Clutter collects even when you are not a hoarder. Flat surfaces are the enemy. It helps to close my eyes and work on being mindful. Then I peek, see the papers scattered, mail sorted, well sort of. Magazines reproducing like rabbits. Trying to cancel subscriptions becomes a whirlpool of ineffective action. Stuff is oppressive.
Added to the chaotic accumulation of stuff is my effort to be more serene, mindful is the catchword. I do deep breathing, play mindless music in the background, go into a room my cats can't invade. Close my eyes again. The doorbell rings. The pharmacy delivering my prescription. Great. But there are two prescriptions. I didn't order the second, in fact I no longer take it. A conspiracy, like cancelling subscriptions, now I have to call the pharmacy and slip out of my serene state.
A to do list catches my eye. Call the tax guy, send a memo to the women's fellowship to settle agendas about sign-ups, who does what, when. By the way, I am the president, an election I won by default. A guilt list stares back at me. The cards I plan to send to encourage people on our sick list. There's my walker, luring me to take a walk around the block before achy joints and a daughter lectures me, not to mention the memberships I have at LA Fitness and the Y.
Have to go online now to order stuff from Amazon. My prime membership allows me 2 day free delivery. Such a deal, Need to charge my Smart Phone and Kindle.
Gotta go. Catch you later. Yeah, Right!
Monday, February 9, 2015
Tuesday, November 11, 2014
Rainbows
The class on Rainbows taught me that there is no pot of gold at the end of any rainbow. A case where too much information bursts a bubble. Thanks a lot.
The highly educated instructor explained that rainbows are round and have no end. His dazzling slides demonstrated this scientific fact.
I was glad that Des didn't hear this. At least I hope he didn't. You never know what gets around up there in yonder land.
Des loved to make rainbows with a garden hose when he sprinkled the lawn. He would call me to come out and see his marvel. Good thing he isn't around now or the water police would fine him for wasting water.
Since I am signed up for other classes besides the Rainbow class, I am getting worried. One class is about Fairy Tales and another about Country Music.
Fairy tales would be hard to dissect. We already know they aren't true. I never did believe that anyone climbed up Rapunzel's hair with or without hairspray
As for Country Music, that's about heart break and standing by your man. Heck that's a no brainer. Even Hillary stood by her man. And she was no Dolly Parton.
That brings me to another event I joined. Mended Hearts. I qualified because my heart was mended once with two stents in my major artery. I wonder if they can mend my heart that was broken when Des left our heavenly home to frolic with the angels up yonder. I bet he is still trying to make rainbows up there.
So Says Sassy
The highly educated instructor explained that rainbows are round and have no end. His dazzling slides demonstrated this scientific fact.
I was glad that Des didn't hear this. At least I hope he didn't. You never know what gets around up there in yonder land.
Des loved to make rainbows with a garden hose when he sprinkled the lawn. He would call me to come out and see his marvel. Good thing he isn't around now or the water police would fine him for wasting water.
Since I am signed up for other classes besides the Rainbow class, I am getting worried. One class is about Fairy Tales and another about Country Music.
Fairy tales would be hard to dissect. We already know they aren't true. I never did believe that anyone climbed up Rapunzel's hair with or without hairspray
As for Country Music, that's about heart break and standing by your man. Heck that's a no brainer. Even Hillary stood by her man. And she was no Dolly Parton.
That brings me to another event I joined. Mended Hearts. I qualified because my heart was mended once with two stents in my major artery. I wonder if they can mend my heart that was broken when Des left our heavenly home to frolic with the angels up yonder. I bet he is still trying to make rainbows up there.
So Says Sassy
Saturday, August 16, 2014
Suicide Is a Family Affair
I was thirteen years old when my grandfather committed suicide. With all the publicity in recent days about Robin Williams final act, memories return about my grandfather, a morose Italian immigrantwho never truly adjusted to life in a Chicago neighborhood where family lived in and around him.
He called me occu de bugia. Eyes like a bug. They were brown like his. Pressed quarters in my hand and pinched my cheek. Who knew what demons rode his shoulders? His suicide caused a buzz in our neighborhood. It was messy, shooting hmself in the head with my father resting on the couch in the next room. Woke up screaming, relatives swarming down the stairs in the two flat grandpa owned. he lived alone, my grandmother had died a few years back. his 2 other sons overseas, in the army.
I wrote a short story about him when I became a writer, I called it Grandpa's Last Stand. Hard to understand his deep depression. No shrinks in those days to talk to, not much of a church goer, even though my grandmother went to mass daily. For years, I avoided the stairwell where his apartment was, the bullet hole still in the wall. Eerie.
My father brooded a lot, unable to overcome his gambling addiction. I knew he had a gun somewhere in our house in a new neighborhood. Fearful that he, too, would do this drastic deed. He never did. Just lost himself in long shots, beating himself up for his weaknesses, I loved him so much. Who knew his heart would do him in, a respectable way to go.
I think about Robbin Williams family now. I wonder if they worry about each other. About themselves.
Years ago,I suffered a deep depression. Fortunately, resources were available to help me through it,Mentors, counsellors, church, faith, meds that worked, And my unfailing sense of humor that crept back into my life.
We never know what others are grapling with, when kindness and love is all we can offer.
My guru visited me this week and had me write this sentence down and repeated it myself often. I share it here with you. "May I be forgiven for any harm I may have casused conciously or unconsciously." It resonates with me. It works if you work it.
