Crawling under a rock and hopefully crawling back out

There is something that happens to some people when they lose their significant other, perhaps more for those who enjoyed many years together, or whose love was particularly fierce. When the one whom they considered their "soul mate" suddenly is no more, you can see the life go out of the survivor. Not immediately--although it does for some--but slowly, over time, you can watch them waste away. Pining, we call it. Some will self-medicate with alcohol or other drugs. Some simply withdraw into themselves. They become that cranky old person, or the even more frightening quiet one that merely stares right through you. We seen countless versions of it in movies. We hear that it happens, but what I never hear about it how it happens. I'd like to take a moment to explain.

Some of you may already know this. Some of you may actually be experiencing this without realizing that it's going on. To a few of you this might be an alien concept; in that case, let this be a cautionary tale for you to take to heart and bring to bear if and when the time ever comes when you need it.

When your beloved dies, your whole world is thrown upside down. Suddenly, a new perspective is thrown upon you unbidden. Your priorities change. What seemed important yesterday seems trivial today. Does it really matter if your socks match? Who really cares? And if they do, maybe they are the one with the problem and not you. That's how it starts. You see someone getting upset over the smallest thing, and you think to yourself, "You think you have problems?? My wife/husband/fiance/boyfriend/girlfriend/whoever just DIED!! What have you got to complain about? Someone accidentally bumped into you in the checkout line? Are you nuts? Lose someone you love and then come talk to me!" What happens is that the death (actually your grief over the death, but let's not split hairs) becomes the litmus test for every single social transaction we observe in life. Like I said, it can be a very slow process, but that is how it works. You hear about an argument, and you shake your head: if they only knew how unimportant that is. With the passage of time, more and more things are added to that list. Nothing can compare to the loss you feel. Until one day, you find out that everything else is trivial. All of it. It's all just noise and a waste of time. In the end, none of it matters.

And it applies to all aspects of life. Nothing is worth doing. Nothing is worth getting involved in. Nothing to get excited about. Nothing to care about. What's the point? This is when drinking and the drugs and the withdrawal kick in, or kick it up a notch. The less you have to engage the "real world" the better. Isolation and loneliness become your antidote to being alone and abandoned. (Hint: telling someone that whoever died "wouldn't want you to be like this" probably won't work because "whoever died" knows how much I loved them and they understand why I'm like this; you cannot expect a rational response where the deepest, rawest emotions are involved. If you don't know what to say, own it. Tell them you can't imagine their pain, and hug them if they'll have it. It will do much more for them.)

One of my favorite sayings used to be "Nothing is Trivial". It was a good, ready-made excuse for all the trivia I kept locked in my brain. Then, suddenly, that all changed. Everything became trivial. When someone close to you dies, your priorities are forced to change. You have to reevaluate everything that ever included that person and somehow figure out a way not to include them. In some cases the answer is a workaround, at least until a better way presents itself. Some things you have to relearn from the ground up, or learn for the first time if it was something the Other was primarily responsible for. And some things, you simply let go of--or stop doing because letting go is the one thing that's so hard. The trick is knowing which is which and when to stop. Reprioritizing is the natural response to your new world. You just need to remember that even though some things may be less important, it doesn't mean they are UNimportant. That's a huge difference.

I have traveled down this road, and the results are not pretty. The house is a mess, the yard is a wreck, I don't like going outside. I don't like going out in public. I would have loved to go to my 40th class reunion, but just...couldn't. It would have been wonderful to see everyone again. Thankfully--and this is why I have said it over and over again--I have you. You will never know--cannot possibly know--how important you have been to me during this period of grieving. I post on my blogs and my social media, and you respond with words of encouragement, and likes and loves and sad faces, when words are not enough or cannot be found. It all means something. Something wonderful for me. It means someone "out there" is listening and someone out there cares. About me.

Over the course of this summer of self-imposed seclusion I have been very fortunate to have a couple of true friends who check up on me daily. Just to make sure I'm still breathing. And I check up on them, too. Because that's what friends do.

I started therapy today, perhaps overdue, but you know me, I like to try doing things myself until I figure out I can't. I'm not in a bad place, but I haven't made any progress lately, and have lost a little ground here and there about some things while gaining ground in others. I already feel better just for having taken  a step. (Plus, it gets me out of the house, right?) Recovery is never easy and you shouldn't have to do it alone. So thank you all again for being there for me when I needed you. And especially you two, who have meant the world to me these past couple of months.

So now you all know how not to become a hermit. It's no way to live. And when you see or hear about some lonely old person, remember my words and don't become them. And maybe, just smile at them and say "Hi". That might be all it takes to bring them out of their shell.

