The death march part 4: signs

Angel Danbo by the immensely talented and all-round nice guy Aaron Aldrich

Here I am in the final week of the death march.  March 1 is racing towards me like a freight train. 
To be honest, it can't come soon enough so I can put it behind me and then maybe my subconscious won't feel the need to see 2am come in each day.

But 2am has seen me think about all the signs I have received .... some of them, even before March 1, 2010.  I am not going to list them here, but I will say that there have been so many, many specific instances of contact that I can not ignore them.
...and on talking to others, it seems I am not the only one who knows, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that they are here with us.

As many of you know, before I was a teacher, I was a scientist.
I have a PhD and a string of other qualifications. 
I am trained to be skeptical of anything that can't be backed up with hard data.
 ..... but at the same time, I am trained to entertain novel ideas and I am trained to understand that just because something can't be measured with current technology, it doesn't mean it isn't happening. 
But then again, I have always had a Bayesian weight-of-evidence view of science over and empirical one.

....and for me, for my own personal beliefs, the weight of evidence is overwhelming.  It may not be overwhelming enough to withstand peer review and publication, but then I don't really care how others view the eternal .

So as I sit here, writing the last of the death march posts, I remind myself of my own, hard-won knowledge that he never left me and is part of my life everday.

Immunity, or lack thereof

 

source

I'm now in my death-march. 

February 22nd was the 2nd anniversary of the surgery that resulted in the complications that lead to Ian's death, and for me is the start of my 'bad period' in the year of some 4 months.

And yet again, I am sick.

My general immunity has been, quite frankly, crap since Ian got sick.  Anything that gets within striking range seems to take up residence in my system.  And since I have a child in childcare, I get exposed to just about everything going through town.

It took a really nasty dose of sinusitis and bronchitis hitting at the six month mark to realise the correlation between dates and illness. Strangely, my illnesses weren't hitting on the death date being the 14th of the month, but the 4th, our wedding anniversary. 

Sinus infections were/are my main signal. I went down with them again, and again and again.  Anything minor, even a simple cold, would convert.  Heck, a stubbed toe would seemingly convert to a sinus infection!   I have taken so many antibiotics in the last two years, I have developed a reaction to penicillin.

In the last year I've managed to knock back the frequency and severity of the infections with a combination of acupuncture and sinus surgery.  Within 24 hours of the surgery I felt physically well for the first time since Ian got sick, and have ticked along quite nicely since it was done in September. 

But with the death march, I've got one back. And am feeling more than a little blah physically. 

Emotionally, I feel all right. But I'm probably not since the physical's telling me otherwise. 

The death march part 3: birthday week

  Zen garden by the immensely talented and all-round nice guy, Aaron Aldrich.

So - only one more week (and a few days) until March 1.
Only three more days until his birthday.

Still the nightmares about the accident.  

Still that vivid mental image of how his arm looked in his work shirt contrasted with the smashed watch and phone that were given back to me.

Still the crying at odd times.

Still stressed about work....

... but

still .... Fine. 
 
I know I am teetering on the edge of "fine"  and "f#cked-up" though.

I know it won't take much to make me lose my balance and go tumbling down the rabbit hole.

I am hoping that there isn't that One Single Straw that floats onto my back to break me into small pieces.


But so far ......

Still fine.

Just.

The Death March Part 2

 Starstruck by the immensely talented and all-round nice guy, Aaron Aldrich.

So I am still feeling mostly .... fine.

A few extra tears have crept in though.  Not those snot drenched sobs that come from my guts and leave me heaving and shaking, but the silent, delicate raindrops that leak from the corner of my eye as I remember all he was and all I have lost.

I seem to dwell more on the mechanics of how he died at this time of year.

It still kills me that I kissed him goodbye at 7am, just like I did every single day ..... and never saw him again.
Ever.

It still kills me inside to know that there was nobody there but his workmate (who died shortly afterwards) as his life and consciousness drained away with all that blood.

It still kills me that I didn't insist on spending time alone with his body before the funeral.
He was so badly hurt that everyone from the policemen who attended the scene to the mortuary assistant were all adamant that I could NOT see him.  At all.  Not even his hand.

It kills me that I had to tell my very small children that their beloved Daddy had died.  I can still remember them looking at me like I must have been playing some sort of mean trick.

It still kills me that instead of feeling the love that I know was being poured on me, I felt hundreds of pairs of eyes boring into my skull as I entered the church at his funeral.

It kills me that I never looked up from the carpet to see the packed church and all the people who loved him.  I saw only my children, my family, my best friends, the ministers (there were three of them) and the screen that failed to capture his essence in pictures.

