Silent Sunday

The Ticking Clock

I'm feeling rather in limbo this week; not exactly sure why. It's not like I'm having to make any big life decisions right this moment, but I feel the clock of my life is ticking. I guess it could be that there are some decisions on the horizon that could change things for me. Some I'm excited about, some have me a bit scared, some have yet to be decided.

I returned to work this week, albeit a short work week due to the Memorial Day holiday. It was busy but felt good to stay focused. I'm still enjoying my weekly yoga class. It makes for a very long Wednesday, but it is so worth it. And I stopped by a restaurant to see some friends visiting from Michigan this week. It was really nice to see them all, but did serve as a reminder that I'm alone now.  

And I think that may be part of my issue. Is this ticking clock taking me away from Vern and the life we had together? We were always "Vern & Dianne" ... for 41 years ... I'm not sure I know who Dianne alone is yet. Not sure I want to. Some days, yes - I think I can see me being happy again, taking some classes, doing some things I've not had time to pursue previously. 

"Faith is taking the first step even when you don't see the whole staircase"

Martin Luther King, Jr.

But other days ... oh how I wish he was still here. Truth be told, I wish that every day but I remind myself that he's in a better place - and I do know I will see him again.

Post-It Note Tuesday

~ Stephen Levine ~

Silent Sunday

Pre-Retirement OJT

This has been a pretty good week. I haven't accomplished many of the projects I thought I would, but I've been able to get out of the house a lot and have enjoyed myself. It's proven to me that I can be ok not working ... which I look at as 'on-the-job-training' for when I retire. The clock is ticking.

I got a pretty clean bill of health on Friday. There are a couple of issues they want to follow and I still need to schedule the appointment with the gastro doc to get the colonoscopy biopsy results. But it's nice to know my cholesterol is good (that was really a shock) and I don't need to be on any meds. They did give me a B12 shot, but I'm going to discuss that with my nutritionist on Friday.

I've taken the month of May off from the nutritionist. Too many things happened this month and I got myself into a funk so I decided to hang it up for a month. I went back to all of my bad habits and I'm ready to start eating healthy again. Maybe I can even take 20 pounds off before Camp Widow.

Camp Widow ... the name makes me smile and has made friends laugh when I mention it. No, we're not camping. It's at the Marriott Marquis San Diego Marina in mid-August. There are some fabulous workshops and it will be wonderful to meet some of the widows/widowers I've met online at Widowed Village. And who doesn't love San Diego?

Widowed Village ... if you're a widow reading this and you haven't yet joined WV, I would encourage you to give it a try. I just had a wonderful chat with two of my favorite widows: Tracy in Calgary and Dawn in Australia.  Isn't that fabulous that we can make connections with those who live so far away? We have so much in common and can support one another when we've hit a low spot along the way. It's a lifeline and I'm very grateful I found that wonderful place.

The Journey by Mary Oliver

One day you finally knew

what you had to do, and began,

though the voices around you

kept shouting

their bad advice--

though the whole house

began to tremble

and you felt the old tug

at your ankles.

"Mend my life!"

each voice cried.

But you didn't stop.

You knew what you had to do,

though the wind pried

with its stiff fingers

at the very foundations,

though their melancholy

was terrible.

It was already late

enough, and a wild night,

and the road full of fallen

branches and stones.

But little by little,

as you left their voices behind,

the stars began to burn

through the sheets of clouds,

and there was a new voice

which you slowly

recognized as your own,

that kept you company

as you strode deeper and deeper

into the world,

determined to do

the only thing you could do--

determined to save

the only life you could save.

Post-It Note Tuesday

An 8 Month Update

Gosh, I didn't realize I hadn't posted anything but pictures here in over a week. Guess that makes a statement about how things have been for me. Lots of varied emotions at play, but I feel like I've risen through those dark clouds now.

I celebrated a birthday along the way ... the big 60.  I was actually looking forward to this one because of the retirement options turning 60 brings to me. I'm getting comfortable with the idea. Kind of looking at February 2012 as a possible date but, of course, things can change. Who knows what could happen? I haven't signed any official papers yet; I'll know when it's right (but it is quite nice to have the option available now). 

