Spelunking

When I was a kid, our folks took us to Mammoth Cave.  I normally loved our vacations.  They weren’t spectacular – normally not more than 4 hours or so from home.  My parents loved nature and were educators by profession and vocation.  Therefore we often ended up in Dearborn, Michigan at Greenfield Village and the Ford Museum, or in Kentucky at Shakertown, Lexington for the horse farms and Bardstown for the Stephen Foster Story.  You get the idea.  I have no idea how old I was when we went to Mammoth Cave, but I knew within moments that this was not anything I ever wanted to do again, let alone then.  It was dark, it was frightening, and I had no idea what was waiting around any corner.  There were passages that were very difficult to navigate, either having to crawl, or cross a “bottomless pit” over a grate or skinny little walkway.  And there were bats.  I hated it.  I never wanted to go back.  I couldn’t wait to see the light at the end of the tour.  Who knew that I would revisit that frightening experience in a very different way this year.

Fast forward at least four decades.  This past week has been so difficult, so discouraging and lonelier than I could imagine.  It started out well – I managed to be at work on Monday morning on time – something I haven’t been able to accomplish in a while as Sunday nights I become an insomniac.  I usually am disappointed in myself for what I couldn’t manage over the weekend.  Unless I make specific plans, all too often I don’t get out of bed until very late in the day, if I do at all.  Therefore nothing much is being accomplished and this is not really what I would define as “being among the living”.  But there is no one there who cares if I’m up and about.  No one is missing me and whether I'm up to fix breakfast or to take a walk.  And that realization only adds to my depression.  But I digress.  Monday evening was delightful as I met my younger son and his wife and my delightful 4 year old grandson at their lot where their new home is being built.  I’m so happy for them and it’s coming along beautifully.  They then surprised me by taking me to dinner at a lovely hibachi steakhouse.  Who could ask for a better start to the week?  At this point, the light from the entrance of the cave was still illuminating my path and I felt secure.

Tuesday was rather unremarkable, but I was late to work, as the exhaustion was just more than I could bear that morning.  It was like one of those scary passages that I didn’t know if I would fit through or not.  Finally squeezing out the door, it was an unremarkable day.  Wednesday evening I saw my acupuncturist and Thursday my grief counselor, both of whom I like very much.  So far so good – I’m where I can walk upright and the path is well lit and wide.

Then, out of the blue comes Friday.  I woke and I was paralyzed.  I have no idea why, but my grief for both my husband and son was literally immobilizing.  I am becoming so lonely.  Early on I was very content in my home, almost nesting, trying to create a comfortable place to be to nurse myself through this detour I didn’t want to take.  More often lately it feels more like a tomb or a vacant house.   I texted in to work I would be an hour late.  An hour later I said I would be in by noon.  By 11:30 I caved (no pun intended) and acknowledged that there was no way I would be there at all.  This has happened before and it’s when you’ve reached that point traveling below the earth’s surface into the unknown that you can’t take another step forward.  My pain feels like terror and I can’t move.  And the saddest part of all is that I am not even productive where I have stopped.  There are things around me to do – to explore – to accomplish, but I am frozen in my bed.  Afraid that if I get out, the grief monster will grab my leg from under the bed and I will really be gone for good.  Or that if I try to cross that bottomless pit, the grate will give way and I will fall into this misery forever, never to be seen again.

I know that none of this is good or healthy for me.  If you are a spelunker, you know that there are beautiful formations and wonderful things to be found, in what I think is a rocky intestine.  So I make early morning plans for Saturday, so that I can get through this scary part of the expedition taking note of what is around me and what is important and what should be noted and remembered.  Mission accomplished for one day, but oh, somehow, in the dark of the night, as black as the cavern I am lost in, my grief comes back, so sorely unabated.  I have tried to be dignified in my mourning.  Just as you don’t want to be the one on the cave tour that has a panic attack, and tears through the crowd going backwards when the end is just around the next corner.  I have put a smile on and gone on, step by step, sometimes slowing, sometimes coming to an abrupt halt.  But sometimes this expedition becomes the bat, lurking where you don’t see it initially, until it comes swooping past you, so close you feel the breeze from the flutter of its wings.  It comes totally out of nowhere and terrifies you, horrifies you, paralyzes you.  And you want to be like everyone else in the crowd, who is enthralled, or entertained by this surprise.  All I want to do is take cover and never come out.  I can’t handle more surprises.  I don’t want anything else unexpected to come my way.  More than anything I want the comfort of my husband’s touch, and my son’s twinkling eyes as he teases me about being scared.  I want the encouragement they both provided a thousand fold when I thought I couldn’t manage something.  The thought of going through the rest of this damn cave, this crazy life without these men brings me to my knees. 

