Busyness and Lonliness

My life is too busy these days.  Right now I'm supposed to be working on two papers for two different master's courses.  They're due very soon but I'm having problem getting motivated to work on them.  The sun is shining, the weather is warm, my kids are happy, and I want to be able to just go and do something fun but I don't have time.  My only extra time is spent getting a cup of coffee and coming here to touch base with whomever is still out there reading this blog.   I also have hours and hours of marking to do, some prep work to due for  some community volunteering I do, attending to all the jobs that I've let slide around our house and spending some quality time with my kids, which hasn't happened nearly enough these days.  The grief is again feeling heavy lately, which I believe is because I am so overwhelmed and I just want him to swoop in and save the day by wrapping me in his arms and surrounding me in his love.  And then I'd like him to spend time with the boys so I can hear the three of them giggling in the next room, washing the sheets, making the beds, washing the floors, touch up paint on the walls and trim that really need it, rubbing my back ....  

I think I'm realizing that I'm lonely.  I don't have time to be lonely, yet I am.  I am surrounded by people much of the time, yet I am.  When I read the words below earlier (ok, they weren't below earlier, they were in a file of poems and quotes I add to whenever I read something I know I'll want to go back to), I could easily hear Austin saying most of them (though I'm sure he wouldn't have described my hands as wheat, I know he would have said "I want to feel the softness that changed my destiny" and many other lines, which you'll read below).  I know he'd want me to be happy, to experience joy, to lose my loneliness, to find love again.  

When I die, I want your hands on my eyes:

I want the light and the wheat of your beloved hands

to pass their freshness over me once more:

I want to feel the softness that changed my destiny.

I want you to live while I wait for you, asleep.

I want your ears still to hear the wind, I want you

to sniff the sea's aroma that we loved together,

to continue to walk on the sand we walk on.

I want what I love to continue to live,

and you whom I love and sang above everything else

to continue to flourish, full-flowered:

so that you can reach everything my love directs you to,

so that my shadow can travel along in your hair,

so that everything can learn the reason for my song.

~Love Sonnet LXXXIX by Pablo Neruda 

At this stage in my grief (38 months yesterday), I'm not sure how to make time for the possibility of easing my loneliness.  I am a only-parent of two teenage boys, I work more than full time and I'm going to school part time until the spring of 2013 so that my family's future will continue to be bright.  I was married to an incredible man and it would take someone as incredible for me to make room in my life.  What if he's not out there?  What if he's out there and I'm too damn busy to notice?  How do I ease my loneliness?   I'm feeling like a whiner!  Time to get back to work...  But a back rub sure would be nice...

Austin's Memory Bench

Since Austin and I first started dating , I’ve known that he wanted to be cremated and his ashes spread at sea.   He never really cared where his ashes would enter the ocean because he knew the currents and tides would take him to places he’d never seen before.  When he died, so unexpectedly, I took a few months to figure out where we’d spread his ashes.  After discussion with family and friends, I choose Montague Harbour on Galiano Island, where we’d spent many wonderful days together as a family, sailing, hiking and hanging around on our boat.  Specifically, the boys and I went in a dingy with Austin’s oldest and dearest friend off Grey’s Point, while everyone else who was there for the “sending off ceremony” stayed on shore and threw rose petals into the ocean as we sent Austin off on his last journey.  (We also kept some ashes to spread in other cool bodies of water.  Dylan has spread his Dad’s ashes in the Atlantic Ocean off Wales and Aidan has spread his Dad’s ashes in the Arno River running through Florence, Italy on its way to the Mediterranean Sea.  We will also spread a few ashes in Lake Huron off the shore where Austin spent most summers as a kid and developed his love for the water. I still have my ashes to spread somewhere cool, when I find it.)

