Ten months out--the first summer...

It’s my first summer without Pete.  How sad he can’t see how green the lawn is, how the new hedge is leafing out, how the kitchen is looking brighter with the updates. 

I’m doing well, I think.  Rarely do I feel lonely, and perhaps that’s because I’m at peace with being alone.  I’m finding myself filled with gratitude, being grateful for all the richness that has enveloped me.  And this ironically comes following Pete’s and Mom’s deaths.

So the richness...well some of it comes from feeling more financially secure, if there is such a thing. Given the world situation and the tenuous state of one’s health, is there really such a thing as “security”?

I’m finding it interestIng that my circle of friends and acquaintances is growing.  I like that the neighbors I’ve lived near for 13 years and I have developed a closer relationship.  I like that my new neighbors and I share a closeness that hadn’t existed before with the previous ones.

I also find myself thinking more decisively, being more bold in my conversations, focusing my thoughts (well...usually).

I see it’s 10 months to the day that Pete passed away.  Ten months.  His ashes still sit in his room, for we still call it “Pete’s room.”  No burial yet, and that’s fine with me.  I carry him in my heart.  He goes everywhere with me and sometimes I feel him cheering me on, for he’d always championed me, always encouraged me, always adored me.

Above all, I’m grateful for my health.  If only Pete could have had pain-free days like those I have, if only he could’ve challenged his body and enjoyed a good workout like I do.

So even though it’s been 10 months, I know Pete is still whispering in my ear and pushing me forward to explore, to accomplish, to be curious.  I’m hoping I don’t disappoint.

Celebrating 74

Pete would've been 74 yesterday, and to commemorate that, Sarah, Paul, and I met at a favorite restaurant in Faribault in his honor.  For more than the 37 years we were married, I'd made Pete his beloved Æblekage (Danish apple cake) as his birthday cake, and I saw no reason not to this year.  I love the not-too-sweet dessert as well, and packed up two containers of the stuff to share, one each for Sarah and Paul.  If only Scott were around to share the day with us.

It's not often we meet for over a meal in a restaurant, something I relish.  Somehow being outside the house with the kids puts us on a more even playing field--we chatter away and some of the realities crippled by being "family" melt away.  We can enjoy one another simply as human beings.

Later I contemplated watching the Super Bowl (#51), a bit skeptical about really being able to enjoy it.  Pete was always the football lover, and whereas I always watch the ball, he'd see the bigger picture, the entire field, and make comments like, "did you see the block that guy made?" etc. Thinking how Pete would enjoy the game, I decided to give watching the thing a shot.  My sweet neighbor Brittany had invited me to join the bash they were hosting, but somehow I just wanted to watch with the dog, the cat, Pete's photos, and his yet-to-be-buried urn.

So with merely a glass of ice water in hand (just wasn't in the party mode), the two critters and I watched the kickoff, the first and second quarters, and I shook my head as Atlanta was so far ahead at the end of the first half, the score being something like 28-3.  The poor Patriots just couldn't get things going, and I wondered what Pete would've said.  I felt this was a real "yawner" of a game and toggled back and forth in the second half between the game and PBS's Victoria.

But when I switched back to find the third quarter nearly over, the Patriots had gotten their act together, and the score? 28-20.  So...with just seconds left in the game, the Patriots, after an amazing diving catch and a herculean effort, tied the game and for the first time in Super Bowl history, the game went into overtime.  I could just imagine Pete's excitement, yet I wasn't sure he was cheering for the Patriots. Though I think I remember him being a Tom Brady fan.

And the rest now is history...the Patriots marching down the field, their scoring, and their amazing come-from-behind victory.  I think the Super Bowl's exciting game was a sweet gift to my 74-year-old guy.  A warm, tender feeling.  Missing him more each day.