I wish I knew how many more feet of cavern was ahead of me, how much darkness I’ll fumble my way through.  But because I yearn for the warmth of my grandchildren’s hugs, the joy that my other sons bring into my life, the history and love I share with my sisters and the best friends a girl could ask for, I will continue.  I don’t have to like the darkness and I guarantee I won’t.  But I’ll try to open my eyes and see if there is anything remarkable to take with me, or mark my way in case heaven forbid I am ever forced to come this way again. To be sure, though, even though I often feel as if I'm living temporarily in a Stephen King novel lost in a mammoth cave, there will be a happy ending.  There will be light.  There still is joy.  I just need to go through the cave to get there.  I can't wait to see you at the other end.

Until next time, make it your best day.

Summer at the Amusement Park aka Stop This Ride I Want to Get Off!!!

Warning - could be very random - I seem to have lost my map!

Over the past week and a half I have had so many moments where I couldn't sit down to write, but thought, oh my, I want to remember to write about that!  This from the woman who can often no longer tell you what the date is, what I had for lunch yesterday, or if I'm coming or going.  I need to keep a little note pad with me at all times so I don't lose the wonderful instances in the midst of the sadness.  My analogy this week is that this journey is like being at the amusement park - you don't necessarily know what's around the next corner; whether the next attraction will delight or terrify you.  You just have to try them all to figure it out.  There are rushes, there are moments of terror, and there is fun and laughter, not necessarily in any order.

I have been trying to make progress in taking care of me.  Not to sound selfish, but it really is important as I don't have anyone at home to look out for me, know if something's wrong, help if I have a problem.  Therefore I need to work on being healthier physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually.  When Adam deployed, Dave, Adam, Jessica and I talked about the fact that our jobs were for each of us to take care of ourselves to the best extent possible.  By doing that, we took care of each other, as no one would have to worry about the other and could concentrate on what all of us needed to do to survive that period.  If you can do it, I believe it works wonderfully.  I have found a new therapist, enrolled in a grief group for parents who have lost children, scheduled a weekend grief seminar to attend, gone back to church, seen a doctor and acupuncturist and have begun to change my diet.  Whew!  That was a mouthful and seems like a lot in a week and a half, however, I feel this journey could correlate well to AA's 20 step program.  One week, one day, one hour, one minute, one second at a time.  Don't look too far ahead.

I purchased a planner as I find myself confused about when I'm going to do what and have often found myself really in a pickle after I've double booked myself.  I think in addition to this blog, rather than use my phone to schedule, this will provide a mini-diary to look back upon to remember what I so often forget these days and also to keep me from embarrassing myself by double booking or not showing up somewhere I need to be.

It seems though, that I am experiencing some of the darkest times yet on this grief journey.  I don't mind being alone.  I actually often enjoy my own company.  However, about a month ago I was in Indy watching Adam's children for 2 days before they went back to school.  I pulled into the driveway to see Camden at the door bouncing up and down and calling my name.  I entered the house with him hanging on to me and the girls not far behind.  As I cared for them while their mother worked those two days, it struck me how much I missed being touched.  Those three children can be the most loving little people you have ever met and like to cuddle and snuggle and I realized that I do too and have been sorely missing having hugs or someone to hold my hand.  Even in the midst of the joy of receiving that love from those sweet children, I began to almost physically ache for I knew it would be short lived and I would go home to the "desert" again.  It's strange, because I receive hugs from many friends and treasure them all, but coming from my family, from the extension of my son somehow satisfies a need, that until then I didn't know I had.  Now I crave it often.  This is like getting off your favorite ride and you see the line is so long that you're going to have to wait a long time before you can experience that joy again.  Disappointing.

