stuffing

Photo by Bug'sBitePlayfood

Written on Dec. '08...Nine months after Jeff died

I've been stuffing. I don't mean putting bread and spices into a turkey's nether regions. I mean my emotions.
It's been too painful to deal with this loss. I avoid Jeff's photos. I redirect my thoughts. I do things that seem to take the pain away for a moment. When I talk of the loss of Jeff, I refuse to feel the sadness. I push it down. I turn away. I try to forget. Like a door closed to a fire, the smoke eventually seeps under through the cracks.
I almost felt smug with this coping mechanism. I thought that I had found a way to survive with out crumbling at least once a day. We all hear that you 'should' allow yourself to feel emotions so they don't come back later to get you. But I guess I thought I was the exception. "I can do it", I told myself, "I'm strong." But it turns out that I'm not strong. I'm a coward. I've been hiding under a blanket and hoping that it will be gone when I emerge. Like a child hiding from a monster. But I am hiding from sadness, loneliness and fear.
But now, I can't hide. The last two days have been really hard. I am on the verge of tears constantly. I feel lost and beyond sad.
It's like a wound that superficially closed over but still brews infection. It looked okay but beneath the surface the infection has been pushing at the scab and pulsing. The pressure has been building and causing a lump to form. Suddenly, the wound has broken open again, spilling its' pus and reminding me of the initial injury. I scurry to find a band aid but what it really needs is fresh air and an occasional cleansing.
I have still have dreams that he's alive and I am happy. Suddenly, he can't breathe. Instead of trying to save him as I did in real life, I run away. I hide. He dies alone.
What I'm learning is that there is no convenient time for grieving. I can't hide. I have to feel this. I don't want to. I want to curl up in a ball and sleep. I am tired and I don't want to do this.

not what I imagined

it's been three

years since i was

here, in the place

that appears to be

the end of the earth.

my life is

much different now than

i imagined it would be,

(whose isn't, right?)

but being here makes

it seem like

nothing has changed.

that blue building

where we stayed is

still there.

i just walked

past it.

the boats in the harbor

continue to ferry tourists

to the fishing spots,

and the deckhands

still give the

same stories to avoid

cleaning the cod.

i'm here now.

feeling like i did back

then, but today when

i get off the boat

with my brother,

liz

won't be waiting

for us at the

bar with the money

on the walls.

but i'll go

and sit there anyway,

with my him and his

friends, trying to figure

out how to say

something funny enough

to make them laugh

when all i want

to do is

disappear for awhile.

THE Valley ....

.... you know the one. I think that most people, even those who are "non-religious", are familiar with its name.

It's the big-daddy of them all.
The Valley of the Shadow of Death.
It's mentioned in the Bible and has been referenced in countless books, movies, TV shows, etc.

It's been on my mind a lot lately.
You see, I never really knew what it was .... "before".
I'd read about it, even memorized the 23rd Psalm, where it's located.
But had never really given it much thought ..... beyond what I thought it meant.
Of course I thought I knew what it was .... but then.... I thought I knew a lot of things "before".

I used to think it was a proverbial valley that one went through on the way to one's own death.

But now I think that's not quite it.

I think it's the valley that I was plunged into in the early morning hours of December 18, 2007.
It's the valley that I laid in, crawled through, walked in .... or just sat in for 2 years.
It was hell on earth.
And it's not something that I like to think about now. Even as I write this my stomach is hurting and my heart is racing.
It was a very dark, deep and cold valley.
There really aren't words to describe the horror of this place.
And for the longest time I could see no way out of it.
Ever.

But I continued to crawl.
Some days.
Some days I just sat there and sobbed.
Other days I went backwards, trying to see if I could leave the way I had entered.
Nope.
There's no back door out of this valley.
You can only go forward .... or not.

If you're reading this then you've probably been, or most likely are, in this valley.
We all take different amounts of time to get through it.
There's no right way.
There's no guide book.
It's just guts and instinct.

I can now say that I am out of this horrible valley .... though I can turn around and see that it's still very close behind me.
Some days I slip back to the edge of it.
But those days are fewer now.

I don't feel special for having made it out of this valley.
I don't feel courageous or victorious.
I know that I am stronger now because I walked through it.
But I'm also humbler.
And very, very grateful ....
.... that I made it out.

And I'm more than thankful .... that when I look at that valley now .... I am looking behind me.