So Says Sassy
He called me occu de bugia. Eyes like a bug. They were brown like his. Pressed quarters in my hand and pinched my cheek. Who knew what demons rode his shoulders? His suicide caused a buzz in our neighborhood. It was messy, shooting hmself in the head with my father resting on the couch in the next room. Woke up screaming, relatives swarming down the stairs in the two flat grandpa owned. he lived alone, my grandmother had died a few years back. his 2 other sons overseas, in the army.
I wrote a short story about him when I became a writer, I called it Grandpa's Last Stand. Hard to understand his deep depression. No shrinks in those days to talk to, not much of a church goer, even though my grandmother went to mass daily. For years, I avoided the stairwell where his apartment was, the bullet hole still in the wall. Eerie.
My father brooded a lot, unable to overcome his gambling addiction. I knew he had a gun somewhere in our house in a new neighborhood. Fearful that he, too, would do this drastic deed. He never did. Just lost himself in long shots, beating himself up for his weaknesses, I loved him so much. Who knew his heart would do him in, a respectable way to go.
I think about Robbin Williams family now. I wonder if they worry about each other. About themselves.
Years ago,I suffered a deep depression. Fortunately, resources were available to help me through it,Mentors, counsellors, church, faith, meds that worked, And my unfailing sense of humor that crept back into my life.
We never know what others are grapling with, when kindness and love is all we can offer.
My guru visited me this week and had me write this sentence down and repeated it myself often. I share it here with you. "May I be forgiven for any harm I may have casused conciously or unconsciously." It resonates with me. It works if you work it.
So Says Sassy
Saturday, August 9, 2014
The Finality of Loss
This is the witching hour. My eyes begin to smart around 5:30 p.m or 6 p.m. Vague sadness drifts over me. Des has been gone well over a year but missing him comes over me in waves. Grief, mourning whatever. A rose by any other name would sting as much.
Most of the time I go on with life in this new category of widow. Go to church, meet friends, laugh, write, read a ton of new books, visit one or another of the medical pros that keep me above the grass.
Manage to keep up with the onslaught of paper work, bills, ads,coupons, plea for money from a litany of charitable organizaions. I am tempted to cross out the name of the ones addressed to my husband and write forward to local cemetery. Haven't done it yet. Still might.
Tomato plants are growing in my back yard. Des is shocked, mouth agape. A play on words since he developed Agape Therapy, Greek work referencing love--the unconditional kind. Wrote books about it. gave them away, charging money was not his long suit. Good at giving it away.
I should have realized what I was getting into when he took away my credit cards during our brief dating days, paid off the balance of $700 - serious money in 1971- and declared over the years to everyone we knew that he bought me.
A few years ago, I put seven crisp one hundred dollar bills in an envelope, put it under the Christmas Tree and declared myself free. He just smirked and asked where the interest was. Did I mention that I miss him?
Just noticed that it is now past the witching hour and my weepy mood has passed. Will turn on the TV, laugh with the Golden Girls, warm up with the Walton Family...my rerun entertainment to chase away the blues. See you in the funny papers.
So says Sassy
des has been
Saturday, June 14, 2014
My Dad....DOB 3-1-1909..
Father's Day tomorrow stretches across time with no one to buy a card for or his favorite shaving lotion, Old Spice. My dad died at the age of 64 from heart problems that did him in.
Of course, a lifelong smoking habit didn't help. Neither did his gambling addiction that gave him an adrenal rush and a roller coaster ride of wins and losses.
I miss him and his fierce and partial love for me, his only child. I never doubted that.
He graduted from Lane Technical High School in Chicago, the only one of his siblings to do so. Smart, sly and cunning, the bookies in our neighborhood were his pals and downfalls. Everybody liked him, even my mom most of the time.
He was a master mechanic partial to Chrysler products. We always had a Dodge or DeSoto. Other makes were not mentioned.
He was my companion on long evenings when my mother worked the night shift on a factory assembly line. We sat by the radio and laughted at Fibber McGee and Molley, and were captivated by Mr. District Attorney and The Shadow Knows. He did crossword puzzles in ink.
Loved to barbecue chicken on a grill, boasted about his fig tree, fixed cars that lined up in our alley on Sundays, for friends and family. Protective of me, he greeted my dates with steely eyes and wasn't shy about mentioning his mafia connections.
Big hearted, affectionate,he beamed with pride at his two grandkids, David John and Judith Debra. Italian men were partial to the boys in those days, but he treated them as equals. Told Judith someday she would be princess in the Rose Parade. Slipped money to each of them with the warning not to tell grandma.
Called me up one day at my office--ironically I worked for the District Attorney--and said he was on a winning streak in Las Vegas. I said great, quit and go home. Nope he said, promising to give me 10 percent of his winnings.
Yeah, right, I thought.
He won $2000 and gave me $200.
In spite of money worries, he left my mom with the house intact, a car and money in the bank that she managed to squirrel away,
That was my dad, handsome, trim with a mustache, soulful brown eyes, and Clark Gable ears.
Love you, Dad,
Ann Marie
Wednesday, May 28, 2014
Overdosed on the Waltons
Memorial Day was long so I fed my addiction. Not what you think. I never left the house. Non stop Waltons were on the Hallmark Channel. My vicarious family through the seventies,. No brainer to figure out why this only child would love a familyof eight siblings plus grandma and grandpa and parents who loved each other.
I did do a load of wash on occasion to stretch my legs and feed my hungry cats, checked the email, paid some bills. Since I gave up guilt for lent, I didn't have a twinge indulging my Walton marathon.