Last Friday I woke to a horrible "roaring" noise in my kitchen.  My refrigerator sounded as if it was about to take off.  All I could see were huge $$$$ signs.  My life requires frugality in order to maintain what I have and what I enjoy.  That was a little like going through the Haunted House.  Fortunately, I lucked upon a local repairman NOT from a big box store, who was extremely kind.  He warned me that it may be more expensive than he had hoped.  As I held my breath, he quoted $250 to $300.  That was like when it's pitch black in that haunted house, something jumps out at you, scaring you to death, and you turn the corner and see the light at the end of the ride.  It's all going to be okay.  Whew!

I've had the opportunity to spend time with my grandson here in Fort Wayne.  He is hilarious.  We pulled into a gas station and I complained that gas was so expensive.  Tyler, in his 4 year old wisdom, from his booster seat, replied, "I know, crazy isn't it?"  Or having my son Chad and his wife Ashley surprise me out of the blue by taking me out to dinner as a thank you for helping pick Tyler up, which is a gift in and of itself to me.  That's the joy and the laughter.  Time spent with family fills and warms my heart and makes me want to come back to that part of the park as often as I can.  It's like being on the "It's A Small World" ride.  Safe and comfortable.  Sit back and relax and sing along.  Soothing to the soul.

This may sound really crazy, but Sunday Adam's dog, Kona, had to be put down.  She could no longer walk, was losing weight like crazy and was miserable.  It was the right thing to do yet it broke my heart again.  Adam got her when he lived in Seattle and was single.  She came from Fort Wayne and when she was old enough, Dave and I picked her up.  She lived with us for a week before we flew her out to him in Seattle.  He adored that dog.  And I did too.  I imagine it was a wonderful reunion between the two and I bet they went for a long run together, something neither had been able to do in a long time.  To me this was like watching one of the shows, that may have very tender, sad moments, but ends on a happy note.  You walk away feeling as if life is just as it should be, even though it was hard getting to that point.

In this week I have realized finally, in capital letters, that losing my husband, son and even Kona are the best things that could have happened to each one of them.  They are out of pain, they no longer suffer.  In their new existence they can do things that they couldn't on earth.  I believe they still love those that they loved on earth but that their "world" has opened up exponentially beyond our comprehension.  My grief should not be focused on what they are missing, what they can no longer do, because my belief system says that there is no longer anything they CAN'T do.  Grief is about me.  It's about his wife and children, my sisters and their families.  It's totally about those left behind.  Losing my parents broke my heart in that my true safety net and well from which I drew wisdom was no longer available to me.  However, through their guidance, teaching and just loving me they had prepared me to go on without my even realizing it.  I still miss them terribly but can manage.  Losing my husband was that second safety net, and he provided the warmth and comfort every human being should have in their life.  He was my cheering section and soft place to land and often my voice of reason when I worry too much or get my feelings hurt too easily.  But if I stop, when I'm having one of those hard times, I can hear his voice as I did for 10 years telling me just what I need to hear.  He also prepared me to go forward on this journey.  Losing my son - I know he would want me to be happy.  Sometimes he was my best critic, calling me out when I needed it.  But he had also needed me.  And I'm realizing that I'm unprepared to go forward in this life alone, without being needed.  That is as foreign to me as speaking Swahili.  It doesn't mean I can't.  It just means I'm lost.  Terribly lost without a compass or map.  I do have a light and that is my faith, which I'm leaning heavily on now.  Losing all the people that I have that I have loved so dearly has come at a cost.  However, I'm learning there is a big difference between losing those you expect to apart from your child, who is supposed to outlive you by a mile.  I will hurt everyday I'm on this earth without him, but I will learn how to go on.  I've lost my map and don't know how to get out of this park.