Pete's Place

The table where I sit belonged to my parents, and before that, one can only guess.  We own little furniture purchased from furniture stores, but rather enjoy that whose character was honed with time, with former use by previous owners. (See?  I'm still using "we" even though I'm now "I," an idea that seems so foreign.) I sit at this dining room table in a chair that, according to family lore, was made by Pete's grandfather. Its sturdy oak frame holds solid arms and a carved back.  For years it was Pete's chair, and this spot at the table was Pete's place. Occasionally  I'd claim the area for projects requiring table space--like paying bills or monitoring our budget, wrapping gifts or preparing Christmas cards.  But it was always Pete's place whenever we enjoyed a meal here.

I think to be seated at the head of the table is like being given an honor. Even as Pete's power chair replaced the wooden one, he could view the food, the guests, the room from a broader perspective. It wasn't really a position of power, but rather one that represented caring or protection, perhaps even age or wisdom. Being at the head of the table sets one apart from the rest of the room and silently acknowledges familial hierarchy.

And so I wonder, who will sit here next?  Who will take Pete's place?  Silly I guess to ponder this, to be concerned over it.  But this choice may be the first of many we now take to fill the hole in the fabric of our family.

Second entry from Blogger site, 2011

Thursday, November 24, 2011

Nov. 24, 2011 THANKSGIVING!

As usual, I couldn't sleep past 6, even on a non-school day.  Too much going on in my head, too much precious morning air to breathe and quiet morning light to enjoy.  As I began the coffee pot this morning and sat down to check out some websites I'd saved to evaluate for possible use in my classes, the phone rang.  But I wasn't startled, not anymore.  For the past two weeks, Pete and I have begun a morning phone call--usually at 7:15 on my way to school, but on non-school days, he calls me--early.  "And why did you even think I'd be up already?" I asked in greeting.  He laughed and said, "You got your hand up Tom's ass already?"  What?  I thought to myself?  Tom's ass?  Then it dawned on me--Tom the Turkey!  We were having a houseful for Thanksgiving dinner. "Not yet," I said, "but give me an hour."  Good to know Pete still has his sense of humor. We certainly need that humor and the lighter side of life as we heal.

Second Entry, 2011

Thursday, November 24, 2011

Nov. 24, 2011 THANKSGIVING!

As usual, I couldn't sleep past 6, even on a non-school day.  Too much going on in my head, too much precious morning air to breathe and quiet morning light to enjoy.  As I began the coffee pot this morning and sat down to check out some websites I'd saved to evaluate for possible use in my classes, the phone rang.  But I wasn't startled, not anymore.  For the past two weeks, Pete and I have begun a morning phone call--usually at 7:15 on my way to school, but on non-school days, he calls me--early.  "And why did you even think I'd be up already?" I asked in greeting.  He laughed and said, "You got your hand up Tom's ass already?"  What?  I thought to myself?  Tom's ass?  Then it dawned on me--Tom the Turkey!  We were having a houseful for Thanksgiving dinner. "Not yet," I said, "but give me an hour."  Good to know Pete still has his sense of humor. We certainly need that humor and the lighter side of life as we heal.

The countdown

Well I'm down to about fifty--fifty notes yet to write in response to memorials and heartfelt cards written to us after Pete's death.  My choosing to pen my gratitude (rather than signing my name to a pre-printed sentiment) is taking hours, but it's what I need, what my inner soul needs.  Reading the cards and responding in kind is allowing me to acknowledge the gift and the giver, but it's also opening Pete's life to me in areas I never knew existed.  There's the roommate from Luther (class of '63) whom I'd never met, and the ninety-three year old former swimnastics gal ("Dear Pete's wife, I liked Pete").  Their words and memories bring Pete into a new light for me, and I love it. My loss of Pete is becoming more profound.  The initial euphoria of egads, no more caregiving! has grown into "what an amazing guy I married." And for some reason the Pete of now I prefer more than the Pete of old, which is I guess God's way of working things out for me.  I feel more privileged to have been Pete's wife, to have shared life with him, to have been on his team and his joined-at-the-hip partner for 37 years of his life.

