Moths In the Pantry

The moths in the pantry are back. I check the flour, the beans, and the couscous. I check the box of forgotten rice crispies...waiting for the marshmallows and butter. Nothing there.

I check the cereals. Gorilla Munch. No. Koala Krisps. Nothing. Then I see it. The box of Optimum wedged into the corner. It was his cereal. I kept thinking I'd eat it ... but even my desire to be close to him could not make me put milk in my body. I open the box and the months flutter free.

Suddenly I am smashing the moths between my fingers, crushing them between the lining of the bag and box, content on my devastation of them, wanting to get them all. And I stop.

Composure. The kids are up. Besides I would have to clean up the mess. I'm too tired to do that. And then I think of the release of not caring, how wonderful it would be to let it all go.

Later I am reading Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire and hiding my sobs from the kids. Harry has just returned, Voldermort has risen again, and he saw a friend die. And while Harry is recounting the story, I can feel Dumbldore and Sirius's sadness watching as this boy recounts what he saw. And then I think of Cedric's parents and I have to stop reading for a moment. And I suck in my breath in.

I recount my emotions. The terror I felt when I first saw him on Sunday morning, his eye unable to focus, he responding only sometimes to my voice, and not at all to anyone else's. How I thought he was crazy to tell me "I'm OK" when he had a moment of complete clarity, recognized me and the concern and fear I must have been wearing. My surprise seconds later, at his response to "Honey, do you know where you are?" He said "Yes, I'm climbing up, I'm going up." And how later, those words would sit on me and so would the anger at not telling him then and there that I loved him.

The go-ahead-I-can-take-it attitude to the on-call doctor on Sunday night who asked my briskly "What is his code?" "In English please." I had said. "What are his resuscitation orders?" he asked in very plain English. And I said, without hiccupping, as if I were the professional, "Keep him alive till my kids can say good-bye to him."

The next day, when our oncologist came in and said "He is going to die. He will probably go within the week." And the relief I felt. Finally, someone had said "die."

And then watching him go. The way his breathing changed, the way his color changed, the coolness of his hands.

And I can't believe this is my life. And I want to cry, and curl up and just wait for all this to pass. I want to stay in bed and function enough to use the bathroom and occassionally eat. I want this world to go AWAY.

But it won't. There is school to attend, meetings to get to and clients to see. There are trips to be planned, food to be made or accepted. I must function.

Some have said that I am brave. "You have so much courage." And I want to laugh. It's not courage. My back is up against the wall. The only reason I'm standing is because it's supporting me.

Experiencing

Doing things that Michael and I would have enjoyed together was once unthinkable. "If he's not here to enjoy them then I shouldn't" was a philosophy that was stuck in my brain the first months after his passing.

With time though, I realized that that was not doing myself or what Michael had taught me any justice. Little by little I dipped my toes back into the pond of life. With time those toes have become my feet, which led up to my legs, and at times cover my whole being.

Bitersweet they may be at times, but living life, is the one trait that Michael would want me to take from his time here on earth.

This weekend I'm at the Austin City Limits Festival, listening to bands Michael loved, bands he would have loved but never lived to hear, and enjoying life to the fullest. I am his ears, eyes, and life note taker of the things I can't wait to share with him. It is the best job I could ever have.

"I will not fail you, my love. I will continue on the path we shared and I know you will be there to help me, as you always were. And when we meet again at the journey’s end, and we laugh together once more, I will have a thousand things to tell you."
-Unknown

renovated reactions

On the day our daughter, Liv, first started preschool, my husband, Jeff, and I dropped her off together. We helped her off with her coat. We put her shoes on the mat. Then, we stared expectantly at her wondering (possibly hoping) if she would start to cry and demand that we stay. She didn't. In fact, Liv told us with thirteen year old form, "You can go NOW." Jeff and I left feeling excited, rather sad and comforted with the comraderie of parenthood. Both our cellphones sat on the table anticipating an urgent call to come retrieve our distraught daughter while we sat in a coffee shop waiting for her two hours of separation from us to be over.

Our son, Briar, started preschool a few weeks ago. So much has changed in the four years since Liv embarked upon her preschool journey. Jeff is gone. Instead of him, I sat with Liv in a coffee shop while we waited for the two hours to pass. No phone on the table. No nervousness. No dramatic sighs of "He's getting so BIG!" We just enjoyed having a cup of tea and talking.

We had arrived at his 'school' with his snack in his hand, introduced him to the teacher, snapped a picture or two, exchanged hugs and kisses and left. I was gone before the majority of other mothers had finished applying lipstick marks and other ministrations upon their budding schoolers. I didn't join the little group outside daubing their own tears and remarking that they can't believe this day had arrived.