My sweet friend, Luci, sent me a lovely flower arrangement on Tuesday. I must admit that when I picked it up and opened the card, there was a split second I thought the card might say "I love you. Vern" since he always sent me flowers on my birthday. Luci wasn't happy with the way the arrangement looked, so I got a second bouquet delivered to the house on Wednesday. And then on Saturday, yet another!  Wow! Each one was better, but none of them looked like the photo on the website.  Makes me wonder what some of the flowers I've sent have actually looked like when delivered.

I had the follow-up spot mammogram, ultrasound and chest CTscan done. Had originally planned to pick up the report the following week, but the news about my co-worker made me feel that wasn't really important so I didn't bother with it.  Had my first colonoscopy last Friday; wasn't really as bad as I expected. So I'm figuring 'no news is good news' and will be meeting with the P.A. on Friday for the results of all the tests run.  I'm happy I followed through on finally having a physical; guess I really shouldn't wait another 7-8 years before I return to a doctor, huh?



Vern's butterfly returned!

 I attended the Nathan Adelson Hospice's Butterfly Release on the 15th. It was super windy, so I decided to bring Vern's butterfly home with me so I could release it in Vern's rose garden (that's the photo I posted here on May 15). He didn't want to take off immediately, but soon flew off high into the sky. Imagine my surprise when I came outside 2 hours later and found the butterfly floating around the front porch!  I ran inside to get my camera and he waited around for me to snap some more photos. It was a really special moment ... kind of like my sparkles ... that made me feel Vern's presence.

I've taken this week off work to get some things done around the house but my social schedule may have an impact on what I actually accomplish. I had a wonderful breakfast with my friend, Linda, on Saturday and a birthday lunch with friends, Joe & Luanne, today. Having lunch with my friend, Deb, on Wednesday to celebrate both of our birthdays and getting my hair cut and colored on Thursday. I'm happy that I'm feeling up to doing these things, so I'm not going to worry about it. These boxes will still be here whenever I get around to them.

Sunday marked 8 months since Vern went to Heaven. Time takes on a new dimension for widows. There are times when it feels like it just happened and those memories come flooding back. Yet other times it feels like forever since I held him in my arms. I think I'm making some progress, but it's still up & down with my emotions. And that's ok.  I've been doing the Silent Sunday photo posts and chose that picture because it always spoke to me. Vern loved his recliner and whenever I found him napping he'd have his hands clasped like that, like he was in prayer. And then, of course, his tv remote is right there next to his heart. That's a little private joke between us.

Separation is an illusion. Though your loved ones are not physically with you, they are with you spiritually and energetically. They live in you and through you. They are ever with you, as close as  your breath. When you are overwhelmed with missing their 'form', remember that their essence is woven into the fabric of you, now and forever. Transcending Loss: Understanding the lifelong impact of grief 

Silent Sunday

Post-It Note Tuesday

Silent Sunday



May I use a Widow's Card please?

This has been an emotionally difficult week. I've struggled to keep the tears at bay and have been consumed by an overwhelming sadness. I've felt so very alone, forgotten, left behind and I've had to acknowledge some emotions I'm not very proud of.  Perhaps I need to use a widow card.

I learned last Saturday night that a 49-year-old coworker had suffered a massive stroke. Joyce was in fabulous shape, ate healthy, looked wonderful, was so full of life, planning to retire early in January ... how could this happen? The damage was so severe she was moved to hospice - the same hospice Vern was in - and she passed yesterday. All of the emotions from those 9 days last September when Vern was hospitalized and then moved to hospice came rushing back to me. Everything. The good. The bad. The hurts.

The shock of this tragedy has had a major impact at work. Walking past Joyce's empty desk each day this week was hard. I've prayed for her, for her husband, her boys, her mom, her best friend and family. I know how hard it is to make the decision to move to hospice, even when there really is no other choice. I know how difficult those days in hospice can be for loved ones. And I know how very lonely it can be. But the outpouring of support for Joyce's family has been just amazing. Crowds of family, friends, coworkers have visited and posted on her Facebook page.

