Monday, August 13, 2012

Two years ...

To the readers:  I wrote this on the two year anniversary date.  For the longest while, I have held on to it as something between two lovers safe in my journal.  However, I have always been honest with my blog if only to bring some sense of normalcy to others who grieve.

Two years.  Time stands still and yet moves forward.  Wedding bells and newborn cries are heard and bills keep marking the passing of yet another month; life events and obligations slipping through the hour glass, marking time.   Another year gone by where two years is no time at all.    

Two years.  Time stands still and yet moves forward.  Fitful nights spent between reality and dream, two years is an eternity.  The unleashed mind, no longer limited by the boundaries of logic, slips back to a time when the weight of his body was comforting only to wake up and grieve him all over again.  Even in dreams he is not in focus, it is more a sense that he is there.  Two years is an eternity.  The mind does not always limit playing its tricks in sleep.  In those routine moments, where the mind goes into autopilot while driving home from work,  borrowing from our past I am still eager to share the day's events with him;  just for a split second I forget that he won't be there waiting or that I won't see his car at the familiar intersection only to be disappointed all over again.  Two years is already a lifetime.

Unlike the assumption that time heals and that with every passing hour, month and year Bill would be washed from my conscious thought, he continues to be in my every thought.  I talk to him always, sometimes through a whispered word, the warm gentle smile that lingers on my lips or with the furrowing of my brow when I ask, "Why or what would you have me do?"   He does not answer but he is felt.  I can almost see his twitching moustache or the gentle nodding of his head as he can't believe I did that. Memories brought to life will never be enough.

Two years without Bill.  Two worlds.  I move forward, recovering from the initial shock.  I stand still enveloped by the memories of us.  Despite my desperate attempts to remember, the details of these memories are fading.  When the pain of loss is the greatest I find myself wondering if Bill was really mine.

Two years.  Time stands still and yet moves forward.  For others, my tears continue to be a source of discomfort.  I seek the shelter of our new relationship, in our memories, reminders of being loved.

Today my love, I miss you like the first time I realized that this is until we next meet again.

Sunday, August 5, 2012

New meaning to acceptance ...

Life on the road came to an end last Thursday.  After a long drive filled with lengthy traffic and construction delays, having to pull off to the side of the road due to strong winds, torrential rain and blinding sleet, I was comforted by the familiar blue door welcoming me home.  Home.

There was work to be done before my company arrived the next day but my heart was just not in it.   Both sons helped with the shuffling of furniture to make the guest room ready and then they were gone.  I unpacked a little, wandered through the house, put a few more things away and wandered again.  Opening doors, running my hand over the banister, feeling the floorboards under my feet when I happened to look down and see the painted words on the floor - The Walton's 1989!  It was my undoing.

When we built our home, we hid messages everywhere, making our home a time capsule.   Letters and pictures hidden in door frames, newspapers of the year we built hidden behind the sheetrock and these painted words on the floor hidden under the carpet.  We marked time for the next to see that our little family had been here and how much we loved our home.  In a fit of anger two nights after Bill's funeral, I ripped out the carpet and this message has been a constant reminder of those times.  However, the words shot through my heart on Thursday evening in a new and meaningful way, since that fit of anger.

The Walton's 1989!  Having held back all of my emotions during the trip, the week of the 2nd anniversary of Bill's death, the dam broke.  I managed to find my bed and threw myself down.  I cried out over and over again, "When will this end?"  For a very long time now, I suspect I have known the answer, "never".  The answer veiled by my own denial for I took solace in the fact that there are more okay days than bad, thus believing that I was "getting better".  "Never."  So many emotions wrapped up in such a small word, "never."

I am no longer the same person who walked out of the hospital alone on July 27th, 2010.  My journey with grief has transformed me and continues to fashion me.  I am and always have been a great believer in it is what you do with your life experiences that makes you who you are today.  It is in accepting that this will "never" end that I can accept that it is okay to still feel this pain from time to time knowing that my pain is also changing.  There is that word "acceptance" ... is this what experts mean when they speak of acceptance?

I am changing.  Life has new meaning in the present and it has me carefully choosing how I spend my time and with whom.  Most of the time I delight in my time alone without being lonely and carefully guard this healthy solitary time.  I am learning to be grateful for the time I am afforded to rediscover myself and accept that I am really never alone.  I am only really lonely when I miss Bill the most.

I have wept and accept that I will continue to weep for this beautiful person until the hour of my own death.  I accept that I will never stop searching for him in a crowd or in the middle of the night remembering what I have lost.  More importantly I accept that more dark moments and days will teach me how to be a better person.

I patiently await the day when I have not only re-membered Bill in my head but finally in my heart for I have found renewed spirit in the simple belief that he is never really far away.  I can only imagine the strength I will garner when my pain has sufficiently transformed to unconditionally re-member Bill in my heart.

Wednesday, August 1, 2012

Time teaches ...

"To believe in the things you can see and touch is no belief at all; but to believe in the unseen is a triumph and a blessing." ~ Abraham Lincoln 1809-1865

I've been away from home nearly a week now and this saying has come back to haunt me many times over.  At home, surrounded by the walls we built together, the gardens we planted and the trees we watched grow, the room where we shared our dreams, it is easy to believe in the unseen for I can still see and touch.  In our home, he continues to be with me in some tangible way.

This is the longest I have been away from home since his death.  How many times have I wanted to reach for the phone and call to let him know that I arrived safe, that I am enjoying the presence of my family and that he would have enjoyed the great sights ... but most of all that I miss him and so wished he could have joined me on this trip.

I continue to struggle with believing in the unseen.  This trip is teaching me how; teaching me that I really don't need to call, that he is with me always.