Lessons Learned

Today is Valentine's Day.  It is the second one since Tom died.  Last year, a mere 18 days had passed and I was well ensconced in numbness.  Valentine's Day (or VD as we would call it), was not our holiday.  We didn't usually make a big deal of it, although we would always mark the occasion with cards and generally flowers or some other trinket.  It wasn't over the top for us.  We always said being married to each other was like Valentine's Day every day.  So for me, this isn't a heart wrenching day of remembrance.  What I am feeling is not the sadness of it being such a supposedly romantic holiday and Tom's not here.  What I am feeling is the absence of him (the physical Tom) in my life everyday, as well as on this day.  His spirit, however, is safely held in my heart, my soul and my life.

When I was young, in the years before Tom, during all those "dating" years or dead-end relationship years, this holiday held a lot of expectation, what grand romantic gesture would be made, what declarations of love and devotion would I receive.  blah blah blah . . .   And the very early years of our relationship did hold some of those expectations as we navigated the beginnings of a friendship that turned to romance that turned to love that turned to commitment that became a strong and loving marriage.  This holiday sometimes felt like an obligation to be romantic, when in reality there was romance in our lives on a daily basis.  In 2009 I made a photo book to serve as a Valentine's Day card.  It was titled "100 Reasons Why I Love You Tom". I included photos of our life to illustrate each quality.  I read it this morning and remembered how true each of those reasons are/were.

Last night I attended a comedy show with our friends.  I laughed my butt off--it was so much fun.  But when I returned home I remembered Valentine's Day 2006.  We had won a dinner from the grocery delivery service that we used and Tom was going to prepare dinner for us that evening.  I was stuck at working, focused on a deadline for a client.  Everything took longer than expected and I was at the office until after midnight.  Tom was so upset with me.  I didn't really understand why (yes I could be clueless) since me working late was not unusual and my client and work commitments often took priority.  Truth be told, they always took priority until the last year of Tom's life.  I felt nauseous when I remembered that night, how I had let him down.  Because the reality is that the client didn't care about the extra effort and my firm sure as hell didn't care that I gave up an evening with my husband to make money for them.  I was more focused on trying to get approval and do a good job than I was on what my love wanted.  This was a gut wrenching realization and I am quite ashamed of it.  Should I ever have the privilege of having another love in my life, I will not make this mistake again.  Hindsight is 20/20 and I have learned that nothing, NOTHING, is more important than love.  If you don't have your priorities straight, get them straight.  Money is just a tool.  Love is life.

So today I am having dinner with the members of my spousal loss bereavement group.  We meet on a monthly basis.  I am bringing cupcakes and have handmade toppers--hearts with the names of our spouses.

 Spending the evening with  these people who I have had the honor to share this journey with is going to be wonderful.  We each know the heartache, we have bared our souls to each other and born witness to each other's process.  We get it.  I am certain that we will not be alone, but joined by the spirit of those we each hold most dear.

Letting Go, Inch by Inch

This week I removed my wedding and engagement ring.  Well, full disclosure, I moved my wedding band to my right hand.  We will see how long this lasts, but I think it may stick, except for an occasional "relapse".  I tried to do it once before, at about six months or so, but I just couldn't do it. Having a naked ring finger just seems too, well, naked.  I plan on wearing the ring that Tom bought me for our 20th wedding anniversary on my left hand.  He had ordered it one month to the day before he died, and I didn't receive it until after his death.

When we became engaged we were so broke that we had little money for rings and decided to  use stones that we already had for my wedding set.  My engagement ring holds the diamond that was in my mom's engagement ring (she had lost the diamond out of the setting while digging in the garden and found it about a week later) and the side stones are my birthstone (garnets) given to me in a ring by my childhood babysitter when I was very young.  The diamonds in my wedding band are also from my mom's wedding set and one is from a ring that my grandmother wore and later gave to me.  There is a lot of history in the rings and therefore I will continue to wear them on my right hand since there is so much of my life and story in them.

Since removing my ring, I have fiddled with my left ring finger almost as much as I did when I first began to wear my engagement ring.  I remember being so enamored with it that I constantly was looking at it.  When I would get in the elevator at work, the lights made it sparkle like the sun and I would be mesmerized by it.  It wasn't the first engagement ring I ever had, but it was the perfect one.

Since moving past the one year anniversary of Tom's death, I feel like a weight has started to lift.  I am ready to let go of some of the heaviness of the grief.  I am not done mourning, not by any means, but I am willing to move forward.  I know this next year will be equally hard, albeit in another way, as I come to terms with the reality that my heart is learning what my head already knows.  I do not know what to expect.  I feel his presence in my life and in my heart.  It is true that love never dies.  I thought that was just a saying, but it isn't.  I still have many death duties to complete, and I will do them this year, as I am ready.  There are some things that still seem way too overwhelming to consider, like changing my FB status from married to Tom Radovanovich to widowed.  Or removing some of the many pictures of us together from the walls.  Nope.  Not ready. 