The day before David and Barbara barbecued in my back yard, hauling in all the burgers and fixings. A wonderful surprise to warm the cockles of my heart, whatever the heck cockles are. My other kids were up north and the great grandkids were frolicing up in San Luis Obispo with their parents.
Holidays are fraught with memories, sweet and bittersweet. Over the years, Des and I had picnics down at the Marina, our big brown van filled with food and family around to share the time. That Van carried us across the country to his New York family nearly every couple of years. Picnics back there took pl;ace by Zirkles' pond in Brocton. In fact, Joyce told me that is exactly what they did yesterday.
Come to think of it, I married into a big family, not unlike the Waltons. Des was the youngest of seven so I was enfolded into their warmth. His brotheer Dick, 13 years old, was a psuedo father to him Nieces still call me Aunt Ann. They scattered to nearby small towns, - Ripley, Westfield, Brocton, Jamestown. and across the state line to Erie,Pensylvania.
Last Fall we held a graveside service for Des in Ripley, had a memorial celebration at niece Trudi's diner (Meeders) and and wound up at a picnic at one of the nephew's barn..
I am ending this on a Walton family goodnight. Good night everbody, especially Des.
So Says Sassy
I did do a load of wash on occasion to stretch my legs and feed my hungry cats, checked the email, paid some bills. Since I gave up guilt for lent, I didn't have a twinge indulging my Walton marathon.
The day before David and Barbara barbecued in my back yard, hauling in all the burgers and fixings. A wonderful surprise to warm the cockles of my heart, whatever the heck cockles are. My other kids were up north and the great grandkids were frolicing up in San Luis Obispo with their parents.
Holidays are fraught with memories, sweet and bittersweet. Over the years, Des and I had picnics down at the Marina, our big brown van filled with food and family around to share the time. That Van carried us across the country to his New York family nearly every couple of years. Picnics back there took pl;ace by Zirkles' pond in Brocton. In fact, Joyce told me that is exactly what they did yesterday.
Come to think of it, I married into a big family, not unlike the Waltons. Des was the youngest of seven so I was enfolded into their warmth. His brotheer Dick, 13 years old, was a psuedo father to him Nieces still call me Aunt Ann. They scattered to nearby small towns, - Ripley, Westfield, Brocton, Jamestown. and across the state line to Erie,Pensylvania.
Last Fall we held a graveside service for Des in Ripley, had a memorial celebration at niece Trudi's diner (Meeders) and and wound up at a picnic at one of the nephew's barn..
I am ending this on a Walton family goodnight. Good night everbody, especially Des.
So Says Sassy
Tuesday, May 20, 2014
Incognito
When a dermatologist decides to use liquid nitroglycerin on a portion of your face, it stings. Who knew it stung so much that you stifled a loud scream. Obviously,I, your local coward, was unprepared for pain. Remember me? I was the one who never got her ears pierced until age fifty.
Beyond the pain, the area has turned blushing red. Soon, it will blister and my eye will bulge. Not a pretty sight. Next, dead skin will flake away. Not to worry soothes said dermatologist. I will look normal in seven to ten days. See you on church. Maybe.
I checkedwith my live-in grandson, Andy and he predicted that things were going to get real ugly soon. His slogan is "keep it real." I should tell him that reality sucks . Grandmas shouldn't talk like that, but sassy ones do..
So here is my plea. Where does one get those hideous oversized visors that celebrities and other nefarious characters hide behind to avoid recognition? It is either that,or I will hide in plain sight at my humble abode until the mirror says it's okay to go out and about. By the way, the pierced ears have closed up again. Where can you buy those clip on earrings? Must be an oldies store around.
One positive note: I'll never get a facelift, tumy tuck or any thing painful. Reminds me of an old saying of husband Des when we discussed diets. "Costs just as much to bury a fat guy as a skinny one." That goes for ugly as well.
So Says Sassy
Beyond the pain, the area has turned blushing red. Soon, it will blister and my eye will bulge. Not a pretty sight. Next, dead skin will flake away. Not to worry soothes said dermatologist. I will look normal in seven to ten days. See you on church. Maybe.
I checkedwith my live-in grandson, Andy and he predicted that things were going to get real ugly soon. His slogan is "keep it real." I should tell him that reality sucks . Grandmas shouldn't talk like that, but sassy ones do..
So here is my plea. Where does one get those hideous oversized visors that celebrities and other nefarious characters hide behind to avoid recognition? It is either that,or I will hide in plain sight at my humble abode until the mirror says it's okay to go out and about. By the way, the pierced ears have closed up again. Where can you buy those clip on earrings? Must be an oldies store around.
One positive note: I'll never get a facelift, tumy tuck or any thing painful. Reminds me of an old saying of husband Des when we discussed diets. "Costs just as much to bury a fat guy as a skinny one." That goes for ugly as well.
So Says Sassy
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
Mothers Revisited
My mother, Grace widowed for 15 years,died at the age of 79. She must have been lonely, living 60 miles away from me, her only child. She, of the flapper era, did Charleston steps in her small kitchen, neatness personified and never was able to tame my father's gambling addiction. We wondered if he would leave her penniless but her house was paid off and she said she said she was at peace.
When I became a widow over a year ago, only then did I realize how truly lonely she must have been. Good, now I have something else to feel guilty about. I do miss her Saturday morning phone calls especially after my father was gone. She did love to relate his defects. She recorded events in her life on a cassette and left them along with tapes of Elvis. She loved Elvis.