And I guess God knew what he was doing when gave me a head start in this being independent stuff.  I had Pete in the stands cheering me on as I learned the ropes, performed the tasks, and perfected the technique of self-sufficiency. And now those earthly ties have been cut, and I'm on my own.

As I watch the full moon set in the West this morning, I know the serenity I feel right now will come and go, just as the full moon comes and goes.  I'm not quite equipped yet to step into the waters of fully comprehending Pete's death.  I still have things to work out, some inner, tangled emotions to uncoil, some memorial responses to write.

But the process (and the moon and friends and wine) are helping me clear the path toward understanding, toward confidence, toward the yes in a life yet to be.

Team work

The responding to those who sent gifts and memorials is time consuming, but I'd wanted to write out my responses to each giver instead of having a pre-printed sentiment inside the cards.  At first I realized (with dread) how long this would take, but now I'm realizing it's therapeutic; it's a way to discover my feelings and emotions. As I respond personally to each giver depending on his/her relationship to Pete, I'm uncovering the depth and breadth of our relationship (Pete's and mine), and it's allowing me to more fully grieve the loss of him.  Initially after his death I felt a big relief for him, but actually more for me...quite selfish perhaps, but I was nearly euphoric with release from a care-giving task I loathed.  I'd felt trapped in a routine and responsibility  that had just materialized unplanned in our relationship.  I wondered (dear God!) when it would end.

So though I know I in no way whatsoever caused Pete's death, there's that little inkling in the back of my mind, well, isn't this what you wished for?  And I realize the loss of Pete isn't just the loss of caring for him, but it's also the loss of my teammate who encouraged me as I cared for him.

Pete often said, "Thanks for doing all you did for me today," as evening approached.  Usually he was very aware of how my life had become focused on him, on how I was increasingly responsible for his care.

And I WAS increasingly responsible for everything--I mean everything around the house and in life in general--taxes, bills, our social relationships, our health, our house, lawn, pets, insurance, housework, gifts, laundry, car care and maintenance, to say nothing of grocery shopping and cooking, etc.  But what I'm becoming aware of now is that doing these things after Pete's death is more of a chore--I do them more begrudgingly and I've wondered why this is.

As I write memorial responses, I've come to see that the other half of "Team Johnson" is no longer here to encourage me--to cheer me on.  There are no emotional high five's, no "Thanks for all you did for me today."  And so I need to find that encouragement Pete often showered on me within myself. That PITA is gone, but so is his encouragement and gratitude that propelled me forward.

With heartfelt words I often write in my responses, "We miss him."  We certainly do.

Labor Days

I'm writing on an actual Labor Day--Monday, September 5, 2016.  And it's the final day of a weekend that's been rather special or unique to Pete and me over the years. For we met forty years ago on Labor Day weekend 1976.  My cousin Carol and I had driven to my former school of Denfeld in Duluth because ALHS (where I'd just begun teaching) was playing a non-conference football game at the school I'd just left after filling in for a teacher who'd taken a one-year leave of absence.  It's a crazy story of drinking beer in the stands, overnighting with friends at their lake home just north of Duluth (we'd convinced my good friend Bob and his buddy Pete to join us), venturing into the sauna where we discovered Pete without a stitch on. Soon, under the influence of plenty of spirits and merriment, Carol and I shed our bikini tops, and we eventually slept on the floor, all four of us in a row.  The next morning I recall clearly Pete and I standing outside before getting into our respective cars to drive back home.  He wanted to know if he could ask me out, and I said sure.  But then that rascal never called, and I ended up contacting him to join us at a post-football game party at my parents' house where I was living at the time.  Our first Labor Day experience.

Labor Day of 1979 our godson Alex was born--always thought it was ironic that my friend Irene had gone through labor on Labor Day.  When I first met her in the hospital hall after Alex's birth, she was walking with her IV pole, wearing a brown, lacy nightgown and robe I'd loaned her.  (Actually thinking about it now, it was the one and only time I've seen Irene in lace.  She's truly a denim gal.)  But when Irene and Dan brought Alex home, I remember Pete holding Alex in the air and saying, "I want one; I want one!" And  12 months later Scott was born.

