deepen my friendships with Death, Impermanence and Change

I realized yesterday while sending an email to a recently widowed friend of the family that I had entirely forgotten it was the third anniversary of my husband’s death. I love that not only did I forget, but I haven’t had any of the emotional surges that have accompanied some of the other anniversaries. It’s not like I could ever forget my husband or would ever want to, but I love that my friendship with Death isn’t an obsessive or unhealthy one, that I celebrate life more than commemorate death.

I am so grateful for health and happiness and graduating from big Grief to the sort of grief others have described and I thought would never come to me; a quiet, sad remembrance that serves to deepen my appreciation of those that I am lucky enough to love on this side of the Life/Death line.

As I work through a difficult situation with a loved one, it keeps hitting me how differently we view the world and how losing several people close to me, including my husband, has shaped the way that I live.

Death is a natural event. We carry it with us at all times, closer than blood. I believe some deaths are tragic but no deaths are untimely. Accepting death gives me perspective on negative or scary situations and intensifies my joy in pleasures both simple and complex. Some people think that asking, “How would you feel about that if they died tomorrow? or you did?” is overly dramatic. I think it’s good common sense. Any of us could die today. This friendship with death is what gives me the courage and resolution to live my best life.

There were deaths, small and large, people and ideals. There was impermanence and a renewed understanding of detached vs. unattached. There were changes galore.

These friendships will continue to deepen.

Change, change, change, change, change. I’m contemplating several. I feel so close, like I’m ready to walk through the door that takes me into the next phase of my life and can’t see that the wall I’m resting against is the door.

Okay, assuming that weird simile is a message from my inner wisdom, what is the wall against which I’m resting and what is the door? The door is taking action to commit myself to a new career, possibly in a different living situation. The wall is my either/or thinking.

Whoa. That last sentence was unexpected. I do see this as an either/or decision. This career or that job. This location or that. What if I lived here AND there? What if I found an income stream that supported my still unclear but slowly coalescing calling AND gave me enough money for bills, debt reduction, medical insurance, and living a life that feeds my heart and soul? (Feeding the body would be nice, too.)

So if I turn around and stop leaning on my either/or thinking, I’ll be able to open the door to a new career. Perhaps the living situation decision can be put off for a few months while I explore all my income options. I had the idea yesterday of writing down every skill I possess that I could use to earn money. Something is bound to shake out of that list.

How many times must I learn that it is in writing that I receive answers to my requests for clarity?

Two soldiers were killed and two wounded north of Baghdad yesterday. My brother is north of Baghdad right now. He’s 54 years old, a father of two, a grandfather of three and will retire from 26 years of service in the Navy in March.

I’m feeling guilty that my sorrow over these deaths is greater than it would have been if my brother wasn’t there. There’s a part of me not breathing right now, who is holding her breath until she turns blue to make sure he’s not one of the casualties. I can’t believe it’s been a year and a half since my cousin (Army) was killed in Iraq. The amount of sorrow caused by these deaths – and the much larger amount of civilian deaths – overwhelms me. So I numb out, avoid the news, don’t think about it at all.

I’m slowly coming around to a realization that there’s a good chance that I’m never going to get to a stopping point, that I’m always going to be learning something new and in the midst of several projects, etc. Which is good information to have, but sounds a little exhausting, not to mention that it’s hard to find someone who wants to (and has the flexibility and confidence to) be there for all my incarnations, wherever they might take me. It’s made me a little blue to think that I may not find a place and settle down in it happily ever after. There isn’t anything wrong with that – we are who we are – but it’s been a nice fantasy that I would settle down into something like writing and that would be my THING and I’d move somewhere perfect for me and that would be my PLACE and I would have a sweetheart to support me and that would be my PERSON. I’m not sure that will ever happen. I think it’s much more likely that I’m going to have new things and places throughout my life. I have family and friends who support me but they aren’t going to be with me in person.

If I’m totally honest, it’s the thought of facing all those new things and places on my own that’s got me down. Mr. Man is wonderful but he belongs in this place and wants to stay here. I can find people who will support me in each separate thing and in each place, but it would be nice to have a partner in growth. Perhaps I can have a home base and travel from there. Perhaps I’m borrowing trouble and it’s just that this place and some aspects of the life that I’m living now are too small for me.

