in his final hospitalization. The fear of the unknown and the excruciating prospect of what was to come was too much to bear, as is the memory of that time. Looking back I do not know how I survived it. <br />
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January is a difficult month. Bubba died right before the end of the year. My father died in early January in 1999. Tom died in late January, three days before my birthday. This is my hell month. I just want to get through it, fast. I do not enjoy this. I am tired of just surviving, and waiting to get to the good stuff. This is not the life I signed up for but it is the one that I have. It takes an enormous amount of energy to mourn. And an equal amount of energy to build a new life. It is a slow painful process and is not to be hurried, no matter how desirable it would be. My patience is wearing thin, thankfully not my resolve.Beth Radohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18240992790818467328noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9200134514759678426.post-23432857426456919542017-12-30T17:01:00.000-08:002017-12-30T17:01:30.964-08:00The Journey ContinuesI wish there were a tracking device to measure how far one has come in this mourning journey, similar to the Domino's order tracking app. It would be too complicated to create one. Grief is not a linear process--there are so many twists and hairpin turns that one could get whiplash trying to follow. And the grieving experience is different for every person and every loss. But it sure would be nice to know where one stands in the process. In the beginning all I knew is that I wanted it all to be better fast. Like really fast. Like I'd be all better in a year. Ha! In my experience I do not know how far I have come until I look back. I can only measure backwards, and have no perspective on how far there is to go. I would like to neatly wrap it all up and say "I'm 95% through the process and after the next 5% I will be all done." Yeah, right. In reality I do not know how far I have yet to go. <br />
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A year ago, I thought I was almost done. WRONG! The third year of my widowhood was about a lot of releasing. I thought I was pretty well through with that, but I was not. I released almost all of Tom's belongings. I released a lot of emotion. I started a few new adventures. And I dealt with a health setback and wrestled with some changes that I did not want to embrace. All in all, I did A LOT of big emotional work. It really shouldn't be a surprise that my heart went on the fritz. Tom's loss literally and figuratively broke my heart. I have to release the old, with love, in order to build the new. I cannot live in the past, as much as I might like to. I must and I want to move forward. When I look back, I am amazed that I have survived it. 2017 was a transition year of letting go (or in some cases, beginning to let go) of that which had been weighing me down. It has been hard work. But what I can say, which surprises me to no end, is that I am happy with my life as it stands right now. It isn't exactly what I want it to be, and is not the future that I hope to build. But I am happy, or perhaps content is a better word, more than I have been in a long, long time. I still miss Tom and wish he were still here. And I will continue to talk about him. Love never dies.</div>
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2018 is only 30 hours away. I am rapidly approaching the third anniversary of Tom's death. The next month will not be easy. It is packed with too many losses and very painful memories. I trust that 2018 will be a year of transmutation and perhaps even transformation. </div>
Beth Radohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18240992790818467328noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9200134514759678426.post-33030439132558473752017-10-15T10:42:00.000-07:002017-10-15T10:42:26.080-07:00Ashes Yesterday I ran my finger over Tom's car now covered with ash from the conflagration so close by. As I looked at my finger I realized that the ash on it is all that is left of people's hopes, dreams and lifetimes of work, just as Tom's car is a physical representation of all that is left of his life. Except. Except that the memories can never be burned away, they always remain. If I had one small piece of advice for those who are facing the devastation of losing their homes and for some, their family members as well, is to cherish the memories. Nothing can erase those. The physical things that are the gateway to the recollections are gone, and that is painful, something to be mourned. The objects, be they pictures, knick knacks, a piece of jewelry, a handwritten note or a car, hold the energy of the people who used them. I have kept Tom's car because every time I sit in it, as I press back against the seat, I feel the shape of his body there. It seems as if I am receiving a big Tom hug. As I accelerate up the hill, it feels as if I am flying with him. That car which holds such precious remembrances is now covered with the ashes of other peoples lives. It is sad, yet fitting.<br />