My grandmother, Josephine, became a widow in 1918 at the age of 28, left with four children and the job of burying her husband and infant son on the same week. Tough and strong, she came through Ellis Island at 15 with an uncle. I never knew why she left her family for this daring adventure.
I last saw her in a nursing home where she sang, My Bonny Lies Over The Ocean At 92, she was grateful that her, "Eyes lasted as long as" she did. She loved soap operas and let me know who was the bad lady.
When I think about these feisty women when Mother's Day approaches. How I would love to have one more visit with them, now that am 82 and relate to their traumas, their grit and especially their sassyness. Seems familiar. Would that I have their spunk and survivor skills.
By the way I enjoy night time soaps and play my Frank Sinatra CD's when I am lonely.
So saya Sassy
When I became a widow over a year ago, only then did I realize how truly lonely she must have been. Good, now I have something else to feel guilty about. I do miss her Saturday morning phone calls especially after my father was gone. She did love to relate his defects. She recorded events in her life on a cassette and left them along with tapes of Elvis. She loved Elvis.
My grandmother, Josephine, became a widow in 1918 at the age of 28, left with four children and the job of burying her husband and infant son on the same week. Tough and strong, she came through Ellis Island at 15 with an uncle. I never knew why she left her family for this daring adventure.
I last saw her in a nursing home where she sang, My Bonny Lies Over The Ocean At 92, she was grateful that her, "Eyes lasted as long as" she did. She loved soap operas and let me know who was the bad lady.
When I think about these feisty women when Mother's Day approaches. How I would love to have one more visit with them, now that am 82 and relate to their traumas, their grit and especially their sassyness. Seems familiar. Would that I have their spunk and survivor skills.
By the way I enjoy night time soaps and play my Frank Sinatra CD's when I am lonely.
So saya Sassy
Saturday, March 29, 2014
Time To Grow New Wings
I signed up for a new writers group that had a waiting list. I called to be put on the list. Turns out I am in, if I bring my own chair. Especially if I am short legged. Don't ask but shost did. I qualify so I am pushing myself out of my comfort zone to go. Keep tuned.
I need to find a 12 step program for the undisciplined. I'd start one myself, but then I would have to be there.
Been going back to LA Fitness to be tortured by a trainer twice a week. Erratically, at that. I am learning to dislike that old cliche, no pain-no gain. Why are cliches always true? Just wondering.
Wonder how come I spent 15 minutes looking foe my glasses the other day and happened to notice I was wearing them when I passed a mirror. But then I am always looking for things, especially keys, cell phone,or purse. You know that drill if you were born when dinasaurs roamed the earth. I wish I could attach my cell phone to these things All I would have to do is I call my cell phone from my land line and follow the sound.
Unfortunately, I have my cell phone listed on my iphone in the name of Des. So every time I run around looking for it, it tells me that Des called. That bums me out, but Des is probabiylaughing up there with his angel pals. Not fair.
Another cliche. Life is not fair, followed by what is, is. I have a great granddaughter in New York who happens to be named Isis. She really is what she is.
I am in avoidance mode with this blog. So many people I love are suffering health challenges, I had to get up off my prayer knees and distract mysef silly.
So Says Sassy
er
I need to find a 12 step program for the undisciplined. I'd start one myself, but then I would have to be there.
Been going back to LA Fitness to be tortured by a trainer twice a week. Erratically, at that. I am learning to dislike that old cliche, no pain-no gain. Why are cliches always true? Just wondering.
Wonder how come I spent 15 minutes looking foe my glasses the other day and happened to notice I was wearing them when I passed a mirror. But then I am always looking for things, especially keys, cell phone,or purse. You know that drill if you were born when dinasaurs roamed the earth. I wish I could attach my cell phone to these things All I would have to do is I call my cell phone from my land line and follow the sound.
Unfortunately, I have my cell phone listed on my iphone in the name of Des. So every time I run around looking for it, it tells me that Des called. That bums me out, but Des is probabiylaughing up there with his angel pals. Not fair.
Another cliche. Life is not fair, followed by what is, is. I have a great granddaughter in New York who happens to be named Isis. She really is what she is.
I am in avoidance mode with this blog. So many people I love are suffering health challenges, I had to get up off my prayer knees and distract mysef silly.
So Says Sassy
er
Saturday, March 15, 2014
Giving Up For Lent
In my childhood home, lent was a somber time. You had to give stuff up and then there was Good Friday where my mom wouldn't let me listen to the radio. Of course eating meat was not to cross our lips. Boy, was she ticked when the rules got changed somewhere along the line and it was allowed after all. Those were my Catholic years when we all knew which priest gave us th least penalties for our sins in the confessional.
I abandoned the Catholic crowd when I was 16 years old, but since then a priest recently scoffed and told me "once a Catholic, always a Catholic." I didn't debate it, but I still often make the sign of the cross when I am in need of instant help.
My latest adaption of the lenten practice of givng up something for lent is not something superficial like candy or R rated movies or burning the best seller, "Shades of Gray." After I read it, of course. I am giving up Guilt.
It came to mind at a recent Ash Wednesdat at church when we were asked three challenging questions and had to write our answers in our journals. The first question stoopped me in my tracks. "What is the worst thing that ever happened to you?"
Immediately I flashed back to the day I signed Des into Treacy Villa, a residential facility after trying to care for him during difficult months of his failing health physically and emotionally. It was heart wrenching and guilt was a monstor over whelming me. I lost my job. He was my job. I loved my job and him.