A Day Late: My Easter Message

Copied from my Facebook page.

Here it is. The triple threat Sunday I have been looking forward to/dreading for a year now. It’s Easter. It’s April Fool’s Day. It’s the first anniversary of the worst day of my life. How do I feel? How should I feel? Do I feel?
Today we celebrate Christ coming back from the dead. I can’t say I did anything as dramatic, but I can say I have come back from the death of my one true love Toni. Although my return looks less like Jesus (on the top from Revelation Chapter 1) and more like the reanimated zombie (on the bottom). I have put most of my life on hold for the past year to give my feelings a chance to sort themselves out and function a lot on autopilot. I still have my optimism about the future, but not my zeal. I don’t feel sad today. In many ways it’s just another Sunday (you know, that day before Monday). The sun is shining and the birds are singing. Life (for some of us) still goes on. It’s like a cancellation effect: the good and beautiful are negating the bad and ugly, and I am somewhere in the middle.

One of the reasons I am even writing this post is because I believe you are expecting me to, although I think it’s more like you would be surprised if I didn’t write something; I’m not sitting here thinking you’re staring at your screens just waiting to hit your like button.
But I am also writing this to say something I have said many times before. One of the main reasons, if not THE main reason, I have made as much progress as I have is because of your very constant and very loving support. I don’t know where I would be without all of you out there, sending me your love, praying for me, encouraging me, and of course laughing (or pretending to laugh) at all my silly stuff.
Now will I wake up tomorrow and be all invigorated with the prospects of a life renewed? I doubt that. But even as I miss Toni as much today as when she first left me—left us—I have also gotten used to my life alone. To a point. Becoming accustomed to a new way of life is not the same as enjoying it. Moving forward, I will continue to repair myself and I hope you still take an active role in that. I will expect every day to be better than the last with a lot of setbacks mixed in. I will continue to update my progress with you. And I hope to be as good a friend to each of you as you have been to me.
Enjoy your holiday.

Unplugging the router and rooting the clog

So last night I asked myself, “How many times will I have to hit the reset button on my life?” Is there a limit? I have had to start over more times than I care to count. It’s like being reincarnated without the benefit of dying first. Yes, I will grant that some of my do overs were undeserved; I got second chances that maybe I shouldn’t have gotten. And I am grateful for those. It’s the other ones that trouble me.

Last night I opted for pizza, which meant driving home past the place Toni died on the way to the hospital. (Yes, they revived her for a little while, but for me that was the end.) Every time I drive by takes me back to that gut-wrenching moment. The intensity varies but it’s always the same. Last night was not the worst, but it was worse than usual.

Then this happened. I got to come home to a present—I am assuming from Hercules; the neat placement and sheer scale makes me think so—that I needed to take care of. Now among Toni’s house rules there were two that are relevant here. One that I take indoor floor stools outside and not flush them down the toilet. Two that we never have a plunger in the house, because she didn’t want to ruin the bathroom esthetic. (Some of you are getting ahead of me here; just hold on.) I agreed with the stipulation that we get a snake.

Well, you know me. I’m on my own now and am trying new ways of doing things. I dumped the dump into the toilet—in phases to avoid a clog—and promptly clogged it up beyond all hope. Not wanting to deal with snaking the problem at the moment, I shut the lid and figured I would let things simmer. I quickly used Toni’s bathroom (which had been dormant all these months, to the point where all the water had evaporated out of the bowl), and got on to the evening business. Come this morning the blockage was holding fast. Nothing to do but use Toni’s bathroom again. But this time my stay was longer. I had plenty of time to look around and see a thousand little memories that I haven’t thought of in months. Her makeup, jewelry, shoes, all the knick-knacks I had gotten her over the years...it was kind of overwhelming. And after last night’s ride home...

So all is well now. I gave my toilet one last try before I got out the snake and amazingly it worked. I plugged my router back in after several days of no service, and it worked, too. I went to my job and I worked. Everything is back to normal. Almost. Still working on my latest reset. I wanna unplug. Or unclog. I’ll let you know how it turns out.

Addendum:

I somehow forgot to include one--actually two--significant events when I wrote this that I had originally planned to mention. Since Memorial Day is the inspiration for this whole entry, it would be incomplete if I didn't correct that now.