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The fires in Sonoma and Napa, and elsewhere, have had a traumatic impact in all of those in Northern California. It seems everyone knows someone who was evacuated or lost their home or place of business. And if they didn't, the toxic smoke in the air which has covered the landscape has been a constant reminder. The news stations covered the fire 24/7 for the first 48 hours. It is all anyone talks about here. It has altered our collective psyches. I live in one of the most affluent counties in the country and I have seen a tremendous outpouring of support. I have also seen demonstrations of privilege--people who believe that they should not be inconvenienced by others' misfortune. The fact that those people cannot see past their own lives and needs is disheartening. I can only focus on those who have wanted to help. What I hope is that they realize that the recovery process is long and difficult, that the victims won't just "get over it." It is a marathon, not a sprint. It will take a village and several years to rebuild. I should know.<br />
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<br />Beth Radohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18240992790818467328noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9200134514759678426.post-54010250775138085882017-05-01T10:03:00.002-07:002017-05-01T10:05:04.809-07:00This is My Life NowThis morning as I was putzing around the kitchen the thought came to me. "This is my life now." And for the first time, there was no weeping and gnashing of teeth about it. There was no fight against the reality, no resistance. There was nothing but simple acceptance, a surrender of sorts. <br />
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So what does "this is my life now" mean? It means I am now the solo driving force of my future. Everything, and I mean everything, depends upon me. I am the only one in charge of what my life will be. It sucks. And I accept it. I don't like it one little bit. I've been in this position before, in the years BT (before Tom). I didn't like it much then either. I loved being married. There is a difference now though. BT there was an emptiness in my soul, in my very being. AT (after Tom) there is an emptiness but I'm not sure how to describe it. My heart is still filled with our love and it will always be. Love doesn't die. There is definitely a hole in my daily life, the part of being a couple and doing daily life together. I miss him terribly. While it is always at the back of my mind, I do not constantly think about him. Since he died our friends and his friends have embraced me, reached out to me, included me in their lives, supported me. We all were trying to hold on to our old life together. And as time has gone on, we have all loosened the bond, as would be expected. While I still want to hold on to my old life, I cannot. I must release it so that I can build a new life. Our friends and our memories will ALWAYS be a part of who I am, a very treasured part. And I'm not letting those precious people out of my life, just letting the relationships evolve and redefine themselves. The void I feel is that the our life together is no longer and my new life is not yet "here". I'm in the hall between the two. And I am not yet sure what the new life is going to be. I am free to create that life, to expand my circle of friends and my experiences, to rediscover who I am and who I want to be. It is exciting and scary and overwhelming. I most likely have another three decades on this planet and I am not going to spend it being miserable!<br />
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Please do not think for a moment that I will not continue to talk about Tom. His impact on my life and on the lives of others is huge and his memory will not fade or be erased. I will still celebrate him, honor him, talk about him and I hope that you will do the same. He is very much a part of me and always will be.<br />
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I am emerging from two years of heavy mourning. It has taken it toll on me, body, mind and spirit. I have put everything I have into recovering from this. It has been brutal. But I am feeling like a butterfly emerging from the cocoon. There are times I must rest and let my wings dry before I can fly again. But I will fly again. I will.<br />
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This is my life now. And this is what I'm going to be.<br />
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<br />Beth Radohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18240992790818467328noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9200134514759678426.post-76407337123565965852017-04-06T21:24:00.000-07:002017-04-06T21:24:42.233-07:00One Thousand DaysI woke up today feeling "off". Sad. Missing Tom. In fact, I've had short bouts of "missing" lately. I don't really know why. For the most part I am doing well. I'm moving through "The Great Purge of 2017". I've started doing a big clean out of stuff, letting go of stuff. Almost all of Tom's clothes are gone, with the exception of the few things I'm keeping. I cleanout out the file cabinet, stocked full of old memories and papers--the paperwork from purchasing our house twenty years ago, the receipts from all of the cars we ever owned, old medical records, warranties for appliances we no longer have and the odd picture and several cards. I even found a birthday card from my mom with the $5 still in it. That's some big stuff. The house is starting to feel lighter and brighter, and a little empty.<br />