Two weeks later, he had a meltdown and they called the crisis team and took him to the local hospital, and I was left to find another place to take him. The new place was Mound down the road from the other place and it turned out be acceptable--but not home. I won't dramatize the following many months that guilt rode my shoulders on my drives to see him, eat with him, read to him, and sometimes laugh with him.
The staff was loving, he charmed them all but it wasn't home. As his health deteriorated, the dreaded phone call to me from the facility..."better get here and hurry." I called my friend Jan who insisted on driving me there. I call my family and Chuck our pastor, and we all got there in time. I was able to stroke his face, whisper in his ear, tell him private memories and assured him that he was going on a glorious journey to see his brother and other family members already waiting for him. He heard me. I could tell by the was his breath paused and then resumed when I stopped and then went on with promises I believed thanks to my faith, past and present.
Later that morning while I sat in the funeral home alone waiting for decisions to be made. My eyes closed, I saw Des and heard words I never expected - not audible but in my soul. He said, "You did the right thing." His last loving gift to me. I wish I could say that released my guilt immediately. I took many agonizing months, despite assurances of family, friends and counsellors.
But this is is, my lenten promise. I am giving up guilt for lent.
So says Sassy
I abandoned the Catholic crowd when I was 16 years old, but since then a priest recently scoffed and told me "once a Catholic, always a Catholic." I didn't debate it, but I still often make the sign of the cross when I am in need of instant help.
My latest adaption of the lenten practice of givng up something for lent is not something superficial like candy or R rated movies or burning the best seller, "Shades of Gray." After I read it, of course. I am giving up Guilt.
It came to mind at a recent Ash Wednesdat at church when we were asked three challenging questions and had to write our answers in our journals. The first question stoopped me in my tracks. "What is the worst thing that ever happened to you?"
Immediately I flashed back to the day I signed Des into Treacy Villa, a residential facility after trying to care for him during difficult months of his failing health physically and emotionally. It was heart wrenching and guilt was a monstor over whelming me. I lost my job. He was my job. I loved my job and him.
Two weeks later, he had a meltdown and they called the crisis team and took him to the local hospital, and I was left to find another place to take him. The new place was Mound down the road from the other place and it turned out be acceptable--but not home. I won't dramatize the following many months that guilt rode my shoulders on my drives to see him, eat with him, read to him, and sometimes laugh with him.
The staff was loving, he charmed them all but it wasn't home. As his health deteriorated, the dreaded phone call to me from the facility..."better get here and hurry." I called my friend Jan who insisted on driving me there. I call my family and Chuck our pastor, and we all got there in time. I was able to stroke his face, whisper in his ear, tell him private memories and assured him that he was going on a glorious journey to see his brother and other family members already waiting for him. He heard me. I could tell by the was his breath paused and then resumed when I stopped and then went on with promises I believed thanks to my faith, past and present.
Later that morning while I sat in the funeral home alone waiting for decisions to be made. My eyes closed, I saw Des and heard words I never expected - not audible but in my soul. He said, "You did the right thing." His last loving gift to me. I wish I could say that released my guilt immediately. I took many agonizing months, despite assurances of family, friends and counsellors.
But this is is, my lenten promise. I am giving up guilt for lent.
So says Sassy
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
Now What?
I wonder who I am. Seriously. My driver's license tells my name, address, height and weight. yes brown. Hair - no longer brown. Height 2 inches shorter. Weight..top secret.
I used to be a wife. Thankfully I am still a mother, grandmother, great grandmother, mother-in-law and friend. I have all the creature comforts I need. My driver's license is still valid. My Toyota still hums along. So do my cats. But I am learning the difference between a solitary life and a lonely life.
I grew up as an only child. Talk about lonely. But I had friends and cousins and a close neighborhood made up of Irish and Italian immigrants and their kids and we all got along. My father, the gambler, held dice games in our basement and the local Irish cop next door managed to swing by to accept favors. The corner tavern was the place to get a bucket of beer and my maternal grandmother lived across the street from the house we lived in, owned by my paternal grandparents.
My parents argued over his gambling and the house became silent. I longed for a pet to cuddle but my mother was too fastidious to allow furry critters in the house. My parents loved me, were affectionate and kind but not so much with each other. It wa an uneasy childhood. I cherished my friends, my surrogate siblings.
Lonely is worse than just being alone, so Now What? Back to writing, journaling, blogging - all solitary pursuits. I socialize, belong to church groups, But there are periods when I miss Des so much, my eyes dampen, especially evenings when the house is quiet and my cats stare at me and we all wonder where that guy is, the one who gave great hugs, and loved us unconditionally.
I need to try new pursuits, distract me from the past, but still savor my memories---the good ones mostly. Never an outdoor gal, I contemplate the back yard with the swing Des built for me. Consider the octangular raised bed waiting to get attention. On my new to-do list, but hardly a bucket list.
About that bucket list, my dream to visit Italy someday is becoming more possible. I have perfect travel companions more than willing to go and July is the target month. If finances and decent health will make it so, I had better drag out my Italian Language books. My grandparents will be dancing in their graves. My Irish husband will raise a heavenly eyebrow. But he got to Ireland and kissed the barney stone. I may get to walk in Rome and get pinched by a roving Italian. Who Knows?
Certainly not Sassy
I used to be a wife. Thankfully I am still a mother, grandmother, great grandmother, mother-in-law and friend. I have all the creature comforts I need. My driver's license is still valid. My Toyota still hums along. So do my cats. But I am learning the difference between a solitary life and a lonely life.