Since Austin isn’t buried anywhere, I wanted to have a place that marked his life, a place for others to know that once a wonderful man lived on this planet, who loved and was loved well.  After two years of Austin’s oldest friend and his amazing wife working hard to navigate through governmental bureaucracy, we finally have a memory bench on Galiano Island, just down from where we set most of Austin’s ashes free to begin their last, great adventure.  It is difficult to sum up in a few characters a man’s life, but we decided on a line from his favorite poem and love.  Love and the sea, that’s what he was all about.  The boys and I are looking forward to sitting on Austin’s bench this summer and taking it all in…

The Memory Bench, looking north towards the point where we spread Austin's ashes

Looking south, toward the entrance of Montague Harbour

The plaque on the bench

Bruce Springsteen - You're Missing

The lyrics to this song are so ....... you know.  They say it like it is.  "Everything is everything, but you're missing."   Yup, that's how my life is.  This time between Austin's birthday (March 4th) and the day he died (March 20th) is excruciating this year.    I'm not sure why, except that it has caught me off guard.  Year one, I was in a fog.  I felt we needed to mark the dates and we officially did.  Just kept myself busy, including euthanizing our beloved dog.  Still a blur.  Year two.  The common knowledge was the second year would be worse than the first.  I braced for it.  It did feel worse than year one, because the fog had cleared.  But we were ready for the storm and we survived it.  This year, year three, I thought would be better.  He's been dead for almost three years.  We've been surviving, even thriving.  The boys and I talked about what we wanted to do, deciding that we didn't want to make a big deal this year but we'd just have some quiet commemoration of both dates.  Not sure that was a good idea.  From his birthday and onward the grief has been big.  My youngest son is feeling it very deeply this year and is expressing that clearly, which is great and heart wrenching.  Austin's absence seems so vast and dark and unmanageable this year, and I am at a loss to understand why it feels bigger now.  In some ways it seems a little crazy that it's so big, but it just is.  So we're letting it wash over us, and we're picking ourselves up and brushing ourselves off and we continue to keep moving.  Life goes on, as does the grief.  And this song just says that so perfectly.

I miss him, with every cell in my body and every stirring of my soul.  I miss everything about him, the wonderful things and the little things that drove me nuts.  And that feels so overwhelming right now.  Even almost three years later, I can't believe that I won't ever see him or talk to him again.  I'm hoping that after the 20th this surge of grief will head back out to sea and let me come up for air.  The good thing about being almost three years into this journey, is I know it will.  The surge doesn't last forever and we will get our footing again.  Just reminding myself of this helps me catch my breath.  Ah, the wisdom that comes with experience.  I guess I'm thankful for that....


BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN-YOU'RE MISSING (LIVE IN BARCELONA, 2003)

Shirts in the closet, shoes in the hall
Mama's in the kitchen, baby and all
Everything is everything
Everything is everything
But you're missing

Coffee cups on the counter, jackets on the chair
Papers on the doorstep, but you're not there
Everything is everything
Everything is everything
But you're missing

Pictures on the nightstand, TV's on in the den
Your house is waiting, your house is waiting
For you to walk in, for you to walk in
But you're missing, when I shut out the lights
You're missing, when I close my eyes
You're missing, when I see the sun rise
You're missing

Children are asking if it's alright
Will you be in our arms tonight?

Morning is morning, the evening falls I got
Too much room in my bed, to many phone calls
How's everything, everything?
Everything, everything
You're missing, you're missing

God's drifting in heaven, devil's in the mailbox
I got dust on my shoes, nothing but teardrops

Crying in my Sleep and Happy Birthday

Strangest thing happened the other night, actually very early in the morning.  I was dreaming about Austin (that's not the strange part, though I don't dream about him a lot).  We were on a bench in a city, he was wearing a favorite burnt orange shirt (one that's now in the memory quilts that womanNshadows made for the boys and I) and we were talking.  I was filling him in on life since he died but I only remember one thing in detail.  It was a funny story about a flight from hell that a good friend of ours took a few months ago.  We were laughing, then he got up, leaned over the back of the bench where I was sitting and kissed me.  It was a passionate kiss so real I can still feel it as I write these words.  And I asked him where he was going.  He touched his back pocket, where his wallet was, and said "I have to go to McCanns to buy you something".  I had no idea what McCanns was and I remember wondering how he was going to use his debit or credit cards since they were all cancelled after he died.  And the next thing I knew I was waking up to the sound of crying, sobbing, snot wrenching bawling.  My next sensation was that I must have gotten a wicked cold in the night because I couldn't breathe through my nose.  And then I realized it was me sobbing and I couldn't stop.  After about 10 minutes, I just cried myself back to sleep.