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In the car on the way to a meeting this morning, a deep wave of sadness came over me, and a few tears. I don't cry much anymore. I don't know why today. And then I realized--it has been 1,000 days since Tom received his diagnosis. Why is 1,000 days so profound? His doctor, when asked, said that the average life expectancy with his diagnosis and pathology was three years, about 1,000 days. In those early days after his diagnosis, while still coming to terms what it all meant, and while we were on the roller coaster of emotions that came with the next round of tests and treatment decisions, I thought to myself, I will have a 1,000 more days with him. When we had to wait 10 days for new information, I would think "that's 1% of the time we have left together." It was like having a count down clock in my head. And I didn't want to rush time one minute. The only thing I was hoping to rush was getting Tom better and putting the nightmare of appendix cancer behind us, going back to normal. I just wanted normal. I've wanted it for 1,000 days. I still want it. Now should be the time I would say goodbye if what the doctor told us was true. Instead I have spent the last twenty-six months surviving the most traumatic experience of my life, learning to live without my beloved. All that is left is love, and memories.<br />
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I was given copies of great illustrations bymariondrew which are spot on. This truly shows how it feels. </div>
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As the 1,000 days have passed, this illustrates how much grief I still carry around, and will continue to, perhaps for the rest of my life. Hopefully at some point it will fit in to a small coin purse. I wonder how many more 1,000 days that will take?<div>
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<br />Beth Radohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18240992790818467328noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9200134514759678426.post-65368206619044478862017-02-14T21:55:00.001-08:002017-02-14T21:55:36.470-08:00The Third One: Food, Candles and MusicToday is that lovely day every year where everyone is supposed to declare their undying love and the world seems unnaturally full of couples. If you're single, or divorced, or widowed and not in a romantic relationship, it can be a day of hell, that special day where you'd rather light yourself on fire than look around you. Truth be told, there are lots of people that just don't care about the day. I'm rather ambivalent about it. I spent many years in one relationship or another. I've also spent many years not in a relationship and wishing I was in one. The last three years (or my first three of widowhood) have been a special sort of purgatory--I've had all sorts of emotions about it.<br />
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The first year, Valentine's Day fell just 18 short days after Tom died. I was numb, barely functioning. I had purchased a card early that year, it was a great card, one I knew he would love, but I don't remember what it said. I put that card in with him when he was cremated. My bestie and I went to the Veteran's Home to dance with the vets because Tom's friend and drum teacher had asked for ladies to visit. I could barely function but my bestie danced some and it seemed like a good idea to reach out and give something back on such a day.<br />
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The second year, the members of my spousal loss bereavement support group planned our monthly potluck dinner for that day. I brought cupcakes and made toppers that had the names of each of our spouses on them. It was a gracious safe way to spend, what for most of us, was our second holiday without our spouses. I felt grateful to have something to do which honored the day and the love.<br />
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The third year, this year, most people expect (as do I) that I would be "over it". It is also a week day which changes the dynamic. I decided last week that I wasn't going to make a big deal about the day, I wasn't going to focus on what others had and I no longer have. (And truly I am very happy for those that are part of a loving relationship--shout your joy and happiness to the universe, love should always be celebrated). I made a plan to have dinner with Tom. Yes, I know that sounds creepy, but really it isn't. So I bought two filets and planned to make a nice meal. I lit all the candles in the house and put on music, specifically the play list of songs that relate directly to Tom, mainly songs that his band, RuMoRs, covered. I wanted this evening to be spent focusing on our relationship, our marriage, and our love. Even though he is no longer present, our love very much continues. <br />
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So I turn on the music and hit the "Tom" playlist. The first song up is "Crying" by Roy Orbison. That should have been a clue of things to come. That song wasn't even on the play list. For that matter I didn't even know that song was on my phone.<br />
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I had dinner listening to his music, smiling and crying. Big surprise, huh? It was to me. Every song that meant something to us was on that play list. The tears flowed, but not ugly, snotty tears. Different tears. I was able to sit and be with my feelings--the happiness and the sadness and the gratitude. It was cleansing. As I sat at the dinner table, in my spot (which I no longer sit at, I've claimed Tom's spot), I enjoyed a good meal--you know that Tom would be all over that! And I cried. Before I knew it, I had a dog in my lap licking away my tears (or just trying to get closer to the steak, I'm not sure which). And then this song played:<br />