We took the kids to Camp Foster on Lake Okoboji on several Labor Day weekends.  I'd begin teaching in Northwood where the schools started before Labor Day, and then on Friday afternoon when my school day ended, we'd load up the car, drive the two hours to Spirit Lake, and spend several days enjoying the sandy beach, eating at the communal dining tables, catching frogs, and even target shooting.  I realized I was a pretty good shot and tacked my paper target (showing my nearly bulls-eyed precision) to my classroom bulletin board in a "don't mess with me" gesture.  One year the monarchs, migrating en masse, covered the trees and bushes, everything glowing orange with their magical bodies.

One of our first years at the camp, we met a family from Cedar Falls, Iowa, who had two girls similar in age to our kids.  Both university professors, Geoff and Karen liked a pre-dinner beverage just as much as Pete and I.  Since alcohol wasn't allowed in the camp proper, we devised a plan--each year the Mills requested the cabin the camp nurse had occupied (it was smaller, but had a frig!) and we kept our beer there, enjoying it surreptitiously in the evenings.  After telling them about Concordia Language Camps, both the Mills girls attended several times, and we carried on a wonderful correspondence for years.

Labor Day 1999 we took our Scott to college--just an hour's drive north, but it still was an event that is pictured clearly in my heart. I recall Scott's uncanny feistiness that previous summer.  He was obviously anxious about moving on.  But that Labor Day, Pete and I had loaded up the van, drove to the dorm, helped Scott set up his room, hugged him good-bye. We felt that Scott's life was up to him now.  He had a great foundation he could build on.  We were proud.

The final major event I recall that occurred on a Labor Day weekend was in 2004 when we moved from 107 The Fairway to 104 Ridge Road.  We had the help of a dozen friends, and load after load was shuttled between the two houses, actually only several hundred yards apart.  We used pickups and trailers and even two-wheeled dollies.  I remember Bob Oothoudt wheeling a good load of slate with the dolly--down one driveway, across The Fairway to Ridge Road and then into the new driveway.  Good weather, good friends, a new house, this one with one floor.

I had moved from the old house rather reluctantly; my heart ached to leave the place I felt was my childhood home.  But the upkeep and the two floors of living space were just too much for Pete and me.  I had washed the 75 windows too many times, I had chipped ice and skidded up and down the hill too often.  This new house would do--one floor and not far from my parents.  Those were the requirements, and this house at 104 Ridge Road filled them.

But I've come to love this place.  I sit now this Labor Day on the porch as the raindrops fall and the clouds begin to move off.  The lake view calms me, and promise of a gorgeous sunset draws me each evening to linger here and realize it's a wonderful world.

Such tender moments

I've just now finished opening the condolence cards and have loved some of the sentiments.  I notice I'm more intrigued by the cards that weren't sold as "sympathy" cards--I like the ones people just grab on which they've written something of their own design. And the messages have been wonderful and especially sweet.  The messages come from some people I know well and from others who are complete strangers to me, but not to Pete.  There's the 93 year old gal who was one of Pete's swimming girls at the Y.  He'd always say, "Good morning, gorgeous," to her.  And if her friend Cora left her car running (again), Pete would always shut it off for her while she was in class.  And there were former students who loved him as a teacher  and coach, and others who knew him well and loved him as a kid at Luther.  A whole new side of Pete for me to discover.

And now I'm responding to those who sent memorials--think I have about 200 or so to write.  But I'm going to take my time and enjoy each person's card/memorial and respond with a heartfelt message rather than a simple quip.

I have zinnias on the table, wine or coffee in my glass, and I'm going for it...may take time, but at times I'm reliving a bit I'd never known before.  What a rascal.