And that's where my embarrassing feelings come to play because this has reminded me of how very, very different my experience was. Only a handful of people came by to support me during those final days in hospice; and it was rare to have visitors during all of those hospital stays. We have no family here. What did we do to cause this? Did we send out some kind of signal that said 'stay away'? Is it me? Have I pushed people away? I thought I had put those hurt feelings away, but apparently they’re still hanging around very close to the surface. People seem to have completely forgotten that I lost Vern just 7-1/2 months ago in the very same hospice. The comments and questions I’ve heard this week have been difficult to hear. And when I’ve dared to share my true feelings I’ve felt just horrible guilt. How dare I bring this tragic situation around to me and my feelings?  How. dare. I.

If I could have, I would have signed retirement papers this week, walked right out the door immediately afterward, and headed off somewhere. Close down my FB page, leave my old life behind and go someplace where I know no one and these feelings would not come to play. But, of course, I couldn’t do that. There’s so much to take care of here first. I haven’t even cleared out his clothes yet; haven’t figured out what to do about his car or the wheelchair van; still have hospital-related things stacked up in the corner of the bedroom; messes everywhere that must be dealt with before I can even think of escaping. And then there's the paperwork. And the IRS. Yes, I'll be here awhile.

I know I promised to post my blog entries on Facebook, but I cannot do that with this one. I find it healing to write my true feelings out here. Once I put them in writing, it somehow takes away their sting. But I don’t want anyone to feel they have to DO anything, to feel badly about any of this, to think I’m asking for anything. It is what it is. It happened, it’s over, time to move on. If I don’t link it to FB, I won’t have to deal with any fallout. Coworkers and family have never posted here on the blog; a few post on FB when I've provided the link. My fellow widows and online friends are the only ones who post here, so this is safe. I expect that you will understand these feelings. So this post is just for me. It’s how I’ve felt this week and now that it’s in black & white I can shove these feelings once again back into my secret hiding place while I plan my escape.



Memories of what might have been

I could take this blog post title in a couple of directions. What I planned to write about today was May 7, 2006 ... but as I wrote that title it brought to mind how different things would be right now if Vern were still alive.  Let me go there first.

I will turn 60 this month. It's a milestone I was looking forward to, as it would have allowed me to retire from my job after 25 years and be with Vern 24/7. We had talked about it, had made some plans, were hoping that he'd feel well enough to do a little traveling - but, if not, then we'd just enjoy spending time together talking, reminiscing, maybe take some day trips, watching all those sports programs .... (ah, what we do for love). But now he's gone. My first thought was to just keep working. Why not? It fills my days, provides me with an excellent salary so I can afford to do things I might want to do, gives me plenty of days off (I do love the 4/10 work schedule that gives me 3-day weekends), and most days I really do feel I make a difference there. But my thoughts have been changing lately. If I was going to retire for Vern, why am I so quick to dismiss retiring for me? So I'm starting to get comfortable with the idea of retiring. I'm playing around with a date in my head. I promised myself when Vern died that I wouldn't make any really big changes during the first year. So I'll wait just a bit to make my final decision, but I'm beginning to like thinking about all the things I could do.

So now there are the memories of what might have been back on May 7, 2006. Well I nearly became a widow that day ... guess I actually was for a short time; but I didn't think about that fact back then. Vern had had his initial surgery 2 days before to remove what they could of that spinal tumor and repair his vertebral compression fracture. They put a titanium cage around his spine to stabilize it (oh - fast forward to the summer of 2009 when we learned that a screw in that cage had apparently moved and knicked his abdominal aorta, causing a leak which caused a pseudoaneurysm and endovascular surgery to repair it). But I digress ....  He was doing very well the day after surgery and we were hopeful that he'd be able to walk again and that chemo and radiation would push the cancer back. When I arrived back at the hospital the morning of May 7, I learned he had been moved to MICU - a good sign - but I had to wait for a few hours before they would let me in (they were very strict about the 11am entry time here).  I can still remember walking into Vern's room. His color was gray, he said he felt bad. I went out to the nurse's station and, of course, only one nurse was there. I was told Vern's nurse was on a break (!) but I proceeded to tell this nurse how Vern was feeling. Her response was that he just needed to have a BM (can you believe that?!); I asked that she send Vern's nurse in when she returned.  I went back into Vern's room to try to calm him, to massage his feet, to hold him - but he continued to complain of how badly he was feeling and even said "something is wrong". I went back out to the nurse and told her she had to come in to see him. She grunted and said she'd be in. When I returned to Vern's bedside, I went to the opposite side of the bed so the nurse would have first access to him. That's when I saw the bag from the chest tube was full of bright red blood. I ran out of the room screaming for the nurse and miraculously there were finally others on the floor. Chaos ensued. The vascular surgeon who had been in on the first surgery was there in moments. Four units of blood were administered stat as they prepped him and got the OR ready. It was like a TV show. I squeezed myself to the head of the bed so I would be out of the way but still able to touch Vern, so he would know I was there. And then they were off. 