Right now I'm stuck in the "Deliverance" part of the park that's a little scary, but I'm determined to find my way over the rainbow to where the wizard may have what I need, but I need to understand it may not come in the form that I had before or quite what I wanted.  I feel sure it will be what I need to find my way down the road and may actually turn into more than I could have imagined.  But I have to buy the ticket and be willing to try.  So I'll get back in line and do it all again.  Maybe this time it will feel a little more familiar and I won't get lost as often.  Maybe I won't get locked in at night when it's dark and scary and all you can do is cry.  Maybe I'll make a new friend, dance in the rain while the ride is down, or while waiting for the fireworks, see a shooting star.  Ticket for one, so very expensive.  I'm up for the ride.  Until next time, make it your best day!

I Think I Can, I Think I Can, I Think I Can

One Step Forward, Two, Three, Four Back, One Step Forward........

This week it has been 9 months since I looked into my dear husband's eyes, and 6 months since I got the news my sweet son had died.  Anniversaries.  Anniversaries are typically celebrations - for marriage, for careers, for sobriety.  Many successes are marked by anniversaries.  Is it a good idea to benchmark the loss of someone with anniversaries?  And if not, how can you avoid it?  Those days stand out in memory, feeling as if they occurred just yesterday and strangely feeling as if it was a lifetime ago.  I am not in a good place in my grief journey right now.  My emotions are barely below the surface.  It takes nothing at all to bring me to tears when talking about David or Adam.  Conversely, I LOVE to talk about them.  It keeps them alive for me.  No one can forget them if we talk about them.  How in the world is one to find the balance to go forward and not backslide?  I don't even know if there is an answer to that question.  I suppose, in my mind, that if there is one it might go something like this.

You just keep going.  I fail many days, especially weekends.  If I don't make plans for early in a day that I don't work, then I often don't manage to get out of bed until late, if at all.  I'm working on that by making breakfast plans or appointments for tire rotations and fun things like that.  It gets me out and moving.  I also find myself in a place where after spending time with people, going home is even harder.  I think about how they're going home to husbands and more than likely getting a hug and a kiss upon arrival.  Don't misunderstand, I'm thrilled that they do have husbands to go home to.  It just magnifies the fact that I don't.  And then I don't want to get out of bed.  And then I sleep.  And then I can't sleep at night.  Then it's hard to function the next day.  Not the rhythm of life that you can dance joyfully to.

Then there is the "putting on a brave face for the rest of the world" issue.  When you go out into the world, people you work with, do business with, neighbor with, cope better if you appear to be back to normal.  Family and close friends for the most part understand that you're not.  They may not love it but they understand it and in my case they are very compassionate.  But people who don't know you so well - acquaintances and co-workers, let's say, are very uncomfortable if you get teary-eyed in the middle of a conversation.  So I don't know about anyone else in my shoes, but I put on a facade that I am okay.  By Tuesday usually I can manage it pretty well and by Friday it's automatic.  Until I come home on Friday night and can take that ridiculously grinning mask off.  And the exhaustion of pretending all week sets in.  After that - well, see paragraph 2.

I suppose at this point I have to acknowledge that I am not living.  I'm existing.  I want to live but I'm certainly not afraid anymore to die.  I know there are "stages" but I don't know what they are.  I have no interest to know.  I need to feel and embrace my own grief, and mourn for those I loved so dearly in my own way.  I am determined to move out of this stage and on to whatever is my destiny beyond this.  How am I doing that?  After one therapist failure, I found another that I like very much.  I jumped a huge hurdle and went back to church.  Dave and I had always gone together and I was afraid to do it alone.  But I did.  And not only did I survive it, I felt stronger as the service went on.  I was embraced by other parishioners and invited to dinner afterwards.  Score!!!  I'm making plans.  It sounds ridiculous, but too much at one time would put me back in bed for a week.  So I've set a date in the future (just over 2 months) and am making lists of things that need to be done by then, (financial planner, a new will, making sure all beneficiaries are accurate) boring but important things.  And I'm preparing mentally for what I intend to implement at that future date.  Taking care of me.  Physically that means exercise and a better, healthier diet.  Spiritually, it means continuing to attend church.  Emotionally, I'll continue with therapy and have some plans for some support groups.  