I know that my lack of drama and tears could be misunderstood as 'second child syndrome'. That nothing is so vivid or surprising after the first child has done it. But that was not the reason for my possibly seeming apathetic attitude.

Firstly, for now, I have come to a place where those types of emotions are a frivolous luxury that I am unable to afford anymore. If I start thinking of how Briar has grown, what Jeff and I would do to celebrate this milestone or how life 'could' or 'may' have been, I eventually wind up at a place where I realize that his father will never witness this day and end up rocking and moaning in the parking lot.

Secondly, I have larger fish to fry. I know Briar is safe and will spend my time worrying about how to afford the skating lessons he wants or the dance shoes his sister desires. And I can't and won't allow myself the painful thoughts that we seem to love to taunt ourselves with before a true tragedy has occurred.

I wonder if my little ones are missing out. If they will ever wonder if I care as much as the other mommies. I so do. I love them so intensely. I just don't have as much silly, frothy emotion to spill up anymore. Now when I cry, it is huge sobbing painful jolts. Tangible pain and sorrow.

But my children have also gained a parent who tries to waste as little time possible bemoaning what that we've lost. Instead, she'd prefer to open her eyes to what remains around us and the bit of wonder that is left. Otherwise, there isn't a point to carry out these small yet pivotal moments.

Maybe that's hiding or suppressing. Maybe it's coping. Who knows? I am just doing what seems to fit at this moment.

Expired

I just received a notice from the Fictitious Business Name Renewal Center. Apparently Phil's fictitious business name will expire if he doesn't pay the $125 fee before September 28, 2009. Somehow I don't think the check will arrive in time. Seems this company has no record of Phil's death. The fact that there could be any organization left that I haven't called, faxed, e-mailed, sent a letter, filled out a form, or sent yet another death certificate confirming that my husband is indeed dead, is truly amazing.

In those first few months after Phil's death I lost count of the number of phones calls I made to switch the various services to my name. The phone company required that I shut off my phone service, fill out a new contract, and then reestablish service. I questioned the service rep, through my tears, asking why couldn't someone just switch the service to my name...the address wasn't changing, the phone number wasn't changing, and my name was on the account! Unfortunately, I was told, that is not phone company policy. Changing the phone bill led to the need to alter the cable service, which could only be done if I could be home between the hours of 10 AM and 6 PM on my assigned day. Luckily the electric service was set up in my name, and when the time came to go through the process with the Gas Company, I gave up and decided that the bill could just continue to come to the house in Phil's name. Funny that four years later I still get a jolt every time that particular bill arrives.

When envelopes addressed to Phillip Hernandez show up in the mailbox I take a moment to steel myself before viewing the contents. There have been more than a few emotional bombs delivered by the US Postal Service, and I have learned to be wary when opening Phil's mail. Every once in awhile I even feel a bit guilty...like a peeping tom or an overbearing wife. Then of course the truth smacks me in the head, and I remember that he isn't coming home. And if I don't open his mail, no one will. Another stark fact that has become a part of my every day life.

Mail collection does sometimes bring a smile to my face. Phil loved to put his name in every random drawing possible. You know...win a car, a gym membership, free gas for a year, a new refrigerator...he used to make me crazy as he dutifully filled in our address on each and every postcard. He always used our correct address, but chose a different name for himself each time he entered a drawing. As a result, I am still getting mail for all of the following men: Pepe Hernandez, Wilbur Hernandez, Peter Hernandez, Thornton Hernandez, Giuseppe Hernandez, Wyatt Hernandez, and Booger Hernandez. I would have never guessed that his infuriating habit of freely supplying our address to marketing lists everywhere would someday deliver memories of his big smile right to my mailbox.

This, Too, Shall Pass ....

It's time to be brutally honest and up front with all of you. Proceed with caution.
Before I write this confession, I must also confess that there's no way that I believe I am alone in this. And that is why I decided to write about it.

I have wanted to die.
No shock there, right? We've all felt that desire. But for me, there have been more than just a few times when that desire was all-consuming. One of those times was when the boys and I were on our cruise this past summer.
We had, for the first time, a balcony room, which was nice, but which was also something very, very difficult for me to face every day.
Every day.
It's a dang good thing they had that sign hanging up there ...... since I, as a first-born and mostly a rule-follower, followed that rule.