I waited in the OR waiting room. A couple of hours later the surgeon appeared. He sat down next to me and touched my arm. Time stopped. He said that Vern had survived, but he nearly lost him. His heart stopped. He went into cardiac arrest and kidney failure. They had to use the paddles. And then he said he had to use his hands to massage Vern's heart back to life. I couldn't breathe... but then he said "I don't know how this happened, but he was given 4 units of the wrong type blood." What?!  He has a blood cancer! Are you kidding me?  But I said nothing for a few moments. I then asked if that would have an impact on his treatment. Dr. C said he was concerned about that and had consulted with several oncologists who all felt it would not. OK, I could breathe again.  I had to wait a long time before I could see him. He was on a ventilator and heavily sedated. The anesthesiologist came by. He told me it was miracle he was alive. Yes, a miracle ... a miracle that gave us another 4-1/2 years together.

I'm not sure why these memories are flooding back to me now. But I felt I had to write this out. Perhaps it's a way to finally put them to bed once and for all. Vern suffered so much, but through it all his spirit was strong. We were one in this battle. He had to endure the physical pain, but I was there to take away as much of the emotional pain as I possibly could. They were difficult times, but oh the joy was there, too. The realization that our love was strong enough to endure this, to fight this battle, to move past the mistakes and the medical personnel who should have chosen a different profession. Faith - Hope - Love ... and the greatest of these is LOVE.

5 years ago ...

May 4, 2006 ... that was the day we first heard the word CANCER uttered. Vern had been having increasingly severe back pain for several months. He went to a chiropractor, was prescribed some pain meds, went to physical therapy - but it kept getting worse. He eventually got to the point he was having trouble walking and they did an MRI. I can still remember the phone call from Dr. J that evening ... "Hey man, you've got a tumor on your spine. I want you to see a friend of mine at 7:30 tomorrow morning."  We met with Dr. B who showed us the scans with the mass in the spinal nerve column. He said the tumor was metasticized from another cancer somewhere else in his body and he needed to be immediately admitted to the hospital for more extensive tests. They thought he probably had prostate or colon cancer and were not at all positive about his prognosis.  We were in shock, so we drove to a quiet neighborhood and parked the car to talk, pray, shed some tears and build up our resolve to fight this thing before checking into the hospital.

The next afternoon Vern had surgery to remove the tumor and repair the compressed T-11 vertebrae - and I was told he had Multiple Myeloma ... a blood cancer that attacks the bone marrow. The next 4-1/2 years brought so very many issues, many hospitalizations and multiple crises (a bleed out after surgery with 4 units of the wrong blood being given, rehab to regain his ability to walk, GI bleed, pneumonia, pulmonary embolism, pleural effusion, chemotherapy, radiation, dehydration, c-diff, stage 4 pressure ulcer, colostomy, TPN, infections, malnutrition, kidney failure, dialysis, abdominal aortic pseudoaneurysm, endovascular repair, multiple blood transfusions).  Vern was so very brave and I was proud to be by his side the whole way. We were one ... and together we were greater than the sum of our parts.

I haven't spent a lot of time remembering that eventful day, but on this 5 year anniversary my thoughts have returned there. It was a tough battle - very tough - but it also brought us much joy as we grew even closer.

So where do I go from here?

"Begin doing what you want to do now. We are not living in eternity. We have only this moment, sparkling like a star in our hand - and melting like a snowflake."  Marie Beyon Ray

I know Vern would want me to move forward. I can take steps forward, but there continue to be steps backward, too.  And I think that's ok, it's normal, there is no timeline for grieving. It will take as long as it takes (a line used by my bereavement buddy, John). So very true.