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It was the music for our first dance at our wedding. Whenever a song played that RuMoRs covered, I would smile and sing along--I know them all so well having run the board for so many gigs. And we played a few gigs on Valentine's Day too. One year at a Valentine's Day gig, each male member of the band sang a song dedicated to his wife. Tom sang "Color My World." It's impossible to be sad when there's a RuMoRs song in the air. I can see him sitting on his throne behind the kit, with a smile on his face, be-bopping along to whatever he was playing. He LOVED to play and it brought him such joy. I jumped up and danced a few times too.<br />
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I was surprised by the emotion today. I've done some really big stuff lately in my journey to move forward. I've been forward focused. So I didn't expect the tears. One thing I've learned about mourning is to expect the unexpected. It was important to me to have this Valentine's Day dinner with Tom. As my grief counselor said, this may very well be the last Valentine's Day dinner with him. Next year I may be with someone new. From her mouth to god's ear.<br />
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And Tom did not disappoint. He sent a Valentine my way today:<br />
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<br />Beth Radohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18240992790818467328noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9200134514759678426.post-58622877680342729132017-01-01T17:44:00.000-08:002017-01-01T17:44:42.711-08:00Release--Restore--Rediscover--RebuildGoodbye 2016, Hello 2017--the year of "RE"!<br />
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My plans for a NYE celebration fell through when my loving family overshared their germs and I came down with the plague. So I spent NYE home with Zora and Bubba and decided to finish the vision board that I started on a year and a half ago when I realized I needed to consider creating a life after Tom. The process of creating the vision board was cathartic, in that it helped me to define the things that are important to me and what I want to include in my life. When I had started contemplating my new life there were three pillars that were of primary importance:<br />
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<li>To live a spirit-led and spirit-filled life</li>
<li>To be lean, fit and healthy.</li>
<li>To have love in my life.</li>
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These three pillars still hold true, but there is a lot of things that fill out those pillars.<br />
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A few months ago I had the feeling of a tectonic shift in the offing. This morning I awoke, after a long winter's nap, to sunshine, blue skies, a smile on my face and excitement in my heart--excitement that the next year would be much different and much more freeing than the last. </div>
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As I was looking through my Facebook memories this morning, viewing the happy memories of New Year's Days past, I realized how much I have been holding onto those memories, living in them, so to speak, not necessarily in a bad way, because I think that is very much a part of the grieving process. I have spent the last 23 months held down by the heaviness of mourning. I am ready to crawl out from under that weight. I want to make new, great memories in 2017, not just exist and/or survive my way through it. It is time to move forward.</div>
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My theme for 2017 is <i><b>Release--Restore--Rediscover--Rebuild</b></i>. </div>
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<b><i>Release</i></b> the past and the pain. Hold on to the happiness, the lessons, the love and release the burden of grief.</div>
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<b><i>Restore</i></b> what has been lost, damaged or buried. My health, my vitality, my love of life.</div>
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<b><i>Rediscover</i></b> that which brings me joy. Photography, art, entertaining, and explore things that I've always wanted to, such as getting my motorcycle license.</div>
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<b><i>Rebuild</i></b> the things that have taken a back seat during the last three years. My career, my bank account,<i></i><b></b> my connection with Zora and Bubba, my energy and create a home that is mine and not ours.</div>
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"That's bold talk for a one-eyed fat man", you might say (True Grit, 1969). Just because I've put it out there doesn't mean that I won't have days when I will back be in that head space, that I won't talk about Tom and my loss. After all I loved him for almost half of my life. Milestones, such as his birthday, his angelversary, our anniversary, etc., will still be significant and will be noted. But a year from now I want to be sharing new happy memories. Its exciting, and scary. </div>
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It is time, and I am ready, to move forward</div>
Beth Radohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18240992790818467328noreply@blogger.com0