I seem to have fallen off a cliff at about nine months after Tom's death.  There were three months of the first Thanksgiving, the first Christmas, the first New Year's Eve, the first anniversary.  And then my milestone birthday.  It all took so much energy and was so incredibly hard.  There were some beautiful moments during those three months, but it was probably some of my hardest months.  I let myself feel and experience all of it.  Other things fell by the wayside during that time.  But now it is time to focus forward while remembering back and enjoying today.  For the next three months I am going to focus on the things that I couldn't focus on before--work and self care.  Head down, focus.  I know there will be moments and perhaps days that I will be swept away by a grief burst.  It will be OK.  To borrow a phrase from the Best Marigold Hotel "Everything will be all right in the end... if it's not all right then it's not yet the end."

Another inch of letting go.

Milestones--Part Two

The second major milestone last week was my birthday.  It was a big birthday.  The kind of birthday that when my parents turned that age I thought they were really old.  I don't feel really old.  I feel really beaten up by the last year and a half.  Several months ago I started to wonder what I would do to mark this milestone, coming three days after the first anniversary of Tom's death.  There was no one to throw a party for me, so if I thought I wanted one, then it was going to be up to me.  But that sort of thing isn't done, is it?  And really, I'm not one to put myself out there for that kind of attention, just not my style.  But I did know that I wanted to honor Tom's first angelversary.  And I really wanted to show my gratitude to those people who have been there for me over the last year.  So with those three reasons for a party, I asked for Tom's guidance.  And all I kept "hearing" from him was, "Do it.  You deserve it."  So I planned an elegant celebration.

Of course, I asked Tom's band to play.  How could I have a party without my RuMoRs family?  I learned a few weeks beforehand that the regular drummer would not be available and the band had asked Tom's friend, mentor and drum teacher to sit in.  I was thrilled.  And then the thought popped into my head, perhaps he would consider playing Tom's favorite drum kit that night.  I hadn't heard it in over a year and it would be the last time I would be able to hear it before it moved to its new home. Tracy agreed to play them, and I had one last chance to be the roadie and hump equipment to a gig.  It was so wonderful to have them there, to hear them.  It meant a lot to the band. It was a wonderful way to honor Tom.

I invited a range of people to the event.  Those invited were those who were particularly supportive over the last year.  My family.  My friends.  Many had known Tom.  But there were also people who have only come to know Tom through my memories of him.  I wanted to be able to thank them all for their support, let them know how grateful I am and to remind them all that the job was not yet done.  The second year can be harder than the first.  Or so I've been told.  And so I believe.

And finally, if I have to get older, why not have a party? A party at the end of January is always a welcome distraction.  The big night arrived, and there was no rain in sight.  The guests arrived, the food was eaten, the toasts were made, the band played and those with rhythm (or suspected rhythm) danced.  And danced.  And you know what?  I had a fabulous time.  It was the best birthday EVER! I even wore a tiara (my bestie wanted me to wear one and I refused, but then another friend brought one as a gift and insisted--it was quite lovely.)

The theme for the evening was Remember, Appreciate, Celebrate.  Words that we should all live by every day.

Milestones--Part One

A week ago tomorrow was the one year anniversary of Tom's passing.  It was a date I both dreaded and anticipated.  It is one of those milestones.  "Can I make it through the first year?"  And on the other hand, "Has it already been a year?"  I feel like I was holding my breath throughout the last year.  Enduring, waiting for it to get better, living through the worst year of my life, most of it numb from deep feelings.  I have said before that it felt like the first year was all about mourning losing Tom.  And this next year about beginning to rebuild my life.  Not sure exactly what that will be. It feels strange to say that I feel a sense of relief, of having a weight lifted off of my shoulders.  On the other hand, I feel incredibly sad.  A year has gone by without him physically by my side.  His spirit is always close, but I miss him.  I've come so far, but I have so far to go.  I really don't like this new life, at all. But I must move forward.  That is what he would want.

To honor the day, I did two things.  In the afternoon, at the exact moment of his transition, I was at the beach, the last one that we visited together.  I spread his ashes in the sand, along with some flowers, and waited for the surf to carry him to sea.  I wrote his name in the sand and saw the waves smooth it out.  Zora, her second visit to the beach ever (the first about three months before Tom died), had a great time running in the sand.  Something about the ocean energy, so soothing and healing!

I have survived the year and all of the "firsts", this major milestone.  I am not done mourning.  I am not done with dispersing his worldly goods.  There are more, and probably difficult times ahead.  That is what I've been told by others who have walked this path.  I look forward to the time when my life is not totally defined by the loss of my husband, but I am not yet ready to make that declaration.  Perhaps at some point.  I can not yet let totally go. 

The adventure continues.

Staying in the Love

This morning I was thinking about what was happening a year ago today.  Tom was in the last 30 hours of his life, although we were both still hoping that the last chemo treatment would bring him some relief and he would start to improve.  The day before we had a hospital bed delivered to our living room.  Tom did not want it.  But I told him that I wanted to keep our bedroom sacred, a special place that was our refuge.  He could no longer manage the stairs and I told him that I did not want a lot of strangers intruding upon our sanctuary.  He understood and agreed.  I do not regret that decision at all, because our bedroom is still my sanctuary.

