Sometimes, I don't know how tightly the door is closed until it opens. A moment yesterday, perhaps inspired by not-too-much sleep and too much coffee, about two hours before noon, when I realized: Not only do I have an entire day and night of pleasure awaiting, but a life.
Heart and soul gushing with joy, I tumbled into the day's mundane. First stop, stamps at the post office. Everyone in town apparently had the same Saturday thought, so I leave; I still have some at home. On to a good workout at the health club, shower, lunch; a walk with a friend, then out to buy kefir (for Thunder, mostly) and milk and one yam; then an early supper, eaten while changing clothes.
A date, soon. Because I don't have one at home. Because we share a love of the outdoors and long walks and whose body looks an awful lot like Rich, and because he accepts where I am and doesn't touch my emotions. Because we don't share a love, but are finding something in one another in this moment and this, I'm trusting, will keep opening the doors that I can't yet enter.
Candace
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
purgatory
I sometimes feel I am in some blazing purgatory and that I am being forged into something else--Etty Hilsum (1914-43)
These are the waiting days. For what, I'm not sure; other than leaving what I was and not knowing where to go, except that it will not be here.
So far, these are the hardest days. Rich isn't returning, but I'm far from letting him go. My body won't admit he's gone, while the mind chatters away on a track that is, by turns, logical and responsible, dreamy and dim-witted.
Not all that has been burned is bad. Anger, for one thing. Other than justified eruptions at the IRS and Sloan Kettering -- and, truly, the heat in the rage is pitifully lukewarm -- nothing can rouse me. My new mantra works beautifully: Rich is dead. No other pain can, or will, compare. Fear? Anxiety? Don't know what they are. Except for my own demise, I have lived through the worst I can imagine.
Death may or may not lead to a place called purgatory. Surviving does. It's home, for now.
Candace
These are the waiting days. For what, I'm not sure; other than leaving what I was and not knowing where to go, except that it will not be here.
So far, these are the hardest days. Rich isn't returning, but I'm far from letting him go. My body won't admit he's gone, while the mind chatters away on a track that is, by turns, logical and responsible, dreamy and dim-witted.
Not all that has been burned is bad. Anger, for one thing. Other than justified eruptions at the IRS and Sloan Kettering -- and, truly, the heat in the rage is pitifully lukewarm -- nothing can rouse me. My new mantra works beautifully: Rich is dead. No other pain can, or will, compare. Fear? Anxiety? Don't know what they are. Except for my own demise, I have lived through the worst I can imagine.
Death may or may not lead to a place called purgatory. Surviving does. It's home, for now.
Candace
Saturday, May 22, 2010
like a shark
No more heart lattes for me. The barista is off to another state, beginning a new life. She admits some nervousness, and regret.
"Everything I know here I won't use again," she says.
"But you have to move on," I say. "Otherwise you're dead."
She laughs.
"Like a shark," she says. "Always keep moving."
Which is a pretty good model for me these past days. But what's my prey?
First bite: The IRS. Yes, the very same folks who have been hunting me since Rich's death with an alleged non-payment of something that requires no payment. And now, with the added penalty, they expect a payment exceeding the GNP of Haiti.
Ha ha.
Second bite: Sinking my teeth into my advice to others. It's damn hard moving on. Everything I once had I won't, again, and can never be duplicated. Something -- many things -- wonderful remain. But this shark wants rest, she wants a map, she wants to taste the blood of a new life -- she is swimming in circles.
Third bite: Huh? Sharks can't count beyond two.
Candace
"Everything I know here I won't use again," she says.
"But you have to move on," I say. "Otherwise you're dead."
She laughs.
"Like a shark," she says. "Always keep moving."
Which is a pretty good model for me these past days. But what's my prey?
First bite: The IRS. Yes, the very same folks who have been hunting me since Rich's death with an alleged non-payment of something that requires no payment. And now, with the added penalty, they expect a payment exceeding the GNP of Haiti.
Ha ha.
Second bite: Sinking my teeth into my advice to others. It's damn hard moving on. Everything I once had I won't, again, and can never be duplicated. Something -- many things -- wonderful remain. But this shark wants rest, she wants a map, she wants to taste the blood of a new life -- she is swimming in circles.
Third bite: Huh? Sharks can't count beyond two.
Candace
Monday, May 17, 2010
wallpaper
Today, my monthly massage.
"It probably is none of my business," James says, pressing his hand into the brick wall region of my back. "But I think you lost even more weight."
And there's none to spare, I know that, and say I appreciate the reminder. I will eat later.
I'm in my starve-and-collapse cycle of the mourning wave. I'll come out of it; I have lost count how many times I've already done it. The pattern is fixed. Rich's death sinks me into a new awareness of the loss, of wonderment that a broken body and soul still breathes, still thinks, still needs food.