Silent Sunday

My roller coaster emotions

I had a quiet Easter weekend ... Friday was the 7 month mark.  It often feels like everyone has just forgotten that Vern ever existed.  I know that's probably not true, but since I hear from no one it sure feels that way.  So I wrapped myself up in my sorrows and just let the weight of it all consume me.  Just have to do that sometimes. Monday it was back to a busy work week and I figured all would be well there, as usual. Time for my 'happy face'.

Haven't been to a doctor since we got Vern's cancer diagnosis (well, actually I can't use that as an excuse since it's really been more like 7 years since my last visit).  So I decided it was time to have a full physical so I'd know what I need to address before I head off into retirement. I've had the pap, a chest xray, the labs and mammogram; will have my first colonoscopy on May 20 and then a final visit for all of the results on May 27.  Had to meet with the gastro doc before he'd schedule the colonoscopy. I don't have any big issues, so he said I was his easiest appointment that day... although his next words were "You know you need to lose weight." Umm - ok, yes, I do - but I didn't expect this chubby little gastro doc to tell me that (oh dear, that was a rather snarky comment, wasn't it?). I actually found myself chuckling about his comment on my way back to work. I'm glad I'll be under anesthesia when he sees the rest of me during the colonoscopy!  Actually, I had already started trying to lose some weight. Went back to the nutritionist who helped me lose 35 pounds back in 2003. Lost 7.5 the first week, 2.5 the second and 1.5 the third ... but the news in the next paragraph caused me to jump back into some of my bad habits.

I had just gotten back to the office when my cell phone rang. It was the doctor's office that is doing the physical. They see something in the mammogram and want to do an ultrasound and a spot mammogram ... and they also see something in the chest xray and need to do a CTscan.  Ohhh ... really didn't expect to hear that.  This news brought back memories of when Vern would receive bad news and I was there to support and encourage him. But he's not here for me now.  I know that this could be absolutely nothing and they just need to do these tests to rule everything out. But after all we've been through I immediately started thinking of the worse case scenario.  And I'll admit I was rather angry. After all I've experienced during the past 5 years I really thought I had earned a free pass from any of this stuff.  The nurse said they had given the order to Steinberg and requested a quick approval from my insurance company. Now I had to wait for the call to schedule the tests.

I initially felt I would just keep this to myself until I got the test results, but since I couldn't seem to get this out of my head I went ahead and posted something on the widow's web site I'm heavily involved in. Only a couple responded. Ouch. I then mentioned this during my online bereavement support group on Thursday ... very little support there. It hurt. This caused me to do some heavy introspection.  I spend a lot of time online, trying to provide support to others who are grieving. I felt I was making a difference and yet when I needed support it wasn't there. Perhaps I need to back away for awhile.

And then came Friday and today when my friend, Deb, and I attended the Women of Faith conference at the Thomas & Mack Center. What a wonderful, healing gift that was. Laughter, tears, praise, wonderful inspirational speakers, glorious music. It brought me back to reality. The tests will be done on Thursday and worrying about them between now and then will not change a thing. I will wait for the results and then either rejoice or ask God for help in dealing with whatever comes my way.

Note:  During my quiet Easter weekend I spent a lot of time on the internet.  Found the Silent Sunday link and liked the idea, so you'll see a photo each Sunday without any comments. We're supposed to pick a photo that represents our previous week, if possible. Last week's was a bouquet from Vern's rose garden for Easter that I set alongside the wooden box containing his ashes.

Silent Sunday

Tough day

No phone calls requested, no visits wanted ... not asking for any 'interventions'. Please no sympathy. It is what it is. I just need to actually type this out so I can leave it here and try to move on.

Today is 7 months. Leading up to it this week, I thought I'd be able to handle it quite well. Had plans to get outside to clean up Vern's rosebed, do a little shopping for the first time (besides groceries), get some organizing done here at home. Instead, I got very little sleep last night, have spent all morning on the computer and I'm in tears. I need to leave here in 30 minutes for a mammogram, so must get myself back on top of things. I must. No one wants to deal with a crying widow. Actually, no one cares.