The first night with a hospital bed in our living room, I slept on the couch next to Tom, getting up every 45 minutes to assist him because he was so ill.  I was tired and cranky.  And then I remembered what a dear friend had shared with me.  She had lost her husband five years prior and said that she wished she had remembered to stay in the love.  That thought changed how I was feeling, because that is what I wanted to do.  So on that Monday morning, I lovingly gave Tom a bath, a shave (which I'd never done before) and changed his clothes and bedding.  Every single moment was with loving intent.  Later that day Devon and Nancy came to visit.  Tom looked so much better after his shave (he really was pretty scruffy).  Tom's brother was going to be arriving the next day.  There was much to do.

But what I remember about those last hours most is not the anguish and sadness (although I have not forgotten about them).  What I remember most is the love.  That I stayed in the love.  That our last hours together were about the love.  That is what I hold in my heart while I face this significant milestone tomorrow.  We were all about the love.

Random Acts of Kindness and Painful Memories

A year ago Tom was in the last week of his life.  We didn't know it at the time.  We kept hoping that the last chemo treatment would extend his life and help him feel better.  That was not to be.  During that last week, Tom had uncontrollable nausea and vomiting--every 45 minutes.  On Wednesday night, and also last week, Zora woke up in the middle of the night vomiting.  I don't know why, she seems to otherwise feel and act OK.  I wonder if she is having her own emotional/physical reaction to the upcoming anniversary.  I know that human bodies never forget traumas, and perhaps that is also true for animals, for it was very traumatic for her to lose her beloved poppa and walking partner. Because of her tummy, I replaced her normal food with rice and chicken.  And since I was out of rice, I had to make a quick run to Trader Joe's last night.

Which brings me to the second part of the story, the amazing experience I had.  After picking up the things I needed I headed to the check out line.  The checker noticed my necklace, the drum ash urn I had made to hold Tom's ashes, inspired by his favorite snare drum.  I told her the story behind the necklace and she told me she was about to cry.  I then told her that next week will be one year since he died.  She asked me what my favorite color was and told me to wait for just a moment and walked away.  She came back with flowers and said she wanted me to have them, saying that Trader Joe's cares.  It was such a kind thing to do.  When I got in the car, the song, "Heaven Must Be Missing an Angel" was playing.  I think one of those angels was at TJ's last night.  (I just realized as I typed the initials of Trader Joe's that they are the same as Tom's). 

The day before I was at the florist to arrange flowers for the party at the end of the month.  This is the same florist that did the floral arrangements for Tom's memorial.  The florist remembered me and as I left she gave me a beautiful yellow rose in memory of my husband for his memorial table at home.  I have one rose bush which seems to keep surviving its constant pruning by the deer.  It is a yellow rose bush.

There is a lot of good in the world, even in the midst of anguish.

Letting Go and Holding On

With just ten days until the one year anniversary of Tom's death, I finally began to clean out the closet.  It was something that I attempted several months ago and could only let go of a few things, it was too painful. Interestingly what stopped me the first time was when I got to his socks and underwear. Today I was able to get through "his" closet and only one shelf and five hangers of our closet. It was very difficult to see an empty shelf in our closet, the one that held his sweaters, his nice soft, warm sweaters.  Of course, the cranberry sweater, of the complimentary Mr. Pants and Mr. Sweater fame, is not going anywhere.  I spent the afternoon touching each item, running my hand over the cashmere sweaters, inhaling the scent of each piece, folding his gym shorts and sweatpants, matching his socks and thinking of him putting each one on.  It is time to do this.  Time to let the fabric and the thread that clothed his physical presence move on to keep someone else warm, comforted and stylish.  I managed to stay fairly focused on the task, without any tears, until . . . until in an effort to spread my things around so the closet and drawers did not seem so empty, I sorted my pajamas, separating the summer and the winter ones.  But at the bottom of that drawer is my special lingerie, the things that Tom loved (no, there is not any leather and whips in all of that).  My nightgown from our wedding night, the pieces that I will never wear again.  The things that carry a special connection to our relationship, the things that hold memories of love and life and hope and the future--the future that is no more.  That was the hard part. I did not expect that some of my things would bring such pain.  No one told me about that. I think there are more of those things to come as I move through this part of the process.

Now there are boxes and piles, of the items to be sorted through by friends, the items to be donated to different organizations, the items to sell, the items to keep, the items to be repurposed into special remembrances.  I am not done, I've only done about half.  I must still tackle his shoes (oh how he loved shoes) and shirts and pants and tee-shirts and jackets and coats.  There are so many.  But it is a labor of love.  He no longer needs them.  His energy remains in a few things and those I will keep and hold close to me.  But it is time.  It is time to let go a little bit more, even though I do not want to.  But to move forward and build a new life, I need to allow room for that to happen, which means that I must let a few things go to create that room.