And I'm wishing every ounce of strength I have onto those who are in it.
I am "willing" them to come out.
In their own time.
At their own pace.
I am pulling for them.
Just to make it out.

And I hope, that as I greet some of them on their way out, they will join me in "willing" others out.
Because, unfortunately, there's a never-ending line of people walking through the Valley of the Shadow of Death.
And we all need each other.
We need to share our will and our strength and our encouragement.... and our stories.
Because that's all we can do.

But it's something.

Time Flies

Last week was the first week of school. Grayson started the 5th grade and is currently enjoying his "senior" status on the elementary school campus. As usual we had our first day ritual, a leisurely breakfast followed by a whirlwind final check of the backpack and self-conscious wardrobe review to check for "coolness". Last year we walked to school with Grayson's cousin. This year, his cousin is on the Safety Patrol, and Grayson was too cool to walk to school with me. I wasn't allowed to walk him in either. A quick drop-off at the curb was what he wanted, and I obliged his 10-year old sensibilities.

The first day of school is always hard for me. The first day of a new school year marks the speedy passage of time, and reminds me each year that Grayson is growing up so fast, and only experienced that day once with his Dad. We took Grayson to kindergarten together, and Daniel amazed and awed the kindergarten class with his new electorlarynx (electronic voicebox, his had been removed surgically in cancer treatment). Fortunately they were all still young enough to think it was uber-cool, and Grayson had instant kindergarten cachet. :)

Five years have passed since the only "first day" of school we celebrated as a family. Five years later for me, the emotions haven't changed. As I watched him move up the walk towards the school doors, I was so proud of him. Yet, so sad for him and for us. These are the days that I am most aware of what the two of them are missing in each other. These are the days that kick me in the gut. I drove away from the school with tears in my eyes. I'm so sad that Daniel isn't here to experience the joy of being a part of Grayson's life. I don't care how great heaven is, I know he'd rather be here - dropping him off at school, talking to him about girls, playing one-on-one in the driveway.

Unfortunately, he's not with him. For whatever reason or twist of fate, I am. I'm so very grateful to be in Grayson's life and so thankful for all the people in our lives who love us. It doesn't make it "all better", but it does make it easier.

Happy Tuesday - Michelle D.

Five Years

Hi honey,

As I type this letter to you I am wrestling with the fact that you have been dead for five years. Even though I have lived without you for 1,825 days...every once in awhile I still feel I could turn over my shoulder and you would be there with a big grin wondering what I will think of your latest joke.

You would be amazed by the growth in our families this year. Your brother George is a Grandpa twice over, and my brothers and sisters have given us three new babies to love. I can imagine you running away from anyone trying to get you to hold a baby for fear of "breaking the little thing." Despite your fear of all things baby, your love of family and friends was a constant in your life. Many times I still miss the generous way you would lend a hand to anyone you loved who was in need. I even sometimes miss how long it took to go grocery shopping with you since we inevitably ran into someone you knew from somewhere...and then a half hour converstion would follow figuring out how, when, and where.

The kids have become adults in so many ways. They are changed by loving and losing you. Sometimes this makes me terribly sad, and other times the changes in them make me terribly proud. Each one has developed a level of compassion uncommon in people their age. Your death was felt in so many communities; I still meet people who have stories to share about ways that you made a difference in their lives. When I walk away from these conversations I hope you are somewhere near by blushing at the praise lavished upon you.

I am getting married this year. Michael is amazing, very different than you but like you as well. The thing I admire most about him is his ability to be himself. He doesn't try to be you, nor is he threatened by my love for you. He is uniquely Michael, and grateful that I have the capacity to love someone as much as I love you. This is a gift I can't adequately describe, and I feel very blessed to have him in my life.

This five year anniversary has been hard for me. I miss you in so many ways, and carry with me the fact that you loved me, and that you chose me. As my life moves into a future that I am excited to embrace, I need to say out loud that you come with me wherever I go. My heart has expanded to include so many new people, and at the same time the place that has always been yours remains.

I love you,

Michele

Acts Of Faith

Friday, August 27th
I put Langston and Pallas on a bus today to attend Camp Erin, a weekend camp for grieving kids.
I drive away before the bus does.
And on the 10 heading west, in traffic (thankfully) I cry.
Putting them on a bus is..

an Act of Faith.