Memorial Day is (supposed to be) a time to reflect on the sacrifice of those that have fought for our freedom. It is a celebration of their heroism. We honor the celebration part but sometimes (usually?) forget the rest of that sentence. Be that as it may, Toni and I did have reason to celebrate that weekend for reasons other than its stated purpose. Back in 2010, Frodo made his appearance on this planet sometime on the holiday weekend and when we adopted him from the rescue shelter some weeks later, our lives were never the same. He was the living embodiment of the concept of "freedom". His antics--despite having a very, very rough start--have given us hours of entertainment. He was an inspiration to the whole pack. 

This infectious joie de vivre lasted for four years to the day (-ish). It was on memorial day weekend in 2014 that Shiloh, the firstborn who started on our long path to dog loving, irreparably broke his leg. A week later my special boy would join his beloved brother Sully, who left us a mere 8 months earlier, four days before Toni's birthday. (October has its own list of things to remember...) Shiloh lived the longest (so far) of all of our boys and showed no signs of slowing down. He even made me go on a last walk with him, broken leg and all (really, it was his idea, not mine; we rarely went on actual "walks" since the yard is so huge). I was devastated. 

Looking back on it now, I wonder if he felt the same way I do now. Sully and Shiloh were inseparable; they'd been together since birth (actually before that if you count the time cramped up together in the womb). We always referred to them together. And they were complete opposites of each other. Just like Toni and me. Except for the womb part. As far as she and I were concerned, our lives began the day we found each other. We always referred to each other as a unit. "PeteAndToni" was one word. And we were complete opposites. I wonder how Shiloh dealt with his brother's death during those 8 months he was suddenly without his lifelong partner. What went through his dog-brain as he tried to make sense of his life, suddenly alone. Sure he had the rest of the sizable pack around as well as Toni and me, but it's not the same. Our boys have always shown a resilience in the face of sudden change and to his credit Shiloh didn't seem to be different. He was still Shiloh; he didn't know how to be any other way. He was just like I am now. I'm still me. But I'm alone. Sure I still have what's left of the pack and all of my family and all of my friends. But it's not the same. I'm still me because I don't know how else to be. But there's this big hole that I don't know how to fill. I feel like my name is now "PeteAnd?"

This entry was just supposed to be a paragraph at the end of the last one, but it got away from me (as my writings tend to do), so I decided to give it its own entry. It's hard to redefine yourself at my age, it seems. When I was young(er) going down a different path was the normal thing to do. Since you have no idea about the world, you try lots of new things to figure out what's best for you. I don't feel like I have time to do that anymore. If I'm wrong, what options do I still have time to try? In my younger days, the kind of mistakes I made took decades to work through. I hope that I'm smarter about my choices now and that won't be an issue. I want to think that the many years of living in the light that Toni shed on me have made the kind of impact on me that so many people, having spent much less time with her, have said she made on them. I mean I know she made an impact on me...duh. I mean I hope it is a lasting one. I hope that her leadership stays with me and guides me, the same way her love held me up all those years. I can still feel her love all around me. It's just that I can't see her when I tell her I love her back. I hope I get used to that. Right now, it just feels kinda strange.

Okay enough for now. Go back to your own lives. Don't miss out on a single thing. There is much to do out there for you. Go and do them. Don't leave any regrets behind. Hmmm. That makes it sound like you should carry them with you wherever you go. I mean quite the opposite. Don't have any regrets to leave behind. Better? Eh. you know what I mean.

Musing on Memorials in the Month of May

May is generally regarded as the month that Spring does its thing. The trees that were budding in April after the long bleak winter have fully awoken and are now thick with leaves. The blossoms and blooms are everywhere in sight in all of their pastel beauty. The smell of fresh-mown grass fills the air. Birds and mammals are starting to raise their families. As are the insects. Frogs and fish are also doing what they do. The promise of life...renews the spirit. It's a wondrous time of year. Hope is all around.

It is no wonder then that I feel the cosmic irony of what May had become for Toni and me over the years. Or at least so it seemed to us

