Category: Impacting my Life

Bits of paper next to places where I sit around the house. Not to mention e-notes pasted in various applications on my computer or online (I guess I just mentioned them. Why do we say such things?).

Here’s one I wrote completely backwards, from right to left with the letters facing backwards also. Here are the words:

How did we ever
Get to where we ask
‘What am I, chopped liver?”
On a cracker, or with a spoon
Has a taste, can make you swoon
So if you don’t like the words I say
What am I, chopped liver?

There may be the makings of a song here. The context is a familial prodding joke that arose from an old question basically asking why am I being left out, or am I less important than your or someone else – someone who can be ignored. But my siblings and I use it now very tongue-in-cheek when we discuss things we are doing or sharing family memories, with fondness and love. These are the kind of interactions that strengthen attachments, deepen relationships.

Another note contains grieving goals from a book called All Our Losses All Our Griefs, Resources for Pastoral Care by Kenneth R. Mitchell and Herbert Anderson, given by a good friend to help me on my journey. This book provides a different perspective on grieving from the point of view of professionals who work with, and laypeople who want to compassionately respond to, those who grieve.

Grieving Goals:
– Admitting the reality of the loss
– Creating a charitable memory
– Beginning to make new investments and attachments
– Reconstructing a faith significantly altered by loss

After 9-1/2 months of my grieving journey, I look at these goals and am encouraged – though even that is hard to believe. It took about four months just to come to terms with the fact that Pam is gone. Though sometimes still cathartic to talk to her, it is otherwise and empty exercise, as she cannot, and will not respond – at least in any way that I recognize or understand. But it is difficult to achieve any other goals without first admitting the loss.

I’ve had no problem creating a charitable memory. I so adored Pam and saw in her so many loving and caring attributes that I wish I could emulate. I sometimes still picture the moment of her death. I don’t like the image. But it reminds me that, in that moment, Pam’s suffering was over. And that’s a good thing. More and more I smile back at her when I look at pictures of her smiling. I am in touch with my love for her and realize the depth of her love for me and others. I am still sad for her loss, and my loss of her.

Progress on the last two goals is certainly ongoing. My body has been “telling” me that I need to take care of myself and catch up on the neglect I forced on it for the past few years as my attention was on caring for Pam. Should I just live out what is left of my life, though shorter due to neglect? Or will I find out what I need to and be wise about taking care of myself, expect to live longer, with better quality of life? Give myself the opportunity to nurture existing, and establish new attachments. I chose the latter. Now I am investing psychologically, emotionally, and monetarily in my physical wellbeing.

Reconstructing my faith is a much more challenging goal. My faith journey was in the weeds and tall grasses before Pam’s diagnosis and illness (I’ve got songs about this also). Losing her only exacerbated an already complicated and painful inner struggle. However, I am aware that my journey is more difficult by not being able to rely on faith in God to help me through my grieving process. Not that I don’t keep Him in the mix. I told the hospice chaplain that I still want to cover my bases. So the jury is still out on this goal. I hope those of you with strong faith will respect my circumstance and not attempt to “fix” or “save” me as I work through, toward some end. I promise you, it would not be helpful. On the other hand, thoughts and prayers are appreciated (covering bases). Thanks.

As I sat in my chair and reached for my paper pad to write down the name of a song, I noticed these notes, bits and pieces of things I thought worth returning to at some point in time. I had no idea that they would merge into a blog post such as this (the longest one yet, I believe). Yet here it is, and I hope, worth the reading.

The song is Time Was by Wishbone Ash. As I listened I heard feelings from my grief journey. Though not all of the lyrics reflect my feelings, in general, I can really relate. Great music too :

I’ve got to rearrange my life
I’ve got to rearrange my world
I miss you, I need you
I’ve got to keep my memories aside
I’ve got to try to live again

Time was when there were things around to be afraid of
I’ve got cause, I’ve even changed my mind to turn the tables

Time was, when there was no need to stop and rearrange it
Now I’ve got a memory and I don’t want to change it

And there’s a time for waking up and feeling down
It’s when you have to pick your feet up from the ground

Time was when I had you around, I was a strong man
I need you to help me make the change and be a new man

It takes more than a day and a night for giving
It’s not so easy just to change your way of living

Time was when there were things around to bother me
The crime was, I couldn’t start to change my history

Bits and pieces. Musings of a wandering mind. I created this website near the beginning of COVID, as Pam’s disease crept further into her being; as my commitment and responsibilities increased. It’s been nearly three years since its debut (March 14, 2020). So much has changed for so many! Now, let’s get on with – life. Bits and pieces at a time.