As you can obviously tell, I have not died. And that all-consuming thought of it has passed (thank God for good meds and good doctors). I still do not mind the idea of dying and I wonder if I ever will again. I have no fear of death, nor of anything really. I have faced the worst and have survived.
So far.
I think I've been mostly shocked that I didn't die of a broken heart. Maybe my children are surprised by that, too.
But again, I'm still here.
In spite of those days when all I wanted was for the world to stop. For peace and quiet and blackness to overtake me. I wasn't looking beyond that .... not to seeing Jim, not to heaven, not to anything except for the pain to stop. I was tired. Heck, I was beyond exhaustion and could not see anything different in the future. I couldn't see a future. I couldn't see beyond the pain of each moment.
Even on a cruise ship.
And I couldn't really talk about it with anyone .... not on the ship anyway. I was supposed to be in the "happiest place on earth" .... not trying to determine how difficult it would be to climb over a railing.

But ..... this, as do many of the thoughts, the pains, the blacknesses ...... passed.
And I confess that I'm glad it has passed. It's certainly not what Jim would have wanted. I wouldn't have wanted that for him had he been the one left behind.
And if it hadn't passed, I would have missed the experience of things going from deep, inky blackness to a lighter shade of grey.
I like grey.
I would've have missed my son's football games, my daughter's college graduation, 6 special birthdays, time with my children.
But most importantly, I would have missed the love, compassion and caring that friends, family and complete strangers have poured out on me.
I would have missed the warmth that those people brought to my heart.
I would have missed the healing that is going on inside of my heart.
And I would have missed the opportunities to say, "Hang in there. I get it. It's hard. But it will pass."

So here's to warmth, and hope and faith and love.
And here's to a future, whatever it may hold.
And to all things passing .... one way or another.

Not Dead Yet

I had another run in with death this week...No, not a friend or family member. This time it was me. How, you might ask?

"Ms. Dippel, we are having a problem verifying your credit for your cable installation.....(uncomfortable pause....) um, Ms. Dippel, uh, has anyone ever told you that you show up as "deceased" on your credit report?"

Yup, that's right. I'm apparently deceased. I wish someone would tell my mortgage company so I could stop making those payments. "Sorry, all debt collectors, Michelle can't take your call. She's deceased. Please leave a message at the tone...beeeeeeep." Honestly, if the guy hadn't been so uncomfortable, and a widower himself, I might have been a bit testy about it. Instead, I was nice as pie to him, and called Michele to vent for a good 20 minutes. What else? Really? The cable guy has to tell me I'm dead? Really? Where the heck is my "get out of jail free" card?

One more bump in the road of life. A minor one really, I mean it could be worse. It could be true! It's not true though, and I'm still here. In the words of a favorite Monty Python character: "I'm not dead yet, I'm feeling much better".

Happy Tuesday! - Michelle D.

Compare and Contrast

Yes, your eyes are working well. I have actually posted a photo of Phil and I (top left) above a photo of me and my boyfriend, Michael (bottom right). Why? While I was interviewing widows several years ago, I spoke to many women who were in new relationships. I asked each of these ladies..."Do you compare your new partner to your former husband?" Without exception they said, "No."

But I couldn't figure out how that could be true. If you were married to someone for 20 years how would it be possible to have no expectations of your new relationship that were based on your previous one? Would kissing another man feel weird or disloyal? Wouldn't going out to dinner at your favorite restaurant be strange if the person across from you was not your husband? What if the new person in your life did something just like your husband would do it? Or scarier, what if he did it the way your husband would never do it? Before I began a new relationship of my own, none of this made sense to me.

So here I am to tell you that I do compare and contrast these two loves in my life. Yep, I notice differences large and small all the time. But my sister widows were right, there is no way to compare your new man to your former husband because they are two unique individuals. And I am a different person in each of these two photographs. Grieving the loss of Phil has fundamentally changed me. The things that bothered woman A, aren't even slightly annoying to woman B. The qualities that woman A looked for in a man are very different from what woman B decided she must find in a partner with whom she would be willing to share her life. You'll notice that we look a lot alike, woman A and woman B, but closer inspection of the eyes will reveal that woman A never met the demon of despair. She didn't struggle to grasp at life when death called. That innocent looking girl on vacation could never anticipate the turn in the road that was just around the corner.

I consider both of these men to be gifts. They are very different people. Phil loved running; Michael wonders why anyone in their right mind would run 26.2 miles. Michael reads a book before bed each evening; Phil would nod off in front of the TV, then wander into our room and fall immediately asleep. Phil told me I was beautiful on special occasions; Michael tells me almost every day. Michael loves cars; Phil loved bicycles. Phil's job included daily physical labor; Michael wears a suit to work. Phil's skin would turn a deep golden brown in the Summer; Michael turns a very deep shade of red. Phil's eyes were a milky brown; Michael's are a vibrant blue. Stand them side by side and you would wonder what they could possbily have in common.

For all their differences they have one striking similarity, they love me. And at the end of the day this one similarity is the only thing that matters.