Pete's dog

I guess Gracie, once Pete's faithful companion, is now my faithful companion.  Her aged bulldog face reflected a nearly exaggerated sad, mournful visage after Pete didn't return home.  I'm sure she was used to his coming and going, to his periods of absence when he was hospitalized or in rehab, but now life is different for her. Now she's had her first bath in years.  The day before Pete's funeral, I coerced one of the boys to scrub her in the shower.  Now she gets brushed more, her face gets daily swipes to remove grit that all bulldog faces are prone to, and she's outside more--keeping me company as I work on the yard or in the garden.

Often she sits on the grass in the middle of the yard, head erect, eyeing the neighborhood.  I wonder if she's looking for Pete, if she's thinking he'll round the corner with his walker.  Then there are times she simply lies on the concrete driveway and basks in the sun or simply lies in wait until I go inside and beckon for her to follow.

Her ability to hear is nearly gone.  I realize she could be simply ignoring me when I call, but she barks at sights (a person approaching the house) rather than at hearing the approach.  Or she'll misinterpret a noise I make in the kitchen for a knock at the door and will begin barking.

Because now that acorns adorn the lawn, I'm vigilant about clearing her poo daily, lest the poo and the acorns look too similar and I can't find it to toss into the garbage.  We've begun walking more--for Pete had not been able to walk her for several years.  We begin by going down the hill of The Fairway, around the lake in front of our old house, and up the lake road hill, taking a left onto South Lane, and eventually back to Ridge Road.  A circular route of about a quarter mile perhaps--but it really exhausts Gracie and she pants for a good hour after our walk.  I'm thinking she may get used to these walks and with more "training," may be in better physical shape.

But Grace is old for a bulldog.  She's twelve, and I've heard this breed is not blessed with a long life--usually eight years.  But I've always been adamant about keeping her weight down, about allowing no table food, about feeding her a good-quality dry dog food.

And now Grace has more sleeping beds around the house than ever before.  When she licks her paws, a sign of anxiety?,  she leaves a stain or marks on the floor or carpet.  So the doggie beds are in nearly every room so she can lick to her heart's content and keep any gunk on the bed itself and off the floor/carpet.

I've vowed to give up on owning a dog once Gracie goes.  The spiny white hairs seem to be everywhere.  Were I to get another dog, it would definitely be a non-shedder, as well as something a bit smaller and cuddlier.  Not that she doesn't want to cuddle, but it's impossible--like inviting a pig onto the chair or bed.  It just doesn't work.

But when Gracie goes, another part of Pete goes, and that makes me sad.  I'm caring for her because he can't, and both she and I are grieving in our own way--together.

Moving stuff around in the midst of irony

So I've now morphed Pete's room into a guest/den area.  There's the brass bed (old double one from Pete's grandparents) and two lounging chairs facing the large TV in the corner. I have Pete's urn and honorary flag there, too. My hope is that this room will become useful and a gathering area for us when kids/family come. One thing I have yet to frame is the flag the Honor Guard presented me with at Pete's funeral.  Many triangular framed cases exist, and today as I was looking at ordering one, I noticed I could order one online at a reasonable price.  So I inquired as to where the framed case was made--turns out it's made in Vietnam.  Seriously?  No way would I put a Vietnam vet's flag in a case made in Vietnam.  Just seems too wrong...too ironic.  Have to shell out about $100 for a US made one.  But that's okay; no worries, Pete.

On the move...

So finally have some alone time, some free time to begin wrapping myself around Pete and his life and his death.  Will begin opening cards from the funeral and those that have been coming in daily in the mail.  I must have 200, and I want to enjoy each and every one.  I'm able to relish little things, like the good coffee I'm sipping on the porch here as I write while gazing at the hummingbird and cardinal at the feeder. Occasionally there's a surging sense of freedom that creeps into my emotions and thoughts.  My caretaking duties have been cut 75 percent and I feel a lightness...like I'm floating.  My time is MY time, my obligations are MY obligations, my delights are MY delights.