But despite all my regrets, he remains dead.
I don't get a do-over, nor do I want one.

....and that's where I am in this part of the death march.....

The death march

 (Danbo photo - source unknown)

Well here I find myself in February again - his birthday coming up and then March 1 looms large at the end of this month.
But....
This year, so far, I am feeling ..... fine.

I don't expect that this will last the whole month.
It could just take one single let-down or piece of bad news and I am bound to lose it.
But so far ...... fine.

Fine.

Just the letters in this word seemed so foreign to me just 1 year ago.  ....and almost 4 years ago, I couldn't even imagine that I would me sitting here, feeling .... fine.

I will keep you posted as we travel through this month ..... but as of right now?


Not exactly good.
Not exactly bad.
Not exactly desperate.
Not exactly OK.
Not exactly happy.
Not exactly miserable.

but....
Fine.

Happy Unbirthday

Not our picnic, but one nearby.

Last  Saturday, we had a picnic for Greg's Should Have Been 50th birthday.

In a miracle of the Climate Gods, the weather was perfect even though it had rained solidly for the weeks beforehand and every day since (and up to 150mm / 6 inches last night alone).

I am glad we did it.

I'd forgotten who I'd invited, so as more and more people turned up, I was genuinely surprised and glad to see them.  Old friends and workmates gathered and remembered in just the sort of relaxed chat-fest that was Greg's style.

I saw some people who came to the funeral and then disappeared so I'm hoping that this has reset their minds so they know they can talk to me. 

The kids had a great time and I enjoyed seeing everyone.

But by the next day I was a wreck....

...and then today I walked downstairs to find my garage and store room sitting in 2 inches of (thankfully clean) water.

and I broke.

I feel like I'm 100 years old, everything is heavy, I am so tired, the kids are moody and I don't feel like doing anything.
...except I have had to throw away waterlogged things and try to move things out of the water.

I want to sleep for a week.

Yep - death week is here :(

... but I know it will pass and while I don't expect things to be "good", I know they will be OK again.

The death march

5 First bars of Beethovens Funeral March (Sonata 12) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

..... is here.
Its now February - less than a month until the 1st of March. 
The last few weeks of year 3 are here before we tick of the 3rd Sadiversary and enter year 4 of this madness.

My internal monologue is stuck on repeat: "He's dead.  Can you believe he is dead?  This makes no sense.  How could GREG be dead?  He is so alive.  So young and fit and healthy.  So adventurous.  So full of energy.  How can he not be here?"

February is the month Greg should have turned 50.
I've just invited a bunch of people to mark the occasion with an informal picnic at the beach.

I had to track down the e-mails of the men he had been friends with since his university days. 
Funny - Before, when life was good, I thought I would be able to count on these blokes if I needed them for any reason. 
They were Greg's oldest mates. 
They were solid.
But they turned to dust within 6 months of Greg's death and have rarely, if ever phoned.
Maybe they don't know what to say to me .... but anything would have been better than the complete silence of the last 2+ years.

But.

On the other hand, other people have been here the whole time. 
The friends who had Greg as their Best Man at their wedding - always checking on us, and coming over to help with those handyman jobs that are beyond me. 
Greg's workmates - phoning, facebooking, sending through new photos as they are found. 
My friends who have always been there, never drifting away from me and my grief.

....and my family.  My family are awesome.  They make life good.

...and as I look back over the past year's death marches, I think (hope) I can say that  - so far - this one is a little bit brighter than the last two.

And So The Month ......

                                                          Source
...... is marching on.  Swiftly.
I can't believe today is the 12th.
The 18th will be upon me in the blink of an eye.

But, interestingly enough, this year has been different.
So far.
And that's all I'm going by.
So far.

It's not that I haven't shed some tears.  I have.
It's difficult not to.
What with all of the romantic movies on, the Christmas specials, the Christmas "family" commercials, all of the things that so loudly point out that my family isn't "perfect".
Not that it ever was, but you ALL know what I mean.

It's not the same.
It won't ever be the same.
And I still hate that.

But this month, these days of the Death March, haven't been dragging me down like they usually do.  I don't even have that thought in my head every day.  And that's TOTALLY weird.
And wonderful.
And a relief.
A very huge relief.

It doesn't feel as if my body is remembering as much as it has before.  My body seems to be letting go of the annual march.
Or at least I think it is.
The 18th isn't here yet.
Neither is Christmas.
Or New Year's Eve.

But at least this New Year's Eve I have a totally different plan.
Thank God.