In the morning, I don't know if I was crying because I wanted to go back to my dream to be with him, talk to him, kiss him.  It was so real and I miss all of those things more than words can describe, as most of you reading this will understand.  Or was I crying because he was leaving me to go somewhere that I didn't understand, again...

It was such a strange experience, to have him feel so real and then to wake up literally bawling my eyes out.  It's never happened to me before and was on my mind all the next day.

This morning would have been his birthday, if he'd survived the heart attack almost three years ago.  I was thinking about how he used to complain about his birthday as he turned a year older and really resented getting older physically because he didn't feel older.  He had young sons and a young(ish) wife and wanted to live to see the boys become men and make him a grandfather.  He wanted us to grow old (really old) together and to sail into the sunset holding hands.   I think that if he had survived the heart attack he would have been happy to be turning 60 today.   Death is a tough way to learn to appreciate the privilege of growing older.  

As with the past three birthdays that the boys and I have acknowledged without Austin, today is a hard day.  I thought that the third one would be easier than the first two.  I was wrong.  But we'll keep breathing and putting one foot in front of the other.  And we'll take time today to celebrate the blessings we experienced by having Austin be part of our lives for as long as we did.  Old videos and lanterns after dark....that's how we'll remember today.

A Widow Movie: P.S. I Love You (I needed a good cry!)

A week before Austin died, we watched the movie "P.S. I Love You" with old friends.  I sat beside my husband, probably leaning on him while we held hands.  Throughout the movie tears streamed down my face.   The movie is about a young widow learning how to survive after her much loved husband dies.  And then he continues to remind her how much she's loved while he helps her to move on into a future without him through preplanned messages he created when he was dying.  It was a Hollywood movie (some dismiss it as a sappy chick flick), but I found it romantic, and it made me cry.  It made me grateful that my healthy husband and I had each other and loved each other deeply and unconditionally.  But I never told him what the movie made me thankful for, because he knew, and life just kept on moving at light speed.  Then a week later, he died.

I've avoided that movie for three years.  Last night, I watched it.  I see it in a whole other light now that I'm a widow and my sweet, handsome husband isn't sitting beside me to provide the comfort and assurance that just came with his presence. The tears fell freely without the buffer of him sheltering me from the overwhelming sadness that I now personally know.  Little parts of the movie that I didn't even really think about before now had me recognizing myself in them.  I have listened to his voice on a recordings over and over just to bathe myself in his sound.  I have talked to him in a sleepy haze as I fall asleep or first wake up.  I hear his voice in my head as I go through my day (those these days I have to really listen for it). I have created picture shrines to him and I have felt his presence around me (though not as strongly these days). I have spent time regretting all the times I was cranky or bitchy or didn't let him know how much I adored him.  I have seen memories like watching him shaving or doing dishes or tucking our kids in or snoozing on the couch.  And I have worn his clothes to feel closer to him.

A line that the dead husband speaks to his widow really hit home with me.  "I'm not worried about you forgetting me.  I'm worried about you forgetting the young girl I met, who knew what she wanted."  I sometimes feel like I've forgotten the young woman that Austin met all those years ago.  And I miss her.

I have knowledge now that I didn't have the first time I saw this movie.  Urns are not that big!  (I'm sure glad I have that expertise!  Hear the sarcasm in my voice here.)    People really do make stupid comments, thinking they're giving sound advice when really they don't just get it.  Women survive the loss of their loves, even when it seem unimaginable at first.  Life does go on, somehow.

These days I sometimes need to bring on a good cry, to get out emotions that seem to pile up.  They don't just fall out of me as easily as they used to, yet they are still there.  Sometimes I need to watch a sappy movie to get the tears flowing, when the boys are in bed and it's ok to just let my sadness flow.