He stood leaning forward, both hands on the bathroom vanity trying to accomplish his morning routine. Clearly, something was wrong. I wonder if he knew his time had come. He may have cursed to himself. Or maybe he thought, “finally!” He called to her. “Rae?”

She entered through the bedroom door. Did she have a clue? They shared a brief glance as he collapsed into an empty pile of flesh and bones. Rae knew at that moment that he had died. She called 911, then a friend who lived down the street. Then she called me.

The paramedics came and began trying to resuscitate him. Mom knew it would be to no avail. She knew the moment he dropped to the floor. Their efforts continued as they took him away, and still at the hospital, until the pronouncement over an hour later. He would not be revived.

That scene played out over six years ago. Yet whenever we talk about Dad, tell stories, share memories, Mom’s first contribution is, “I can still see him collapsing to the floor.”

I was telling Mom’s story to a dear friend who lost her husband of 48 years to Parkinson’s, after his lengthy struggle with the disease. The last year or so was particularly painful as Linda watched Dave slip away into his dementia. They decided to place him in a temporary respite facility (which was within the Hospice facility), waiting for placement in long-term care, as Linda was not able to provide the level of care he needed.

Unfortunately, this was at the height of the COVID outbreak in December of 2020. They knew that when she left him there she would not be able to visit him. They could only hope that respite would take good care of him, that COVID would ebb, and that they would be together again.

But it was not to be. It was only days before Dave succumbed to the ravages of disease. After two days in respite, he went into “Terminal Restlessness.” (I had to look up the term and found it on hospice sites, but not the specific term on medical sites. Read on in the article for similar conditions, “Terminal Agitation” and “Exited Delirium.”) Quickly I realized that Pam suffered with this condition over the last several days (if not weeks) of her life.

Giving permission to change his treatment to calm him, Linda was able to talk with Dave at that time by phone. He fell unconscious two days later. She and their children were allowed to see him, but Dave died a day later while they were getting something to eat. Linda’s lasting memories of Dave are of a final conversation, and the love of her life unconscious in a respite bed.

Past blog posts reference how, when I look at Pam’s picture, I get a glimpse of Pam in our bed, just after her death. I could almost say it haunts me, but that’s not really it. It’s just a lasting image burned into my mind.

Different circumstances. Different stories. Similar haunting memories. As with everything related to losing a close loved one, these memories bear both positive and negative forces. The images confirm what we find so hard to accept; that our loves are missing from our lives. Images that induce self-questions and doubts. Did we do all we could? Did they know we love(d) them? Are we forgiven for our shortcomings?

So much takes place in that split second of remembrance, whenever and whatever triggers it. A dose of reality. A ponderance of self. Wonder about the future. Will there be a time when the memories in our mind’s eye reflect only the happiness and comfort of loving and being loved?

I’ll have to get back to you on that. So far, I am comforted in that, when I see that haunting glimpse, I begin to accept the reality and, most of the time can let it go. I take comfort in knowing that Pam’s suffering is over. In that way I can begin to appreciate again, the smiling woman in the photographs. The person who loved me and with whom I am still in love.

Post Script: Our losses seem to pale in comparison to the thousands upon thousands who are mourning the loss of thousands upon thousand of their loved ones who lost their lives in the devastating earth quakes in Turkey and Syria. Though our losses and grief are real and cannot be discounted, I am again aware of how small we are in the vastness of our world and our universe. May all who grieve and mourn somehow be comforted!

NOTE TO READERS: I’m out on a limb writing this one. It’s even more personal than most I’ve written. I apologize in advance to my children who may be reading. Sometimes it’s TMI to read about the lives of parents. But so be it. I hope something here is uplifting and, maybe makes you laugh.

Sometime Tuesday morning I had a dream. As with many dreams, it was a mix of realism and fantasy. This was very different from the insomnia I experienced last Saturday night, which I categorize as one of the five worst nights since Pam died. That wasn’t even a nightmare. I was awake. And the floodgates of remembrance and deep sorrow forbade me slumber for most of the night.