I grew up as an only child. Talk about lonely. But I had friends and cousins and a close neighborhood made up of Irish and Italian immigrants and their kids and we all got along. My father, the gambler, held dice games in our basement and the local Irish cop next door managed to swing by to accept favors. The corner tavern was the place to get a bucket of beer and my maternal grandmother lived across the street from the house we lived in, owned by my paternal grandparents.
My parents argued over his gambling and the house became silent. I longed for a pet to cuddle but my mother was too fastidious to allow furry critters in the house. My parents loved me, were affectionate and kind but not so much with each other. It wa an uneasy childhood. I cherished my friends, my surrogate siblings.
Lonely is worse than just being alone, so Now What? Back to writing, journaling, blogging - all solitary pursuits. I socialize, belong to church groups, But there are periods when I miss Des so much, my eyes dampen, especially evenings when the house is quiet and my cats stare at me and we all wonder where that guy is, the one who gave great hugs, and loved us unconditionally.
I need to try new pursuits, distract me from the past, but still savor my memories---the good ones mostly. Never an outdoor gal, I contemplate the back yard with the swing Des built for me. Consider the octangular raised bed waiting to get attention. On my new to-do list, but hardly a bucket list.
About that bucket list, my dream to visit Italy someday is becoming more possible. I have perfect travel companions more than willing to go and July is the target month. If finances and decent health will make it so, I had better drag out my Italian Language books. My grandparents will be dancing in their graves. My Irish husband will raise a heavenly eyebrow. But he got to Ireland and kissed the barney stone. I may get to walk in Rome and get pinched by a roving Italian. Who Knows?
Certainly not Sassy
Monday, August 12, 2013
All About The Numbers
As I was on a gurney riding in an ambulance the other day, I told the attendant that I expected to ride in a limo some day, in fact it is on my bucket list. The ambulance hardly qualified.
The other thing on my bucket list is to visit Italy next year, but the more rides in an ambulance seems to reduce my odds. Especially since the day before I had ended up in a wheelchair pushed to the ER across from my doctor's office. It really is all about numbers.
The trip to the ER via wheelchair seem to be related to the fact that my blood pressure reading was 80/40. Small wonder my get up and go truly has departed lately.
The numbers dilemma came up the next day when, back at home, my pulse registered 176 on my fancy new wrist BP machine, and an earthquake was rumbling in my chest. This time I was told to call 911. Thus the ambulance ride, sirens blaring.
Once in the ER again qualifying for a cubicle pdq, , all kinds of things got shoved into me, blood taken out of me and the prominent number now was my DOB. Ten-eleven-thirty-one, I said. Over and over again. It would more efficient if they wrote it on a piece of duct tape and taped it to my forehead.
About the numbers, I don't mind answering my date of birth but when an attendant calls across the hall what was my height I yelled the answer, 4 feet eleven, but I'll be darned if I yell my weight back. I accepy the indignity of a gown tied at the top with my back side flapping in the breeze, but announcing my weight to the world of the ER is beyond embarrassing.
In case you are wondering what caused these blips on the radar screen of my life, the answer is uncertain. The plan is to cut in half the strength of my blood pressure medication, record the readings twice daily. Also an aerotic aneurism in my abdomen shouldn't get past certain numbers either.
I see my doctor in another 3 days. Checking on the numbers.
By the way, riding in the ambulance, I had the distinct feeling of Des with me. I told him to relax and go visit his brothers until I get up there. I am going to Italy first.
So says Sassy
The other thing on my bucket list is to visit Italy next year, but the more rides in an ambulance seems to reduce my odds. Especially since the day before I had ended up in a wheelchair pushed to the ER across from my doctor's office. It really is all about numbers.
The trip to the ER via wheelchair seem to be related to the fact that my blood pressure reading was 80/40. Small wonder my get up and go truly has departed lately.
The numbers dilemma came up the next day when, back at home, my pulse registered 176 on my fancy new wrist BP machine, and an earthquake was rumbling in my chest. This time I was told to call 911. Thus the ambulance ride, sirens blaring.
Once in the ER again qualifying for a cubicle pdq, , all kinds of things got shoved into me, blood taken out of me and the prominent number now was my DOB. Ten-eleven-thirty-one, I said. Over and over again. It would more efficient if they wrote it on a piece of duct tape and taped it to my forehead.
About the numbers, I don't mind answering my date of birth but when an attendant calls across the hall what was my height I yelled the answer, 4 feet eleven, but I'll be darned if I yell my weight back. I accepy the indignity of a gown tied at the top with my back side flapping in the breeze, but announcing my weight to the world of the ER is beyond embarrassing.
In case you are wondering what caused these blips on the radar screen of my life, the answer is uncertain. The plan is to cut in half the strength of my blood pressure medication, record the readings twice daily. Also an aerotic aneurism in my abdomen shouldn't get past certain numbers either.
I see my doctor in another 3 days. Checking on the numbers.
By the way, riding in the ambulance, I had the distinct feeling of Des with me. I told him to relax and go visit his brothers until I get up there. I am going to Italy first.
So says Sassy
Monday, August 5, 2013
Mind Trips...a Mine Field
One of my favorite books is The Christian Agnostic, by Leslie Weatherhead. Lately, in my wondering and wandering through memories, I get bogged down in more questions than answers, and I puzzle over scriptual truths.