OSU is playing in a bowl game on January 1st.
In Dallas.
So Son #3, Son #1 (since he lives there) and I are going to the game.
Thank.
You.
God.

Maybe it's been different this year because the month started off on such a fun high.
Being in NYC with wonderful friends and finally deciding that, yes, I do want to live there.
At least part of the year (less than 186 days, half the year ...... or the city and state of NY will kick my butt in taxes).
It's given me something to focus on, to plan for.
Something that had, and has, nothing to do with Jim.
Other than the fact that I wouldn't be doing this if he were alive.

Maybe it's different because it's time for it to be different.
Maybe.
I hope that's what it is.
Time.

Being different doesn't mean that I miss him less.
Or I think of him less.
Or love him less.
It just means that these days hurt me less.
And I'm all for less hurt.

I still cry.
I still cry as I write this kind of stuff.
I still cry when I say, or think, "I miss him".
I think that thought, those words, will always make me cry.

And I still cry when I see movies or read books that remind me in any way of him ....... of losing him.
Like "Lincoln".
Boy, did I cry.
As soon as Lincoln put on his coat to go to the theatre, turned to the few men closest to him and said, "I guess it's time for me to go.  But I wish I could stay here."
Oh.
My.
Lord.
I lost it.
And still lose it when I think about that scene.

Because I can imagine Jim saying that, instead of "I'll see you later."
I can imagine, that had he known he'd never wake up from that surgery, he would've said, "I guess it's time for me to go.  But I wish I could stay here."

I wish it for him.
I wished it for Mary Lincoln, as I wept for her, too.
I wished it for all of us.

Wishes.
Sometimes ..... a waste of time.
But sometimes ...... nice.

So anyway, it was a very good movie.
Very good.
Even if it made me a mess.

But at least I'm not as much of a mess as I've been the last 4 years.
Not yet.
Hopefully not at all.

Here's to hope.
:)

A song in my heart

source

2 years.

Ugh. You'd think I would be getting used to this by now, but there is something so utterly wrong about those two words when they're in the context of death. The death of the man I loved more than anything. The death of my dreams. The death of a girl who would never be again.

This week I have felt the distance. I have felt the length of time. I have also felt the still very raw heartache that comes no matter how much time will pass. At least a hundred times a day, I'm trying to remember what I was doing exactly 2 years ago, trying to hold on to all the pieces leading up to Jeremy's death. 

Don't get me wrong, I've picked up a lot of pieces. My grief is no longer inward and isolated (most of the time), and I am able to smile when I see his face. I am thankful for the opportunity to still make Jeremy proud in this life and carry on his legacy through his stories and the lives of the three beautiful children he brought into the world. But there are some parts that just still hurt. 

One part I've noticed this in is singing. Singing was what brought Jeremy and I together (we met at an audition for an Acapella group in college) and it was something we were both passionate about. The night before he died, we had been at rehearsal for an instrumental worship service he and I were going to lead two days later. We never got to sing that night together and I can't remember the last time we were on stage singing together before that (in was likely the week or two before that, I just can't remember specifically). This kills me for some reason. 

This weekend, I was able to travel with friends to lead worship at a youth rally in Kentucky. It's been such a long time since I've been able to do that, I forgot how much I missed it. How much it ignites in me. How much I feel Jer's presence (and God's presence) when I go. But for some reason, I can't bring myself to get back up at our church to sing. It's too hard. Because Jeremy should be up there leading worship, and I should be standing next to him. It feels too different without him there.

That same night after rehearsal, we drove home for what would be the last time together. Tired and stressed from a 14 hour day for us both, way past the kids' bedtime, and ready to crawl into bed and call it a day, Jeremy reached over and grabbed my hand...

"I love to hear you sing. And I love getting to sing with you."

I will never forget that moment. It's a moment that I now look back at with foresight - a gift that Jeremy gave me to continue to pursue that passion even when it was hard, even when it hurt. I sang for him until I could sing for me again.  

Now I sing for us both, and I carry Jeremy in my heart whenever I do. Because he's a part of me, and now he's a song in my heart. There will be no singing this week, for my heart is heavy with the memory of my last moments with him 2 short years ago.

But the song is there, and it will return.

P.S. I would like to ask you all to pray for Jessica Woods, who became a widow today after her husband, Ryan, lost his battle with terminal brain cancer. They are a young family with young children, and they have lived an incredible story that will touch your heart. Please visit http://www.grassrootsconspiracy.com/blog/ and read about them and send some encouragement to Jessica and her family.