This realization strengthens my resolve to get my financial situation in order so that I have more options as far as learning and traveling and/or moving. I was talking to someone this weekend about how I feel physically uncomfortable if I have too much stuff, like it’s attached to me and restricting my movement. I look at the young woman who lived in the same city for 24 years and think that she was too timid. But those were the first 24 years of my life and I was raised by two parents who worshipped security! Behavior I see as being too risk-averse, like keeping this job to pay off debt over three years before even thinking about moving, most people see as good sense.

All of this is obvious when I look at myself without judgment. Daily meditation helps me develop the habit of resting my attention on something without judging it. It helps me know that these blues will pass, that my urge to learn, grow and change is as natural and unstoppable as my next breath. Despite that, I feel small and alone, as if the Divine set me on a merry-go-round and I’m watching the other kids get off the swings and go home.

I sent my godmother a very overdue letter a few weeks back. I hadn’t sent her one when her husband (my godfather) died in July. I knew how much it would mean to her to send a card but I kept putting it off. I finally realized that it still stung that she hadn’t sent me even an email when my husband died, though she knew I was going through it without friends or family near. She was very sweet when I visited CA 10 months after his death.

Once I realized why I hadn’t written, I immediately sat down and wrote her a letter. I heard from my mother that she really appreciated and was touched by it. I feel embarrassed that I let old grief issues of mine interfere with making this simple gesture that means so much. It struck me again how difficult it is to respond to other’s grief graciously. People have said horrible things to me about my husband’s death and some suggested that I should have reached acceptance in one year, as if it was a mail order course.

People who don’t know a lot about the grieving process sometimes think that acceptance is synonymous with feeling fine about the loved one’s death. In fact, acceptance is just that; accepting their death and your feelings – including sorrow, anger and occasional guilt – in a way that allows you to continue to grow and enjoy your life. There is sorrow, anger, guilt and other hard emotions even in good marriages from time to time. Why would it be different in widowhood? It may always hurt. Even knowing all this from hard experience, I was blindsided by a grief flashback that kept me from taking time to extend a hand to someone I love.

I realized this weekend that my awareness that death can come at any time is a big factor in how hard I push myself. I want to die having done my best. Very interestingly, while I was outlining the new novel this weekend, the male MC recalled a conversation with his father that happened when he was 14 and his 12 year old cousin died. His father said that he believes people die when they’re supposed to and that while a death can be sad and even tragic, it isn’t ever at the wrong time. I share that belief intellectually but haven’t lived it. If I truly believe that, I can relax. I will not die prematurely because no one dies prematurely. So there’s no need to race death in aid of completing a list of goals. I can work on my goals because they create the life I want and accept the person I am right now as enough.

I know that this concept can create pain and anger. My husband died at 35. My godfather at 60. Friends at 19, in their 20s and 30s. A friend’s sister at 12. I don’t think we’re all supposed to die when we’re old and deaths that occur before that are unnatural. They are more painful because of our assumption that most people will live until the average life expectancy for their gender, race, location, etc. Of course, a lot can be done to extend life and the quality of life. But some people, regardless of any choices they and those closest to them make, are going to die as children, teens, young adults. I hate that any of “my” people will leave before they’ve lived a long life. But some have and surely more will. As much as it hurts, it’s not unfair, to my mind. There are no guarantees, no way it’s supposed to be. I can choose to protest reality or appreciate every minute I’ve got.

In any case, I need to release the belief that I will die before I get enough done, internally or externally. I can become a better person without feeling that the person I am is insufficient.

I had a good time on Saturday catching up with a bunch of friends. I hadn’t seen one girl in a long time. She looks great, is happy in her relationship and work and full of both contentment and creative mischief. She said that she doesn’t go out much and added, “We just don’t drink that much anymore.” I had to agree that’s where Mr. Man and I are, too.

When she and I used to see each other at the saloon and Sunday brunch, we were fairly close. Now that we’re each staying home more, we don’t see each other for months. I like that neither of us feels this is a problem, just a change. I think it’s because neither of us has put all our emotional eggs in one basket. It’s still a joy to see her and catch up.