Along comes Leslie to tell me not to fuss over doubts and worries, he said to put them up on a shelf, and label it "Awaiting Further Light." Easy for him to say, I think, struggling with my over loaded shelf.
I want to know if Des sees me through the clouds. Does he hear my sniffles, listen to me talk to our cats? Does he know I can't find his ashes, saved in a heart shaped silver container by our bed. I keep searching. It has to be here. My mother always prayed to the patron saint of missing objects, St. Anthony. I have Tony on speed dial. No luck so far.
Another thing, has Des hooked up with his family who must have been excited to see him. Or is excitement not a heavenly term? I told him on the day he died, when he was still responding to my voice, to save a place for me up there. I meant it.
He told me a few months ago that he would miss me when he was gone. Is that possible? All I know for sure is that he inhabits my thoughts a lot in supermarkets because I bypass his favorite treats, and I am undone in church sometimes when I look up at the stained glass picture and see him peering over the shoulder of Jesus.
Gabriel, our grandson in New York set my heart at peace the other day on the phone, when I told him it hard been a tough week, at least in my thought patterns.
Gabe said, "I know one thing for sure, Gramps wants you to be happy." Thank for the reminder, Gabe.
So says Sassy
Along comes Leslie to tell me not to fuss over doubts and worries, he said to put them up on a shelf, and label it "Awaiting Further Light." Easy for him to say, I think, struggling with my over loaded shelf.
I want to know if Des sees me through the clouds. Does he hear my sniffles, listen to me talk to our cats? Does he know I can't find his ashes, saved in a heart shaped silver container by our bed. I keep searching. It has to be here. My mother always prayed to the patron saint of missing objects, St. Anthony. I have Tony on speed dial. No luck so far.
Another thing, has Des hooked up with his family who must have been excited to see him. Or is excitement not a heavenly term? I told him on the day he died, when he was still responding to my voice, to save a place for me up there. I meant it.
He told me a few months ago that he would miss me when he was gone. Is that possible? All I know for sure is that he inhabits my thoughts a lot in supermarkets because I bypass his favorite treats, and I am undone in church sometimes when I look up at the stained glass picture and see him peering over the shoulder of Jesus.
Gabriel, our grandson in New York set my heart at peace the other day on the phone, when I told him it hard been a tough week, at least in my thought patterns.
Gabe said, "I know one thing for sure, Gramps wants you to be happy." Thank for the reminder, Gabe.
So says Sassy
Saturday, July 20, 2013
Birthday Blues
Mail is not always the bearer of glad tidings. Usually the mail box is crammed with catalogs, pleas for donations, bills and other junk mail. Not to mention the ubiquitous mailing labels. Today, Happy Birthday card arrived for my huband from the Claremont School of Theology. Addressed to Dr. Doyle Shields. I considered forwarding it to heaven, but I might get it back with 'insufficient postage.'
No need to remind me that his birthday on July 24th is one of the many 'firsts' survivors traverse on the path to the new normal. He would have been 88. A good run for a sickly child with low expectations for a long, productive life. Lucky me he landed in Ventura County where we met in July and ended up married in November. What a crazy impetuous, joyful decision that was in 1971. Who said it wouldn't last?
I write this in my new office in the room that was his old office. No resemblance to each other. My cats have made adjustments to my new digs as well. When Des held court in this room, the cats sat wherever they decided to perch. If it was on a pile of papers Des needed, he just sat back patiently until they moved on.
As for me, when Murphi nuzzles my hand clutching the mouse (not real), interfering with words of wisdom, I move him off my knuckles and finally show him the door. Not to worry about his wounded psyche. He'll be back.
Since I am not in a celebratory mood this month, A new life is about to emerge next month. Another great grandchild for Suzanne and Ryan. somewhere in mid-August, Matthew Ryan Jaeger, will join their family. .Big brother Lucas and Nathan can't wait. Life does go on. And we are grateful.
So says Sassy
No need to remind me that his birthday on July 24th is one of the many 'firsts' survivors traverse on the path to the new normal. He would have been 88. A good run for a sickly child with low expectations for a long, productive life. Lucky me he landed in Ventura County where we met in July and ended up married in November. What a crazy impetuous, joyful decision that was in 1971. Who said it wouldn't last?
I write this in my new office in the room that was his old office. No resemblance to each other. My cats have made adjustments to my new digs as well. When Des held court in this room, the cats sat wherever they decided to perch. If it was on a pile of papers Des needed, he just sat back patiently until they moved on.
As for me, when Murphi nuzzles my hand clutching the mouse (not real), interfering with words of wisdom, I move him off my knuckles and finally show him the door. Not to worry about his wounded psyche. He'll be back.
Since I am not in a celebratory mood this month, A new life is about to emerge next month. Another great grandchild for Suzanne and Ryan. somewhere in mid-August, Matthew Ryan Jaeger, will join their family. .Big brother Lucas and Nathan can't wait. Life does go on. And we are grateful.
So says Sassy
Monday, June 24, 2013
A Mixed Bag
This journey through the latest chapter in life without my life partner still seems like a bad dream at times. Other times, I am almost complacent. The good, bad and the almost surprising, weave in and out of the days and now nearly four months later in my untethered world.
Lately, days are full of laughter, nights not so much fun. But all in all, surviving and soon thriving is my goal.
I sit at my desk in my new office, once occupied by Des, typing in a room full of light and books and memories and files and family pictures. Murphi is stretched alongside the computer screen, purring softly. I peer out the window and see trees and sky.