Our godson called yesterday inviting me to his wedding--in Thailand in March.  So easy to say, "Of course I'll come.  Would love to!" Ten days of discovery and celebration.  What could be better?  And I'll be carrying Pete with me in my heart.  In fact, he's closer to me now than before, because before he was ON my heart, and now as it breaks, he's IN my heart.  And we two have melded into one as never before.

Ordering the life I'll lead

I suppose I've always been one to clean, organize, and minimize when faced with a challenge.  If my mind or emotions aren't organized, at least maybe my house and possessions can be.  So this is what I'm doing now--organizing not only my mom's items, the detritus of her estate sale, but also Pete's possessions.  In so doing, I'm finding I'm rearranging my own life possessions and furniture and myself. So yesterday, my first full day without anyone by my side since Pete's passing, I figured I'd better start with the basics--paying the funeral home bill, contacting life/health insurance, etc.  Turns out I need the death certificate, of course, to file Pete's life insurance claim, but that certificate is delayed.  The last cultures from the autopsy aren't yet ready, and I'm assuming they want full disclosure of all conditions before issuing a death certificate.

I'm returning items that are unopened--ones only Pete used.  A box of Depends put $42 back on my Visa.  And I have 8 of his "white grape" flavored bottles of water and miscellaneous eye drops, etc. to return to Walmart.  I could go through my last few months of receipts to validate my purchasing these things, but first I'll try returning them without, for it would take me about an hour to find exactly the right receipt for each item.

I stopped by Verizon and disconnected Pete's cell number from our account.  Initially the gal said we'd pay a early termination fee of $130, since our contract wasn't over until October, but then civility set in and she waived the fee.  So now, we're $40 cheaper/month on the cell bill.

On my way home from Verizon, I scouted out a local consignment shop for the possibility of helping us sell mom's items left over from the sale last week, as well as fall clothes of mom's and those from Pete's closet and drawers.  Looked promising, and today I'm bringing in a few things for the owner to look at.

But since Becky's boutique, Between Friends, was nearby, I couldn't help but pop in there to see what was new.  For some reason all level-headedness leaves me when I walk in there, and the girl who never buys anything at full retail ends up with a $150 purchase.  And that was the case yesterday.  Three pieces, all black, all comfy, and all I really didn't need.

But it was last night as I sat on my bed watching TV, a bit giddy over my new purchases, that I suddenly realized Pete would never see me wearing them.  For some reason I instantly became so sad.  Such a silly thing to tear up over, yet it's just one of those many discoveries that I'll be adjusting to, I'm sure.  Usually I'd check with Pete to see what he thought of my clothing purchases, especially the pants.  He'd gladly give his opinion as to whether my butt looked decent in them or not, since, for some reason, that part of my anatomy was one of his favorites.

So it wasn't paying the funeral bill or deactiving Pete's cell that got to me yesterday.  It was rather missing Pete's thumbs-up or thumbs-down on my clothes, ones he'll never see me wear.

The first day of my "new normal"

I took sister Anne to the airport yesterday for her flight home.  She is beginning a new path in her life, just I'm beginning one in mine.  Her separating from her husband is quite unlike mine, though.  Hers is a deliberate choice to grow and to experience life unencumbered. Yet I know her family will remain intact, perhaps stronger for the separating, like trees that need light and space to grow.  My separating from Pete was a more forced ordeal, yet I know Anne and I will share some of the same feelings and it's so nice to have someone hold my hand during the transition into "singlehood." I did eat better last night--leftovers...but it was nutritious and not the wine-popcorn- ice cream feast I'd enjoyed previously.  I took the dog for one of her and my first walks together, and was surprised at how she kept up--even trotting along.  Maybe she and I will become the fast friends she and Pete were.

Because Pete and I hadn't shared a bedroom in years, sleeping without him is not an issue.  I don't know that I can sleep with someone occupying my "space" and smile as I think of meeting someone, wanting to share intimacy and then saying, "OK, now I'm sleepy, so I'll see you later."