I'm sure there will be some slippage in my future, but the most important thing I've learned is to wake up each day and try again.  It's a brand new clean slate to write your story on for that day.  I believe with perseverance that pretty soon it will be one step forward, two back; one step forward, one back; two steps forward, one back, until my trajectory is only forward.  It may only be at 5 mph but that's progress.  My fuel is faith, family, friends and fortitude.  So until next time, if you hear a little voice chanting "I think I can, I think I can" pay no mind.  It's just me persevering.  Failure at this is not an option.  Until next time, make it your best day!

Finding My Way

My name is Sandra.  I am a mother, grandmother, sister, aunt, cousin, niece, friend and was a daughter.  I have wonderful family and the best of friends, but my life's journey, although until recently, felt fairly unremarkable. However, looking back, I am realizing two things.  First that I have been weathering storms for a while; and next, that more people than we realize or than will share with us, go down parallel roads every day.  And just maybe, if I share mine, maybe others will share theirs.  Maybe they will take comfort in realizing that they are not alone.  It is my hope that maybe we can share our travelogues and learn from each other on this life's journey.

I am the oldest of four daughters, born into a wonderful family - maternally and paternally.  Love was abundant.  Growing up, I wasn't aware of any issues.  Life was safe, warm, carefree and centered on family.  I thought everyone had what we had.  Looking back, life felt abundant.  I know now it wasn't materially, but it certainly was in all of the important ways.  My parents were teachers, so we far from wealthy, but they were resourceful, and sacrificing for their children and very generous, good, hardworking people.  I thought Mom loved to sew, bake, darn socks, can and freeze among many other chores, when I was a kid.  I thought my Dad loved to garden, repair musical instruments and play in a dance band on Saturday nights.  And looking back, I know that they did find some pleasure in these activities, but they were done to provide all they could in the best way possible for their four daughters.  I know they weren't perfect - no human is - but looking back I know that they provided a perfect childhood.  And I wouldn't change a second of it.  It wasn't till I was out in the world as a working adult, though, interacting with others that I really realized how special our childhood was and what a gift I was given.  That's the first beautiful legacy I've been given.

Jump ahead many years to two summers ago, when my 2nd husband, love of my life, was diagnosed with lung cancer. We went through surgeries, chemo, hospitalizations and his eventual death this past November, unexpectedly from pneumonia.  Fast forward three months to Valentine's Day of this year, when I got the call that my oldest son, a medically retired Marine, husband and father of three very young children, died very unexpectedly.  Those are two more beautiful legacies given to me through these men so dear to my heart, filled with love - unconditional love - but now shrouded in loss.

Over time, I will chronicle experiences in my life that have not been easy, not been pleasant, that I didn't choose, and a few that I did.  But please realize this is not in any way, shape, or form, to be "gloom and doom".  This blog, in part, is therapy for me.  I love to write.  It is my chosen form of communication.  I also find my "best therapy" is sharing what I am going through.  Not for attention, not for sympathy (well, honestly, maybe occasionally), but it is "purging" what rattles around in my head and heart.  More often than not, through speaking or writing about what may be troubling me, I realize something new, that helps me reconcile what is the issue at hand.  It also just helps me put it behind me - almost like putting the trash to the curb or releasing a balloon into the sky.  But there is more than that.  I also find that in sharing the hard things, I also realize the many blessings that surround those tough times.  Even with the deaths that have been too close to me in the last 20 years - my mother, father - I can honestly say that in hindsight, I see where all of those difficulties, struggles, and failures led me to a better place. I am working on finding my way without my husband and son.  I can't take total credit for those outcomes.  It was through the legacies, love and loss from people who cared for me, that I have grown, matured, become more tolerant, more diligent in trying to take negative experiences and turn them around.  Most importantly I want to leave a legacy that can stand in the shadow of those that have been bequeathed to me; for my younger son, for my grandchildren, for anyone that needs some help negotiating their own tough road.  My other objective is to pay it forward.  To share this, as others have been there for me, so that no one has to feel alone when things feel hopeless and isolating.  We learn from each other.  We heal with loving attitudes towards each other.  We grow from loss, but only if we rise from the ashes to continue down the road that is our destiny.  I believe in Legacies, Love and Loss.  I hope you'll travel with me going forward.  Until next time, make it your best day.