Had a really horrible incident with Jeremy last night. My hopes and dreams of him turning a corner have been dashed. I was a real mess last night. Sobs of despair, loss, having to do this on my own. I did think I was a little better this morning. Jumped into my Widowed Village chat room for a pick-me-up but no one was there. I typed to myself a bit - got this out there - and later a couple people came into the room. I went into my 'supportive, earth mother' role (that's what my widower friend John calls me). I put my issues on the back burner and tried to support others. It was working. I was feeling better. And then I shared my issue with my son. Suddenly, both chatters were busy and had to leave the room. Ouch. Now I do realize that their leaving probably had absolutely nothing to do with me. Really, I do. But when you're emotions are raw you just react to things differently. So after yet another good cry and feeling sorry for myself, I decided to just write this. I won't be posting it on Facebook or WV. It's for me. I can be selfish sometimes. I deserve to be.

You're stronger than you seem ...

"You're braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think. But the most important thing is, even if we're apart ... I'll always be with you." 

Christopher Robin to Winnie the Pooh

A friend from Widowed Village posted this clip on her blog today and it really struck a chord with me. It's been a very long time since I read Winnie the Pooh, but I can hear me in Pooh's questions and Vern replying as Christopher did.

I've often resented it when people told me how strong I was. I sure didn't feel strong during Vern's cancer battle. I just did whatever I had to do to make sure he got the care he needed and knew how very much he was loved. And I don't feel strong now either. I'm just doing what I have to do to honor Vern's memory.  This little video clip helped me a lot and I will keep that quote close to my heart.

 "I'll always be with you."  Yes ... he will be ... he is.

Alone

Being alone is hard ... being alone after spending 41 years with the love of my life is nearly impossible.  The aloneness is consuming. He's not here. He won't ever be here again.  I  miss Vern. I will always miss him. It's not a matter of accepting invitations from friends to do things with them or just getting myself out of the house for a ride or shopping or whatever. Those are things that take up time. They are distractions. They don't do anything to take away my aloneness, my sadness. It's here waiting for me. Always.

It's been a rough week or so. I've felt consumed by this overpowering sadness. Nothing in particular brought it on. It just arrived. On its own. And it won't leave.

I'm able to tuck it under cover during my work hours. Mostly. A few do see through my facade. Very few. But since I can do that, I know I'm not in some deep depression that needs to be addressed. I just need to absorb it, learn how I can live with it, how I can move forward without him.

I will. I know I will. Because that's what he would expect me to do. I was always able to do the things he thought I could do - even when I didn't think I had it in me. So I'll get past this. I will. For Vern.

Six months

I was checking emails this morning when the tears started. Of all things, it was one of those local ads where you can get something at a greatly discounted price on that day only. What were they advertising?  It was an old-fashioned straight razor shave with the hot towel and all.  This was something Vern had wanted to try and I never got him over there.  Regrets ... oh boy, what a tear trigger.  In the midst of this meltdown I realized that today was the 22nd.  Six months ...

The tears continued on the drive into work. Seemed like every song that came on the radio had a memory attached to it.  Why didn't I just take the day off? But I knew that wouldn't have solved anything. I don't do well on those 'days off' days.  So I wiped away the tears in the parking lot and headed into the office. 

As I mentioned in a previous post, a friend had suggested that I think of the 22nd of each month as a Memory Day by pulling out an old photo of when we were young and healthy. So that's what I did before heading off to work (and that's the photo above). This photo was taken at Vern's parent's home during the summer of 1969. We drove to Sandusky, Ohio to tell them we were engaged and I can remember how very nervous I was. All seemed to go quite well during the visit, but as we headed out to the car to leave Vern's mom shared her true feelings. "She's so young." "This is so quick." "Why don't you wait awhile?"  I remember fighting back tears as Vern assured his mom that we loved each other, we didn't want to wait, we wouldn't wait. And his dad actually spoke up to support us.  A really nice memory that did help me throughout the day. 

It's Nevada Reading Week and I had volunteered to read a book to a first-grade class this afternoon. The way I felt this morning, I was wishing I hadn't agreed to do this - but it ended up being a feel-good moment. I enjoyed reading to the youngsters and especially enjoyed the hugs I received. It was a really special time.