It's a strange existence these days.  I feel like I'm in a coat that doesn't quite fit, or covered in skin that isn't my own.  Maybe I'm getting ready to shed my skin, like a snake....

iPod Eerieness and Kayak Morning

Hello,

The boys and I have just returned from a school ski trip to the valley where I grew up.  It was a good trip.  Our students had a great time and were well behaved and it was great to see my parents for the short amount of time we had with them.  As always, the memories of Austin were everywhere, from our wedding night in the picturesque ski town, to him learning to ski and then quickly speed past me on the familiar hills to us spending time as a family at the ski resort.  They are sweet memories and as always his presence was deeply missed by me every moment.  But I'm getting really good at keeping that to myself and I functioned well, actually enjoying myself at times.

The night before we left, I had a strange experience.  I had been up until 3 am packing and making an emergency trip to the vet with a sick dog.  I finally laid down on my bed, trying to wind down after a very busy and stressful night when I saw a white light flash from my dresser.  I thought I was seeing things in my exhausted state and I ignored it.  A few minutes later, the white light flashed again, drawing me out of bed and across the room.  My iPod had inexplicably turned on and it was on a song that I don't ever remember listening to before.  Brandi Carlile is an artist that I used to listen to before Austin died.  I loved "The Story".  It seemed to encapsulate the story of my life and I always saw Austin as the integral part of my story.  Once he died, I couldn't listen to the song anymore.  I haven't listened to any Brandi Carlile since March 20, 2009, yet there she was on my iPod, in the middle of the night, and I hadn't played anything on my iPod in days.  The song playing was "Dying Day", which freaked me out a little but I quickly looked up the lyrics.  And one verse jumped right out at me, considering how stressful my day had been.

        "When you're sad, you know I wish I could be there
          To make your sorrows disappear and set your troubles free
          It's not fair for me to be this far from you
          But I promise to stay true wherever I might be"

I just started sobbing, feeling that Austin was reaching out to me for the first time in a long time, to let me know that he was there and wishing he could help, which is what I wished for too.  I know skeptics would scoff at this notion, saying that it was just some random electrical glitch, that I was reaching desperately for a connection with my dead husband that really wasn't there.  Skeptics be damned.  I've had a few rare experiences that I believe were Austin reaching out to me, to let me know that he's still with us.  Two incidents happened shortly after he died but it's been a long time since I felt a message from him.  It's both comforting and sad, but I'm grateful for the hug and encouragement from beyond.  I just plain miss him still, as much as ever, possibly even more.

About a year ago, I read a powerful book by Roger Rosenblatt entitled "Making Toast".  It's the story of how he and his wife moved in with his son-in-law and three grandchildren after his 38 year old daughter suddenly died.  It's a poignant, sweet story about grief and children.  He's written a new book called "Kayak Morning" and I started reading it today.  A few words have stood out for me so far:

     "In 2008, I wrote an essay in the New Yorker about our family after Amy's death.  A year 
      later, I expanded the piece into a book, Making Toast.  In it, I tried to suggest that the best
      one can do in a situation such as ours is to get on with it.  I believe that still.  What I failed
      to calculate is the pain that increases even as one gets on with it (p. 14)".

I totally agree.  We can get on with it, but the pain doesn't go away.  I know that's not new to anyone reading this blog, but confirmation that I'm not the only one feeling this way is always comforting. 

 We're having a winter storm today and the boys and I are enjoying a lazy day hunkered down in the warm safety of our home, with lots of thinking time for me.  Signs that he's still with us and confirmation that missing him remains painful  - that's what's on my mind today.

I Couldn't Stay Away

Hello,

It's been a while since I signed off this blog and while I still agree with all of my reasons to stop writing, I have really missed expressing myself here and being in touch with those of you who stop by to share your thoughts and experiences.  I feel like I walked away from my support group and I really miss you all.  So I'm back and I'll write whenever I have something to say so the emotions don't just bottle up inside, where they aren't doing me any good.