I have already mentioned the loss of our daughter on May 4, 1990. That's when it started. A mere three years later, early in the month of May, we lost a dear friend at the church we had been attending. In the wake of losing Niketa, we had decided not to have children of our own, and I had woosed out of adopting or fostering, so we moved in with Toni's parents and joined a church, becoming very active in their junior church program. As a result, we became very close with the church music director and his wife, Dennis and Barbara Long. Barbara was a nurse and was one of those people that was loved by everyone she met immediately. They were a young couple in their very early 30's with two delightful young children, Christopher and Kara. Not only were they a "perfect" family in spirit, they were a very good-looking bunch, like someone you would find on ShutterStock or in a TV commercial. Before long, Barbara was pregnant with their third child, soon to be named Eric. While she was in the hospital, immediately after giving birth, she caught what I am assuming was necrotizing fasciitis, more commonly--and over-descriptively--referred to as the flesh-eating virus, which is actually bacteria. Within a day, she was gone. Or at least that's how I remember it. The church was packed at her funeral with church-goers and co-workers alike, in absolute shock that something like this could happen to someone so young, so kind and so beautiful. It reminded me of when my mom died. I imagine that the hospital staff were especially affected since this happened to one of their own while they helplessly watched, their efforts in vain. A hollowed-out Dennis eventually recovered thanks to his faith and the support of the congregation. He remarried a few years later and moved away to start over. I wrote more about this incident than I had expected; it stills weighs upon my heart these many years later (the children are all grown now and we have lost contact; but I still remember our happy years together fondly, and still feel the sadness).

Later that same month, my dad died, cementing Toni and my feud with the month of May. My parents got a divorce when I was very young so my dad and I had a very on-again, off-again relationship over the years. I was lucky enough to get to know him a little better before he died. He had been living in the Upper Peninsula for a number of years when my cousin Roxy let me know he was in really bad shape. All those cigarettes had finally caught up with him: lung cancer and emphysema had come to call. He was getting a constant supply of IV blood by the time I got there: it's a 10-hour drive. I don't remember how long he had been in that condition. We drove up there with my Auntie Ann, my dad's older sister and Roxy's mom. The outcome was that a helicopter ride was arranged so that he could come back here so that I could spend his last days with him. The doctor thought it was a bad idea, but we did it anyway, figuring the nursing home could handle things just fine once he got here. I can't believe how naive I was back then, even as "smart" as I was supposed to be about such things. He lasted exactly one night. That was May 23, 1994.

Fast-forward seven years, to 2001. 9-11 hadn't happened yet. Spring had broken and Toni's dad was talking about down-sizing the garden even more than the year before. Toni's mom had passed away almost three years earlier and things were different at the house since. Life always goes on, but changes always seem to turn things upside down and you do what you have to keep the boat afloat. Toni had cared for her parents (I helped too...) as much as she could over their later years (I hear she was an evil child and teen). Part of that care involved unpacking and repacking the hole where his amputated toe used to be. He was diabetic and the toe had become infected and then gangrenous. After Toni's mom passed away, her dad started feeling his age more and his own health declined. A visiting nurse stopped by a couple of times a week to check on him before he passed away. On the day he died, sensing something wasn't right (he had "that look" as she later described it), Toni wanted to stay home with him. But we had a "special meeting" that day: a big announcement was to be made. He assured her he would be alright, and Toni promised that we'd come home right after the meeting. Which we did. We found him on the bed, one shoe off and one shoe on (we had always joked about how long it took him to get his shoes on). He was trying to get ready for his day. Maybe he was going to check out the garden. We'll never know. He didn't get that far. I will never forget Toni's reaction. And I cannot do it justice. In fact, the details are actually quite hazy to me. What I remember is the overall sense of the event: unimaginable rage and grief released as only Toni could. I remember the yelling and the beating of the walls. I waited until the flood subsided enough for me to get close enough to hold her. I think. As I said, the details aren't there much, just the feeling, but it is something I would have done and it doesn't feel like I didn't do it. I do remember eventually holding her. How long all took I have no idea. The thing was, Toni had taken it upon herself to take care of her parents, taken it into herself to do so. And now they were both gone. On her watch. She never forgave herself. But as always, we had to move on. Life had changed yet again. May 9.

Since then, the wounds have healed. Like the gap where Toni's dad's toe used to be had healed over. But even though it had healed, the toe was still missing. It is very much like that when we lose someone. The wound is gone, the pain fades. But the gap in our heart will always be there. I haven't had any major waterworks outbursts in quite a while, but what I have now is burning tears welling up in my eyes. Those will always be there, but the time between them will get longer. I'm glad the whole May death thing has been hibernation for a while now and hope that it continues its absence. Toni and I have been able to enjoy the spring for a while now, and even though she is gone from me (and I am very glad it wasn't in May), I have actually enjoyed this spring as well. The robins' nest on the front porch light is empty now, but never fear, there is another family of robins nested in the bend of the downspout on the back side of the house. The cycle of life is alive and well at the household. Life always goes on. We can hold on and enjoy the ride, or jump off and miss all the wonder. I love a good road trip, don't you?

MAY we all keep a good thought. (You didn't think I could pass up a good pun, did you? (Or a bad one...))