So I'm trying to interrupt the pattern, or at least shorten the troughs.
Not only do I now schedule a monthly massage, and a monthly facial, but I now have a year membership at the spa, which includes the massages and a daily day pass. So I can be in a place of serenity and luxury where I can quietly hurt. And heal, I hope.
Not everything works. I get out in nature. I walk and walk, but the beautiful spring days remind me of the beauty that's gone, and without the presence of the other -- I can't taste it. Wildflowers and spring buds might as well be wallpaper.
And when other men say can we go out -- I say yes, why not, nice guys, nice places. But they only remind of what I want but can't have, and then I come home and forget to eat...and on and on the wave goes.
I think I'm learning how. I believe I'm learning how. Even if on some days the evidence is thin.
Candace
"It probably is none of my business," James says, pressing his hand into the brick wall region of my back. "But I think you lost even more weight."
And there's none to spare, I know that, and say I appreciate the reminder. I will eat later.
I'm in my starve-and-collapse cycle of the mourning wave. I'll come out of it; I have lost count how many times I've already done it. The pattern is fixed. Rich's death sinks me into a new awareness of the loss, of wonderment that a broken body and soul still breathes, still thinks, still needs food.
So I'm trying to interrupt the pattern, or at least shorten the troughs.
Not only do I now schedule a monthly massage, and a monthly facial, but I now have a year membership at the spa, which includes the massages and a daily day pass. So I can be in a place of serenity and luxury where I can quietly hurt. And heal, I hope.
Not everything works. I get out in nature. I walk and walk, but the beautiful spring days remind me of the beauty that's gone, and without the presence of the other -- I can't taste it. Wildflowers and spring buds might as well be wallpaper.
And when other men say can we go out -- I say yes, why not, nice guys, nice places. But they only remind of what I want but can't have, and then I come home and forget to eat...and on and on the wave goes.
I think I'm learning how. I believe I'm learning how. Even if on some days the evidence is thin.
Candace
Friday, May 14, 2010
"8" for reply
Has it really been almost two months?
A deep thank you to those who have asked what is happening, and spurred me to continue writing this.
The numbness is wearing off. All the matters of outer change -- financial, legal -- are mostly done. It is now mine name, solo, on accounts and registrations and letters. Rich's existence as a person is vanishing.
Mine, too. Which is excruciating, but the time is now.
Just about when everyone thinks it's over, you got through grief, you're looking good, what are your plans...
Mourning now starts. There's no time or energy early on to wrestle with the excruciating pain, and I have no desire to pretend this an illness that can be treated with pills. Grief is cured by plowing up memory and planting seeds of a new body, a new mind, a new soul, fed by Rich and to be grown with others.
Today is also our 32nd wedding anniversary.
So I torture myself. I listen for the "nth" time -- a Rich expression -- to his last voice messages from Hospicare, sent while I was sleeping, either late at night or early in the morning. And continued to sleep through them many times afterward, until I could hear.
Which I'm starting to do, now. Of the enormous love, that if I had let it inside would have killed me, too.
I love you so much.
Of, even near the end, of his planning.
I would be more comfortable knowing all the bills are paid...this is the end...your life is more important than mine, yours is going forward...
Going forward. There's no other choice.
Well, not quite. As I save the message one more time, the disembodied voice intones, "hit '8' to reply.''
And I almost do, several times.
Candace
A deep thank you to those who have asked what is happening, and spurred me to continue writing this.
The numbness is wearing off. All the matters of outer change -- financial, legal -- are mostly done. It is now mine name, solo, on accounts and registrations and letters. Rich's existence as a person is vanishing.
Mine, too. Which is excruciating, but the time is now.
Just about when everyone thinks it's over, you got through grief, you're looking good, what are your plans...
Mourning now starts. There's no time or energy early on to wrestle with the excruciating pain, and I have no desire to pretend this an illness that can be treated with pills. Grief is cured by plowing up memory and planting seeds of a new body, a new mind, a new soul, fed by Rich and to be grown with others.
Today is also our 32nd wedding anniversary.
So I torture myself. I listen for the "nth" time -- a Rich expression -- to his last voice messages from Hospicare, sent while I was sleeping, either late at night or early in the morning. And continued to sleep through them many times afterward, until I could hear.
Which I'm starting to do, now. Of the enormous love, that if I had let it inside would have killed me, too.
I love you so much.
Of, even near the end, of his planning.
I would be more comfortable knowing all the bills are paid...this is the end...your life is more important than mine, yours is going forward...
Going forward. There's no other choice.
Well, not quite. As I save the message one more time, the disembodied voice intones, "hit '8' to reply.''
And I almost do, several times.
Candace
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