I talk to Pete a lot in my head; it's like his brain and mine are conjoined.  He and I spend our days together now, and though others may not see or sense it, I'm thinking we can still have some fun.  He can run with me, cook with me, walk Gracie with me.  We're still a couple, if only apparent to the two of us.

Funeral and estate sale craziness

So a week ago we celebrated Pete's life, and I'm wondering if I'm too placid over his passing.  I'm celebrating that he's probably running the lake in heaven, that he's having a beer with the guys, that he's enjoying football--playing it, I mean.  For it's been so long since he'd had the physical power and ability to do any of those things. I haven't yet had time to mourn.  I haven't been alone.  I haven't had a moment to open one card of condolence. We'd scheduled Mom's estate sale months ago, so with the date set and my "team" arriving to help, it was natural and good to follow through with the craziness that comes when setting up and performing a sale of some size.  Pricing, staging, dickering, re-arranging as things sold.

Within 24 hours of my husband's funeral, my focused shifted to my living mother's estate sale.  My daughter called me five days after her father's funeral and asked if I missed him.  I blurted out something like, "Well, I haven't had time," and that was true, but I'm sure to her it seemed a bit crass.

But now the sale's over. After a weekend with siblings to finalize my mother's things, the cards still lie there ready to me when my head is clear enough to turn to them.  I'm thinking the wait will have been worth it.  My attention will be on my life partner, my hubby of 37 years.  And together he and I will smile over some of the memories revealed in the loving comments we'll read.

The first days

Life without Pete is...different.  After caring for him for so many years, his death (which I'd anticipated as a "release" for both of us) took me by surprise.  And I'm just taking baby steps to learn how to live by myself after so long. I have no doubt of my capabilities--I've taken care of EVERYTHING for years, but oddly enough I'm worried about my eating habits (preparing food for noone but me). I know I'll be discovering things about life and about myself as time goes on, and that's really the reason I'm writing--it allows me to validate the new insights I have about life, sans Pete.

I haven't actually been alone since Pete's death, since my wonderful sister arrived in a pre-planned visit the day of his death.  She's been working with me in tandem through the immediate after-effects of his absence, through the funeral.  The three kids are back to their lives, and now it'll soon be me and the dog and the cat. To be sure, they're good company, but it's actually feeling so different, so very...odd.

The first thing I noticed last night (as my sister had taken off for the cities for two nights) is that I had no one to whom I could say, "good night--sleep well--see you in the morning!"  The dog snored, the cat batted at my bedroom door at 5 am, and I figure we HAVE to work this out.  I need sleep.

The second thing I noticed is that when I was out of milk, I decided to buy just a half gallon--since there is now half of two at the table.  Just half.  And I wonder what else will seem like half of what used to be.

I know this is a process, this learning to live alone again.  I'm stunned by the fact all we have belongs to me, ONLY to me, and for some reason that feels like a huge responsibility. So I'll sit back and take it easy, and let the transformation and the waves of happiness/grief come and go.

I've yet to open one card of condolence, since my mom's estate sale is upon us--this baby had been scheduled months ago and I'm NOT going to NOT follow through with it.  Though the sale isn't for two days, nearly everything is priced, and I'm getting ready for the chaos to begin--woohoo!  What a beginning to widowhood.

Entry from Blogger site, 2013

Wednesday, June 12, 2013

The summer months are beginning with a new sense of "calm" in that I'm not scheduled to teach the college English class next school year.  Guess I'd always carried the weight of teaching that class through the summer, since the students themselves had summer work to accomplish--grammar, readings, etc.  I'd kept their upcoming class in the back of my mind all summer, and now without that in mind, how freeing it all is!

So how did the first week of vacation begin?  With me enjoying actually reading a book (not just listening to it), managing the garden, house, and of course, Pete.  We play cribbage once or twice a day and our daily contact during the school year centers around that activity.  But I'm trying to establish a happy medium here--one where I don't get too caught up in Pete's caretaking, one where I find time for myself and yet keep a decent relationship with my husband. 