Faith that they will come back to me. Faith that I will not have to go and identify their crushed bodies at some retched morgue. Faith that they will come back to me as whole as they left me and hopefully full of an experience that will leave them more emotionally capable.

Every time I put them in a car with the sitter, a friend or drop them at camp, it’s...

an Act of Faith.

I know death. I watched it come and take Art. I know death needs no reason, it just comes when it wants.

My husband’s no longer life if proof of that or I can just turn on the news.
---
Saturday, August 28th
I wake up and death is in the house.
I feel it and it creates a vacuum. I’m afraid to either exhale or inhale for fear of the realization of what? That the day is not what it seems to be in my morning haze. Like the days upon days after Art died.

I fear my lack of control. I fear that two of my kids are not here, under my pretend “protection.” The protection I believe is mine to offer and dole out as need.

I suck in air hoping I will look back on today, even tomorrow and smile at my silly fears. At my need for faith in order to let them go.

And my friends brush it off, “Of course you have to let them go!” they say. Having no experience with the closeness of death, they don’t see it, sitting there, resting and watching.

Yes I know I have to let them go, but every time I do it, the urge to place my hands on their arms and bribe them to stay with a video game, their favorite dinner or ice cream rises. Sometimes strongly, most of the time represented only by a tiny yelp.

Ezra stirs next to me and I know if it were not for him, I could not bare being in this house that is as quiet and shaky as the days after Art died. The house feels airless, the sunny day false. I feel as if I am inside this bubble, unable to hear or touch and see things as they really are, just like after Art died.

I sneak out of bed, trot off to the bathroom and look at myself in the mirror

“Happy Birthday,” I smile at myself. I’m 46 today. It’s an...

Act of Faith

that I believe I will get to my 47 birthday.

I crawl back into bed and lift the covers to see Ezra’s chest rise and fall, reassuring me that it will continue to do so. His breathing grounds me, pushes the hysteria away.

---
Wednesday, August 25
As the driver is transporting the kids and I to the airport, an 18 wheeler gets cut off by a little black Mazda, the truck weaves into our lane, our driver weaves onto the shoulder next to the concrete divider. We are all moving, us wedged and I see the truck begin to jack knife and then

it corrects itself.

Other than a few “Oh God’s” I am steady and calm. After the moment passes, I remember it’s...

an Act of Faith

to expect we will all get home to LA in one piece. An act of trust and an act of ignorance.
--
Art and I once had a discussion how parents practice acts of faith every time they drop their kids off at school. His job was to make sure, to the best of his ability, that the faith is renewed every afternoon when those parents come back to get their children. He reminds me how ballistic parents get when that faith is shattered.

Since he has died, I know what death really is: random, disjointed, the essence of unpredictable. I feel how unprotected I am from those random, disjointed, unpredictable accidents. The kind that leaves those who hear about them shaking their heads.

And some days I rub it off of me like a few specks of white fluff on my black sweater and other days I wear it like a lead jacket.

I keep committing Acts of Faith. It’s easier to do when I am engaged, and busy. But on those days where I allow myself to be idle, where I allow a moment to see through all the doing, the

Acts of Faith

scare the bejeezus out of me.

He Smiled

“He smiled understandingly-much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced—or seemed to face—the whole external world for an instant, and then concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favor. It understood you just as far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself, and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey.”

-The Great Gatsby

The other night I had a dream with Michael in it.

A festival of some sort was taking place and I stood some distance away...eyes glued to my love. Something passed by, that before Michael could even look at it, I knew would be something he'd find amusing.

I knew it would happen. One of the things that melted my heart and still brings butterflies to my belly to think about.

He would smile.


Not a courtesy smile. Not a half smile...but his real smile. The smile only showed in the most authentic of happy moments.

I stared.

Like a marionette, the corners of his sweet mouth slowly lifted. More and more until it appeared. A full grin showing his pearly gap-toothed smile.

I watched from afar...a tad proud that I knew that this would be something that I foresaw making him smile and warm in my heart seeing him happy.

Before I could observe him anymore, he turned his head and looked at me...full grin still intact...silently acknowledging that our souls, our thoughts...are still connected.

He knew that I would know, and that is a simple fact that I need to remember as I venture on this life sans him by my side.


He will know what I know inside of me...and though I won't be able to see it as I did in that dream, I know he will be looking at me with that grin...that unfaltering expression, that "eternal reassurance", letting me know he'll be there in my reality, invisibly there for me to turn to and show my true smile to.