In my dream we were sitting together working on Pam’s laptop computer. We were clearly in our younger years. She was having trouble with whatever she was doing. I could tell that the battery was low so I went upstairs to plug it in. I found her in a bed (didn’t look like ours) with covers on, but she still looked cold so I added another. Pam was always cold. I just had to slip under the covers beside her – to help keep her warm ;-). She was wearing just an oversized T-shirt as was her way. As I cozied up next to her, Pam said, “Tell me anything but no.“

She got up to go to the bathroom, but didn’t return quickly so I got up too. We passed each other along the way. I went to the bathroom and had to navigate through a clutter of children’s nursery toys and various pieces of geriatric equipment (the bathroom wasn’t familiar either). Very frustrating. I have no idea what that was about. All I wanted was to get back to Pam.

Then I woke.

Do I want to be close to Pam? Yes!
Do I want to kiss her? Yes!
Do I want to hold her tight to help her feel safe, secure, and loved? Yes!
Do I want to lay close to her? Yes!

Did I want Pam to go? – NO!

But that’s the selfish me talking. I could say YES. It was time for her suffering to end. YES. It was/is time for me to let go. YES. You were wonderful and we all miss you terribly.

YES. I will love you until I die!

Contrary to how I felt after insomnia Saturday, I stood taller last Tuesday morning. Somehow refreshed. Somehow lightened by the memory of Pam before her illness, when our love wasn’t tainted by age or disease.

As I looked at her picture that morning, I cried – as usual. But then I laughed. I laughed at the consistency with which I look at her picture and cry. I laughed because, though I caught a glimpse of her dying – as usual, it was fleeting and was replaced by the image of “Yes.”

Oh how I wish grieving was linear. I’d know that I was nearing the end of a dark forest, a break in the clouds leading to sunshine. But as with the weather, and as one who travels across ever changing landscapes, I know there will be clouds and wind, pathless dark forests, mountains and valleys, as I continue to grieve.

YES!
Pam and I were – YES – not no.

Healing From Loss marked Tuesday morning with a simple message: Laughter is as much a healer as crying. I laughed at that too.

Quiet is not the same as silent. Without looking up the words and giving grammar lessons this week, silence is the absence of sound. Whereas, being quiet allows one to hear the sounds all around. I talk to myself. I am aware that sometimes I even answer. Scary, from what I’ve been told. But even without answering, I realize that I talk a lot, even though I know no one is here to listen.

Last Monday I woke to the sound of my own voice cajoling me to get up and get going. Having accomplished that, I began my morning routine; coffee, gazing at pictures of Pam, reading the daily passage of Healing from Loss, breakfast, etc. All the time talking. Usually I’m okay with talking to Pam even though I know she isn’t around to hear (let’s not get metaphysical here). But I also talk to myself – a lot!

I decided that rather than continue thus, I should try keeping quiet and listen to the various sounds; appliances, cars, sirens, ringing in my ears, clicking bones, chirping birds, rain, wind. Yes. it is worthwhile to shut up and listen even if I’m only listening to sounds and not anyone’s words.

So I’m trying to be quieter, trying not to think out loud. Not that I can stop thinking. Sometimes I wish I could. Trying not to talk to myself. I certainly don’t want to be unaware. Rather, I am probably more aware just by keeping quiet. It takes a conscious effort to stop talking. Having not lived alone for many years it is a change of habit for sure. Maybe quiet will provide for a better experience when I am not – quiet. How might it affect my music, communicating with friends and family, listening to strangers? Who knows? Maybe being quiet will provide for other topics I may not have been listening to.

The story behind the song (Wikipedia)

Struggle and Choice

A new pattern is emerging in my daily struggle; the conflict between grieving and living life. The grief is pervasive. It colors everything I see, hear, smell, and do. Everything reminds me of Pam and thus, my loss of her and her loss of life. But I am beginning to recognize how my “self” is still alive and kicking separate from the grief. I am still me, with my ego, my hopes and dreams, my faults, and my frailties. Somehow in the mix is the struggle to find my new normal, wrestling with all aspects of my life.

It seems like the winter solstice was a turning point or, at least a marker for noticing another transition. I’ve been told many times, in multiple ways, that the journey through grief is not on a straight path. A winding roller coaster is a more accurate descriptor. So any allusion to turning points and transitions is dubious. Tomorrow might find me headstrong and looking to the future. Or it might find me wallowing in harsh memories and self doubt. Day at a time. Sometimes hour at a time.