The first Monday of vacation we visited a potential new doctor for Pete, since our GP is moving to another clinic. This doctor is one Pete had wanted to have as his practitioner for years, but the guy wasn't receiving new patients.  Now that there's so much movement in the clinic, he IS taking on new ones, and Pete was pleased.  The visit went well--nothing new, sort of a meet/greet situation.  But I appreciated the doctor's obvious respect for Pete's and my situation and how it's been handled.

Then Tuesday was another day of appointments--this time in Rochester.  I'd scheduled to view a patio set on Craig's list and was eager to get Pete to Mayo in time for his 11:45 xray, and I'd meet the homeowner at 11:45 as well.  BUT things don't always work out and I have so much trouble being patient. We'd decided to leave home at 10:15, but for some reason Pete wasn't ready until 10:30.  We still had to stop for gas and an ATM in the case I decided to buy the furniture.  Why Pete was 15 min. late getting ready is a mystery, apparently even to himself.  I drove like a mad person to the clinic, literally pushed him out the door to get to the patio set, and then sped through the Rochester streets.  Once I was in the backyard looking at the set, Pete called to say he'd left his billfold in the car and was waiting still in the lobby because they couldn't figure out "who [he] was", so only viewing this furniture for 3-4 min., I couldn't make a decision quickly, naturally, and fled back to the clinic, parked, and then found Pete in the waiting room.  "Oh, I didn't mean for you to rush back here," he said.  Not at ALL the message I'd gotten on the phone.  

So what's all my griping about?  I'm finding Pete needs more help physically and emotionally than previously, that his days are nearly becoming my days--I can't schedule things for myself when there's something scheduled for him.  And I can't look too far ahead--afraid I'll cut and run at the prospect of a life filled with his care.  

Hope we find a happy medium and that the summer can profit us both.

Entry from Blogger site, 2012

Sunday, September 9, 2012

September 9, 2012

I rarely cry--don't even remember crying at my dad's funeral or in the days preceding his slow week-long transition from this world to the next.  What I'd felt then was joy--yes, a sense of loss-- but joy and pride for a life well lived and a release from an infirmed body and difficult world. He'd wanted to go.

But last night I cried in bed, alone and rather surprised at my tears.  I cried for the loss of closeness with Scott.  Since his visit to Denver over Labor Day weekend, I wasn't really surprised when he said he thought he might move there, but what startled me was that my uncle had passed away last week and I hadn't thought to notify Scott; it hadn't entered my head; I'd never considered it.  And I'm wondering why.

My brother had sent out an email about my uncle's funeral arrangements, and that was the first Scott had heard of it. Last night Scott called after both Pete and I had sent texts or left phone messages and his question, "so when were you going to tell me Uncle John had died?" left me wondering.  Why was it?  why had the death of a family member, news that you want to share with family, not been something I thought he should hear?  The other two kids had been informed.

Is Scott so emotionally distant that he seems outside the family?  As the tears fell last night, rolling down my cheeks, I realized the potential loss of my oldest child, the fear I'd been carrying around since he brazenly signed up for the army and spent three tours in Iraq, had come to pass.  I've lost him, and I'm still losing him.  And I'm sad and my eyes are tear-filled as I write this.

First Entry ever from 2011

Thursday, November 17, 2011

It's hard to explain what transpires in my brain, in our home, in our family when another surgery takes place. Number 41 wasn't planned, yet it had to be--so much infection in that hip, so much pain.  And Pete's sudden confusion, his incoherence.  PJ and I didn't hesitate.  Years of episodes put us on automatic.  Call 911, move the hall bench so the gurney could haul Pete away, gather list of medications, a list of the past 40 surgeries, don comfortable clothes, grab water, a book, follow the ambulance to the hospital.  The comfort of knowing the medical personnel--what a gift.  Two former students as nurses, an acquaintance at ER physician.  So good to have a personal connection; it made the uneasiness, the confusion easier to bear.