I also found out another female friend is moving out of state in a few weeks. I learned this from one of my best friends here, who is devastated at the thought of losing his “shoulder,” someone to whom he could say anything and find caring acceptance. He told me in confidence, so I didn’t say anything to Mr. Man when he mentioned her later in the evening. I’m going to miss her and I hope that she’ll be okay in her new home. She’s gone through a lot in the last year and has a very hard time asking for help. I sent her a quick loving text that didn’t mention her leaving and got a lovely reply. I’m glad that she’s moving closer to family and I understand why she wouldn’t want to broadcast the news. A lot of people in her circle would resist the change and put pressure on her to stay here. There still exists among many born here a mindset that leaving the South is betraying your roots.

My mom mentioned in an email that when my father asked his oncologist how long the cancer treatment would be effective, she replied that one of her patients had tolerated it for a year. My father has been on it for 15 months now and his liver function tests are still acceptable. That’s pretty much unheard of, especially given his age. My parents take each day as a victory now and have managed to create a friendly and practical relationship with Death. It’s inspiring.

My godfather died yesterday, in hospice, of throat cancer. I think he was 60 but he may have been younger. He was a smoker before he was a teenager. It rips me up to see my friends smoking and so many people do here. I don’t say much; I know it doesn’t help. I haven’t talked to my mom yet but in the phone message that she left she said he died peacefully and that they were all grateful his leaving was so beautiful. I’m glad for him. He valued his privacy and independence and I think we’re all glad that the end was mercifully brief.

I worry about my godmother. They were married for most of her adult life and though their personalities were very different, it was clear that they loved each other very much. He loved to tease her, slipping in a quietly subversive comment with a lazy half smile. He was the epitome of laid-back. The only time I ever saw him become excited was when I was absentmindedly tipping a beer bottle back and forth as I brought it to him. Beer, cigarettes, machinery oil, laughter, winks, strength and intelligence. That was my godfather.

He was an amazing father in his understated way. He taught his only child, who was married just last summer, how to think his way through a problem, how to inhabit machinery and systems with his mind so that he could fix and improve them. My godson is much more like his calm father than his energetic mother. I know my godson never had to ask if he was loved by his father. It was there every day in the stability, support, humor and comraderie the two shared.

I feel awkward when people say he was too young. I don’t understand the concept. We can’t all die old; that just doesn’t make any sense. Some of us will go young. I don’t think that’s something to fight. Of course, I want all the time that I can have with the people I love. I wish I had seen him the last time I was in California. But he was struggling then, on a feeding tube and I don’t think he wanted to be remembered that way. I don’t think it’s fully hit me yet. Dave was a quiet constant in my life. He and my godmother would have been our guardians if anything had happened to my parents and my sister and I were raised with that idea and got used to thinking of them as “the backups.”

I can only imagine how difficult this is for my mother, too. Her own husband of 55 years has cancer and her best friend’s husband just died. I am so glad that they have each other. I don’t know how to approach my godmother but I know that I will and that, strange as it is, I may be able to help. I’ve lost a husband. It was only five years of marriage and the circumstances were very different but I at least have some idea of the unexpected places that grief can take you. I think that the peace of Dave’s death may be consoling to my father as he accepts his own passing. I am once again stunned at how absolutely blessed I am in the family that I was born into and the people that they made part of my life. The two men who raised me had high standards of ethics that they refused to compromise. They taught me the value of fun and how important it is to surround yourself with those you love. I want to do them proud.

I miss my California family right now in an almost physical way. This town where I live feels a little less like home. Mr. Man called me this morning before work, very sleepy, and again at work, to apologize for being so sleepy and tell me he loves me and is sorry for my loss. He’s becoming home to me. That’s beautiful in its own right but I feel a little torn in two. I am a California girl. My mother, grandmother and great-grandparents grew up in California, drinking its water and eating the produce that came out of its soil. California is literally in my blood and bones, the same way North Carolina is in Mr. Man’s.

I’m not going to read this and see if it makes sense. Writing it helped the grief move closer to the surface and I needed that. Send some prayers to a little town in the foothills of Contra Costa County in California. There are people there who need them.