What is just part of me, my personality, my way of living, as separate and pre-dating all of the challenges of the past several years? I remember that, at some point in what now seems like the distant past, I decided I knew and understood myself. Fortunately, can live with who I am, comfortable in my own skin. Much of that self-awareness became lost in the fog of Pam’s and my survival struggles. Now, as I begin to emerge on my own, I am reintroducing myself to me. Yep. I still have a healthy (not all good, not all bad, but strong) ego. Those long-nurtured faults are still present, trying to derail my progress. I am more vulnerable than I can remember for many years. And I struggle to hold onto my hopes and dreams, like the guardrails on a roller coaster gondola.

Living alone continues to be one of my most absorbing struggles. Cooking for one, cleaning, laundry, watching TV, going for rides and shopping, morning and evening routines, all are accomplished in a different light. It’s not just the doing them by myself. It’s also doing them without Pam! It’s not just getting used to new ways of doing things. It’s doing familiar things while grieving her loss; her loss of life, and my loss of her, when doing them always reminds me of her.

It’s just part of the evolution from deeply loving relationship to living alone – to being alone. I do look forward to delving into subjects that matter more than what’s happening with this speck of dust, at some point in the future (who knows when). But for now, I struggle with – me. And somehow I know that I am not alone. We are all on a roller coaster ride. We all struggle with the stuff of life.

I found an excerpt from the December 21st meditation in Healing After Loss to be particularly comforting in this transitional struggle:

“But it is possible to climb back out, or to reestablish our footing… And in time, we will find we have some choice about it – whether to skirt that close to emotional crisis or not. It is not always a bad decision to do so. It is good news when we find we have a choice at all.“

Maybe I can get off the roller coaster eventually and move on to another ride, like Tilt-a-Whirl or, better yet, maybe a Merry-Go-Round. 😉

Happy New Year. May your 2023 experience be one with few hills and valleys, and gentle curves!

What was once Pam’s phenomenal stamping and crafting room is now a recording studio waiting for an artist to put it to use. That be me. The concept to transform the space developed over time as I knew that the hundreds of stamps, pens, inks, punches, papers, and accessories could not remain there forever. I walked by it every day and, as I began practicing my music again and resolved to follow through with the dream of performing on the road (now without Pam), it seemed fitting to repurpose the area to assist in that endeavor. So I methodically packed up Pam’s amazing talent/hobby, the tools of her ambassadorship of love, careful to log the contents of each box in hopes that others will carry on her good works.

Meanwhile I have spent little time in the studio. What I thought, as a technically minded person, would be relatively easy to figure out, I find confusing and, so far, beyond my understanding. Recording with a mixer is a language I have yet to master. I can’t seem to get all this equipment to do what I want it to do. Then again, I probably haven’t given it enough concentrated attention.

The winter holidays are now upon us presenting another set of emotional challenges the depths of which I could not comprehend, nor was I prepared. Much of my energy is spent balancing the joy of celebrating time, food, and gifts with family and friends, with profound feelings of sadness and loss for Pam’s absence during the times she loved the most. Consequently, there sits the recording studio. I just don’t have the energy to make it happen right now.

Soon comes a time of hibernation after the travel and celebrations of the holidays. January, February, and probably into March there will be ample time to learn and do. More goals that help me make it through the hours and days of my grieving. Working toward a reinvented life. However, I am not sitting completely idle. I continue to practice my music daily. I even have (those who know me, don’t laugh too hard) a spreadsheet to keep track of which songs I practice each day to help me stay on task for polishing the many songs I want to master before embarking on an actual minstrel’s road trip.

I’m trying to keep the dream alive. Sometimes even that’s an effort which is more difficult than I think it should be. I continue to play for – whoever I can talk into listening. I had “business” cards printed and have begun handing them out, though mostly to acquaintances so far. And I continue to blog. Thank you for your continued interest and feedback for both my music and my posts.

So be on the lookout in the early months of 2023. I still plan to “drop” songs on this website for you to listen, share, and critique (not that I’ll listen to that 😉 ). As you might perceive from the cards, I plan to direct potential venues here to sample, and maybe even book some gigs.

Just last weekend a friend reminded me of the importance of following through with my dreams, in part to help me get through this time of grief and emotional pain. But also as part of the healing, knowing that, though Pam isn’t here to share the experience, she would want me to go for it. The recording studio won’t just sit there. It can’t. I will honor Pam and myself by making this happen.

(Seems like I might be writing and publishing this message as much to bolster my resolve, as for any other reason. If so, so be it!)