My sons and I have been fine over the past few months.  Honestly, the boys are doing well.  I'm just fine.  Dylan now has his learner's license and drives most places we go.  Austin loved driving and that love has totally been passed on to his son.  Aidan started guitar lessons in the fall and he is loving every minute of it, sharing his Dad's passion for music and the guitar.  They have both signed on for an exciting sailing adventure next summer, continuing their love of sailing. And while they both continue to find their Dad in themselves, they also continue to develop as two unique and delightful individuals who have their own passions, great senses of humour and compassion for others.  They also continue to be normal teenagers in every sense of the word!  Austin would be as proud of them as I am, and as exasperated at times :) 

I continue to be busy with only parenting, working full time, being a part time student and trying to keep our house in order.  I also try to be a supportive family member and friend, which I'm not very good at these days.  I tend to not have much extra energy to devote to being a friend and the expectation seems to be that I'm back to "normal" and can just pick up where I left off.  But for the most part I can't and I don't have the time or energy to find a new normal.  I tend to be anti-social these days, which probably isn't great for me but I'm doing what I can with the limited time I have available.

We went away for Christmas to my sister's in Edmonton; it was fun to be in a city for the first time over the holidays.  There were lots of things to keep us busy and we had a nice Christmas.  Then my sister and I went to New Orleans for New Years and as a belated celebration of her birthday.  New Year's Eve 2011 would have been mine and Austin's 16th anniversary and I wanted to do something fun and different on the day.  I really couldn't afford to go away and I'll be paying for the trip for quite a while but I went and I enjoyed my time away with my sister, discovering a city that is recovering from its own tragedy.  Like New Orleans, I am healing.  It's been almost three years, but I'm making a little progress towards the future.

When we went to Hawaii with my family for Christmas 2009, the year Austin died, I was simply going through the motions and I spent New Years Eve under the covers of my hotel bed.  I wanted to go to Margaritaville (Austins favorite singer was Jimmy Buffett but he never did get the opportunity to go to Margaritaville) but I couldn't bare the thought of being there with anyone so I went for a short visit by myself one afternoon.  I had a mini anxiety attack but I was there for a few minutes and actually bought a few souvenirs.  Fast forward two years to New Orleans.  My sister and I went to Margaritaville together and we had dinner there on what would have been my anniversary.  It was great food and the atmosphere was fun - Austin would have loved it!  We then went to the store and I bought more souvenirs.  I enjoyed my time there, but by the end of dinner and shopping I had a mini anxiety attack and just needed to be by myself for a while.  After some solo time in the hotel room just being alone with my thoughts and memories, we walked a block down crazy Bourbon Street and  we went down to the Mississippi River for midnight.  I had fun,  which was a lot more than I had three years ago on my first anniversary without Austin. 

 But as I reflect on the trip and the last few months, I realize that I'm still not living life in full colour.  When Austin died, the colour drained away from my life and everything became black and white.  As the first and second years passed, muted pastel colours started to very gradually seep into my field of view.  Smiles and laughter eventually came back in small doses and the boys and I continued to live our new existence with the big black hole of Austin's absence always around.  The black hole has reduced in size a little but the colours of my life are still muted.  Nothing is ever great or excellent.  Things are fine, even good at times, but never over-the-top wonderful.  And that makes me sad.  I was in a wonderful city with my wonderful sister and yet Austin's absence clouded my experience there.  He would have loved New Orleans and I would have had a wonderful time with him there.  I only had a good time with my sister, through no one's fault.  I tried to feel wonderful but it just wouldn't come. 

So what's the point of trying to find wonderful?  I feel like I've reached the peak of reinserting colour into my life after Austin's death.  I can't see it getting better than this.  Living without Austin means I'm stuck with fine and good.  When he died, great, excellent and wonderful went with him.  But I'm choosing to be grateful for fine and good and nice.  Because those things are still positive in my life and to be honest, I don't feel like I have room for great, excellent and wonderful.  Vibrant colours in my life would overwhelm me right now.  Maybe one day they'll find their way back into my world....

I hope that 2012 brings all of us a little bit of colour and wonderful.  We all deserve a little joy, if we can figure out how to find it.