I received some wonderful Facebook posts today - and a very special email from a friend I met a few years ago on NPR's "My Cancer".  Michael said exactly what I needed to hear today.  

I did an anonymous 'random act of kindness' at work today that made me feel very good and I had my yoga class tonight.  So there were some high points in this day after all.

I guess that's what healing is all about.  Let the tears flow when they need to and yet enjoy those unexpected special moments that come along throughout the day.

I did just that over the weekend when I went to the Run Away with the Cirque du Soleil at the Springs Preserve. It was cold and very windy, but what a fun time I had with those Cirque characters.

Time ...

Vern was finally able to get back into his Mustang - May 2010

Some feel I had it better because I had a long time to prepare for Vern’s death due to his long cancer battle. Oh, but they would be so wrong.  There is no “better” … no matter how you become a widow, it is a horrid, very personal thing. I read the many stories of loss on Widowed Village and it breaks my heart. Some were widowed so very young and sudden, some young with cancer, little children left behind, long and horrible illnesses, long and loving marriages ended by cancer – all so different and yet the same.  It is impossible to compare one person’s loss to another.

Time … there was just never enough of it

Yes we had 4-1/2 years after cancer entered our lives, but there was no time for any real preparation for what was to come. It took everything I had in me to just keep my head above water … the caregiving was hard, he had so very many critical issues, sleep was rare, bills went unpaid, the house became cluttered, I gained a lot of stress weight, emotions were raw, I struggled to keep up at work.  And when times were better – like in the picture above – we really had no inkling that time was so very short. He would be gone just 4 months later.

Time … something we all take for granted

I suppose I did grieve during that time for what we had lost – Vern’s mobility was taken away and never fully returned, his pride was damaged because of the things he could no longer do, feelings were hurt when friends disappeared, trips we had planned to take were never to be – but was I spending time preparing for his eventual death … NO!  I had HOPE right up to that final day in the hospital – September 17, 2010.  Hope that one more treatment, another adjustment to dialysis, new doctors, more physical therapy … something would give us more time.

Time … I knew it was short

And then he was transferred to hospice.  But those who think I spent those 4-1/2 days asking him questions about mundane things are wrong.  It never occurred to me to ask if he remembered where I had put the safety deposit key or any other post-death obligations I might have to deal with. Those few days were all about love, plain and simple.  He wasn’t able to speak much, so the words he did speak were very precious.  I talked to him or held his hand constantly – I didn’t want him to have a moment where he felt alone … it was about precious memories, reminding him of the wonderful life we had shared, reassuring him of my love and that we would be together again someday. 

Time … nothing but time now

So where do I go from here?  I honestly don't know. I'm trying some things at my own pace. Trying to figure out what my future might hold. But this is hard, really hard. And it's easy to feel guilty about it. Why should I go on when Vern wasn't allowed to? How can I possibly be happy? Is it a betrayal for me to do things I enjoy? Who am I?  So many questions ... but now there's way too much time to try to figure them out.

You look younger ....

A friend at work told me this week that I looked “10 years younger now that you aren’t caring for Vern“. The comment initially shocked me, and I started to respond in a negative way … but then I realized that she truly didn’t mean it to hurt. She knows how tough the past 4+ years were for me, and she was saying this because she was pleased to see me looking better, healing, moving forward. It was important that I just accept her compliment as it was intended and let it go.

Yes, I’m doing really well at work. I’m able to concentrate, to work hard, accomplish things, take on new projects, to talk and joke and laugh with co-workers. Hey - Dianne is back!

Well, THAT Dianne is back, the work Dianne … but the other Dianne - Vern’s wife, ummm, I guess I need to say widow - still has a ways to go.

I need to figure out who I am now, who I want to be, what I want to spend my time on - but I just don’t feel like putting a lot of effort into that just yet. I miss Vern and the life we had before cancer. And I even miss the life we had with cancer. I still need to wrap myself up in those memories awhile before I’m ready to try moving on to the next chapter.

This morning’s walk was the only time I got out this weekend. Shame on me for not enjoying the beautiful weather we had here. I feel good during the work week and that’s the only progress I need right now. The other things will come when I’m ready. I’ll say ‘yes’ to some things and ‘no’ to others and just let things happen as they feel right.