The Elephant in the Room

It has been a couple of weeks since my last post. It's not that I haven't had any ideas or inspirations; I just haven't felt like writing. I have passed from the "How is this possible?" phase to the "Why did this happen?" phase. From Shock to Anger and Sadness. Now, I believe I am at the Hope and Remembrance phase. Or something. None of this has to do with the subject of the post, but maybe it explains why there has been a gap. In any event, I am able to communicate again.

There is one aspect of Toni's death that has been mentioned in passing but never really discussed at any length. I think it is related to our weird concept of "respect for the dead", and this might be perceived as a joke and it's part of our "too soon" sensibility. That's rubbish. If someone was a wanker in life, their death doesn't change that. (That whole thing sounded rather British, didn't it? I'll blame that on my watching "Very British Problems" before bed last night...) As far as it being "too soon", nobody liked a good joke better than Toni. Especially the grade school level jokes Ellen likes to highlight on her show. We even had some laughs during her funeral, and that is well where we should have been at the time. Life can be funny sometimes, so why not death?

The elephant in the room that I am referring to is the fact that Toni passed away on April Fool's Day. I believe at some point she realized she was done with this world and thought to herself, "Well, at least no one will forget the date of my passing." You cannot plan the hour of your death, but Death never encountered anyone like Toni, for whom The Plan was everything. That's why punctuality was so important to her: if I made her late for work (by late I mean less than a half an hour early...), it would throw off her whole day. Her routine would be disrupted. For the very few vacations we ever took, we would spend hours plotting and planning the itineraries. Remember, these are vacations, where your time is your own and no one can tell you what to do....I mentioned in a previous post that we were waiting for the neurologist to confirm everything in the morning before we stopped life support. But that would have made it April 2nd. April second is a nothing day and therefore harder to remember. Faced with the change in her life's plan, Toni--defiant to the bitter end (and defiant is an understatement when describing her)--Toni opted out early: April 2nd would not do.

For days and weeks, and sometimes even now, I wanted to believe it was all just a horrible practical joke and at any moment she would walk in the door and say, "April Fool!" And I could hardly be angry with her for such a cruel hoax. I would simply respond, That was a good one, honey. You really got me that time." That hasn't happened yet. I have to believe she is really gone. And yet....Oh, yes; that is the Denial Phase.

I wish I could trade this "elephant" in for a White Elephant, which I could regift to someone else. But I can't wish this off on someone else. My conscience wouldn't let me. I don't hate anyone that much. And I can't trade it in for a Pink Elephant either. That ruined my life once, I refuse to do it again. So because an elephant never forgets, neither shall I. I was a fool for Toni the entire time we were together (and "Why Do Fools Fall in Love" falls well within her love of doo-wop music), and now I will always be her April Fool. Forever. Thanks, Hon. (requisite bit of sarcasm implied...)

A Note About Privacy

When I started this blog, it was because I wanted everyone to get to know the Toni I knew. The world deserves to know about this wonderfully unique and uniquely wonderful person that we recently lost. I needed the memory of her to go on. The Real Toni. What I have come to realize in the last few days is that some things should not be shared with the world at large. Not that there are horrid secrets which must be kept from view (although we all have those, don't we?), but that some things are too private, too personal, and I wish to honor that about her, too. As I was sifting through pictures and papers and memories locked in my head, I came across quite a few things that fall into this category. More than I could have realized.

I found the letters we wrote to our premature baby after she died. I remembered writing them and I remembered having them. But when I read them, I knew they were not meant for any other eyes but our own.

There is the journal she kept, written over a two year span to Captain Jack when he was taken from us. I have only read about 30 pages of its 200+ page heft, but I again see that something that personal ought to be kept that way.

Early in our relationship, she asked me to write her something (I was still pretending to be a writer in those days...oh wait, I still am...) and I did. Pretty sure I'll keep that one to myself, too. I'm sorry, I wrote it for her, not for you.

My intent with my blog post "By The Numbers" was to include all of her medications and their dosages. In fact they were the inspiration for the post in the first place. But I left that out when I wrote the post, not yet fully realizing why. Now I think I do.

Yes, I even have pictures of us that are only for us.

I am not saying that I might not use a quote or two, now and again. Some passages are just too precious not to share. And more importantly would not be a betrayal of trust. But I will not post any of them in their entirety. I owe her that. I owe her a lot more than that. But at least this is something I can do for her.

In the meantime, there is so much other stuff I can share about her, and I believe you will be able to get a fair accurate picture of her, even without ALL the details. She was a larger than life character and it is my privilege to bring her to life for you. I cannot bring her back, but perhaps I can hold her up.