We knew he had pancreatic cancer for more than a year when that thought crept into my head for the first time. Up until that thought, I believed he would somehow learn to live with it, and our life together would go on as before.
The date of his death is March 29, 2009 -- two days shy of his sixty-first birthday. I am about to turn sixty-two in April. It feels very strange to live longer than Ted lived. This idea is out of reach for me. I live with something right next to my body that isn't there. I feel it. I have started to privately think of it as The Big Empty.
Death is not the only killer around. I remember reading about a traumatized and amnesiac woman arriving by bus to NYC in the seventies, with no idea how to live or who she was. She knew one thing for certain -- she loved chocolate and she deep-wired knew how to make it. She found work with a chocolatier and eventually ran her own operation. She didn't die -- just most of her life and previous identity did.
As my own March 29 anniversary date approaches, I view my days at a distance, as if through the lens of a drone above myself.
I see myself writing, housekeeping, caring for my dogs. There are always library hauls and reading -- with background familiar noise of John Wayne/John Ford Westerns or such, playing on Amazon Prime. Sometimes I tune to Pandora stations like Johnny Cash and sometimes Pavarotti.
I think I am lucky that I'm not a sit-still person, and yet I am miserable at intentional exercise.
I take continuing education classes. My most recent class was on strength training exercises using a big red rubber band. I think I misplaced the band down my shirt three times during class and recognized myself for who I continuously turn out to be. When the class was over, I knew I was lucky no one had been injured.
My working motto at the moment: "Thank Goodness I'll Never Have to See Those People Again".
Everything changed when Ted died, except for some essentials about myself, such as:
- Still attempt to accomplish feats I have attempted many times, and failed.
- Still in love with the public library, still a reading addict.
- Write multiple times a day -- lists and books and notes to self and letters and emails to others.
- Enjoy a wide range of music so long as it somehow tells a story.
- Think of Ted and want him here with me throughout every single day.
- Live with dogs -- now, with dogs Ted never had a chance to trip over and love.
I am sometimes asked how to begin again, after loss and grief take your life away and you have to keep on living. I have written a new book about that, and it will be for sale on Amazon in two weeks or so. My book, "Baptized Every Morning", is a guidepost, journal and sketchbook about starting over after loss and grief wipe you out.
Now that this book is almost finished, I have started working on my next book. It will be about a prostitute and madam, living a century ago. The research is beguiling to me.
Recently, I joined a local rock and gem club and have been rockhounding and polishing finds in my rock tumbler. My ten-year-old grandson, Julian, is also a member of this club. We share the unique joy of understanding rocks and how they came to be. He got a rock tumbler for Christmas and just finished polishing his first batch. Gorgeous -- especially the Tiger Eyes.
 |
| Julian's Polished Tiger Eyes! |
It is exciting to watch his collection grow as I grow my own, and share the thrill of the hunt. Julian has a deep understanding of the chemical compositions, of elements and atomic weights. I learn a lot from him in that regard. I've been a rock collector most of my adult life, but being around a young rockhound has reignited my enthusiasm -- especially for finding and polishing agates and jaspers.
I like to hunt rocks on the beach.
Yep. I stay busy. A new book, nearing publication. Another book underway. A beloved grandson with me in rockhounding and rock polishing. A big family near, including six grandchildren, three adult kids and their spouses. Elements of myself that go way back, like music, reading and the dread of deliberate exercise. These old friends have been true.
My pieced together, new way of living is busy. It is even what you might call full.
I wish there was a way for me to say otherwise, but there is an emptiness to my life that never goes away. Not ever.
This is my brand of widow, today.
My gratitude list is long. Love.
Family.
Rocks.
Music.
Dogs.
Writing.
Books.
Gratitude, even, for continuous companionship of The Big Empty.
No comments:
Post a Comment