• I did the Pancreatic Cancer 5K Walk this morning and it felt good. I so enjoyed seeing my special friend all dolled up in her snazzy purple wig. What a beautiful soul she is.
• I’m doing the Cirque du Soleil 5K Walk at the Springs Preserve next Saturday. Should get some fun pictures at that.
• I’ve signed up for Camp Widow in San Diego this August. I debated about it for quite awhile, worrying that it’s going to be too much of a social event for me … that I’m too old to fit in with the other widows attending. But when chatting with a friend about it he just kept saying, “Dianne, you need to do it” to every negative thing I threw out there. And he reminded me that if the social part of the weekend doesn’t feel right, I don’t need to participate in that. Besides, I always have the option to just enjoy the beautiful city of San Diego. So I’ve registered, purchased my plane ticket and booked my hotel room.

How easy it is for those of us grieving to look like everything is just fine on the outside, while keeping our true selves hidden away. It’s like I’m two different people - but I really do think that’s ok for right now. This feels like the right way for me to do this so I’ll just keep plugging along. There’s always next week.

Healing Memories

I wrote yesterday about the influence basketball has had on our life. It was nice to recall those special memories, as I've been stuck in only being able to focus on the long, hard cancer battle. 
Remembering all that happened during those very tough 4-1/2 years causes me to second-guess the decisions we made along the way - the should haves/could haves of the chemo and radiation treatments, kidney failure/dialysis, the doctors involved, the many infections, the unexpected challenges, the pain he endured.  I recognize that I can't change what happened or any of the decisions we made, and it serves no purpose to spend time dwelling on this. We did the best we could at the time and I'm proud that I was right there beside him through it all.

Perhaps recalling some of the wonderful times of our life together is a sign of progress in my grief journey ... or perhaps it's a result of the time I spent on Friday remembering Vern's time in hospice. A dear friend asked if I might be willing to share Vern's final days as she contemplates her cancer journey. I didn't share everything in our CaringBridge journal, but I was easily able to share those important details with my friend. The memories brought tears, but some much-needed healing for me.

The moment we were faced with the move to hospice, I felt divinely guided every step of the way. Our time there was very spiritual and I have not one regret from those final 4-1/2 days spent with Vern. He left this world with no pain, no fear and no doubt of where he was going, knowing how very much he was loved.

Sharing Vern's final days started out as a gift for my friend, but ended up being a very, very special gift to myself.

March Madness



Vern's return to the T&M in March 2007

 Basketball was a big part of our life right from the very beginning. Vern was a high school basketball coach when we married in 1969 and he coached all of the years we lived in Michigan.  I kept stats for him, even bringing Jeremy to the games in his car seat where he would sleep in the midst of all the cheers.  When we moved to Nevada in 1982, he coached the first year at a tiny school about an hour outside of Las Vegas. It presented some major challenges, with road trips to comparable-sized schools taking many hours each way. I think we figured out he made less than 5 cents an hour coaching that year.  He was able to transfer to a school in town the next year and he gave up coaching to work at the new Thomas & Mack Center at UNLV evenings and weekends. Basketball remained an important part of our lives, as we followed our Runnin' Rebels to the NCAA championship in 1990. Such fun times and some great memories.

Vern's favorite sports were college football and college basketball, but there weren't many sporting events shown on tv that he didn't watch. I got used to the tv being on constantly and during the cancer battle I spent a lot of time watching sports with him. He enjoyed it and it gave us some nice times together. I wanted to get him back to Columbus so he could see his beloved Buckeyes play in The Horseshoe, but he just wasn't strong enough for that long plane ride. Instead, we were able to see Ohio State play USC in the Coliseum in September 2008. It was a real struggle getting him into that old stadium and maneuvering the many stairs, but he was so excited to be there. Well, that was before the game started.  Yes, we were there for that big blowout 35-3 loss.

Since Vern passed I haven't watched any sports on tv. I'm comfortable with the quiet. But now that it's 'March Madness' time I'm thinking I may need to watch some games. If it's allowed up in Heaven, I know Vern will be watching along with me!