What does Des see, I wonder. I feel his love here. More so in church, and even in the supermarket, where I reach for his Oatmeal crunch cookies and remember to put them back. Change surrounds me. Life goes on.
My Wednesday afternoons are taken up with a grief group conducted byt the assisted living people associated with Hospice. Went to my first one last week, getting lost looking for a streed named Westinghouse that is behind a Tire store off Telephone. I will go back again. Seems to fit my needs. The counsellor ended the session by having us share something humorous about our loved one. We all did and left laughing. How appropriate to celebrate his life this way.
He used to tell me, I'll miss you when I'm gone. Ain't that the truth.
So says Sassy
Lately, days are full of laughter, nights not so much fun. But all in all, surviving and soon thriving is my goal.
I sit at my desk in my new office, once occupied by Des, typing in a room full of light and books and memories and files and family pictures. Murphi is stretched alongside the computer screen, purring softly. I peer out the window and see trees and sky.
What does Des see, I wonder. I feel his love here. More so in church, and even in the supermarket, where I reach for his Oatmeal crunch cookies and remember to put them back. Change surrounds me. Life goes on.
My Wednesday afternoons are taken up with a grief group conducted byt the assisted living people associated with Hospice. Went to my first one last week, getting lost looking for a streed named Westinghouse that is behind a Tire store off Telephone. I will go back again. Seems to fit my needs. The counsellor ended the session by having us share something humorous about our loved one. We all did and left laughing. How appropriate to celebrate his life this way.
He used to tell me, I'll miss you when I'm gone. Ain't that the truth.
So says Sassy
Friday, June 14, 2013
Shifting Tides
I have been a widow for three months. Grief comes and goes, not in the five stages reflected in books on death and dying. I mourn in a crooked, winding path of sweet memories follwed by piercing guilt and empty wishes. I skipped over denial. I held Des when he breathed his last breath. It came so easy, silently, peaceful.
Anger has no place in my mourning. Anger is for the living, meaningless without a target. Void of energy. Yet, I am not embracing acceptance quite yet, To embrace acceptance, I must consider the future. Right now, ny goal is to live in the here and now.
His presence surrounds me, his voice breaks through the silence and I look at his snapshots, here and there around the house. Silly ones, as wearing his green top hat mugging for St. Patrick's day, or staring patiently at his beloved cat, Murphi sprawled across his desk, scattering papers and notes without a reprimand. His best buddy he calls him, the guys, he calls our cats. Of course, their female gender is not acknowleged. Although he did once muse aloud about his household of females. His harem I said.
This is my first blog since I stroked his face and told him he was going on a wonderful journey to see , at last, his brothers, Ep, Dick and Merle....his mother and father and friends who made a path for him to follow. I told him to save a place for me. I am comforted by my faith, family, friends and furry critters.
Des always said, sudden death, sudden glory. Meanwhile, I plan not to waste this gift of life. Love and gratitude - it is all there is.
So says Sassy
Anger has no place in my mourning. Anger is for the living, meaningless without a target. Void of energy. Yet, I am not embracing acceptance quite yet, To embrace acceptance, I must consider the future. Right now, ny goal is to live in the here and now.
His presence surrounds me, his voice breaks through the silence and I look at his snapshots, here and there around the house. Silly ones, as wearing his green top hat mugging for St. Patrick's day, or staring patiently at his beloved cat, Murphi sprawled across his desk, scattering papers and notes without a reprimand. His best buddy he calls him, the guys, he calls our cats. Of course, their female gender is not acknowleged. Although he did once muse aloud about his household of females. His harem I said.
This is my first blog since I stroked his face and told him he was going on a wonderful journey to see , at last, his brothers, Ep, Dick and Merle....his mother and father and friends who made a path for him to follow. I told him to save a place for me. I am comforted by my faith, family, friends and furry critters.
Des always said, sudden death, sudden glory. Meanwhile, I plan not to waste this gift of life. Love and gratitude - it is all there is.
So says Sassy
Sunday, April 28, 2013
Dumpster No.4 Departs
The dumpster arrived last Tuesday ready to absorb the past, But the garage views it with suspicion. On the first day, we label boxes 'save', Dump and donate. By the end of day four, after three loads gone, Dumping is only option. I was merciless. Des, I am sure is appalled. Hope he is over it by the time I join him in our heavenly palace.
Meanwhile the garage has room for my car, suitcases, a cabinet with tools and more, plus a bottom drawer with old, old letters he saved. These go back to 1983 when there was major chaos I won't share. But Yikes! How we got through that challenge, Only God knows and actually that's who saved our sanity.
I'm saving his office for when I no longer have bouts of sadness, especially on Sundays. I have been reading, "Fear" Essential Wisdom For Getting Through The Storm" by Thich Nhat Hanh. It is helping me deal with memories of those Sunday visits to the Mound when after visiting him, guilt followed me home.
Hahn reminds us that our memories can cause us real suffering, both emotionally and physically. Save them for a later time when we can look at them compassionately, he advises. My true home is in the here and now. The past is not my true home. Easy for him to say, I think.
Then I find a Plastic bag labeled 'Dick's handkerchiels for baptisms' and two neatly folded linen handkerchiefs are in it. Dick, his beloved brother, and baptisms to remind me of his calling.
Gratitude kicks in about here, and I know what a great ride these 41 years have been. Last week Sheb Wooley's. widow, Linda Dotson and I were reminiscing on the phone about what kind of mischief Des and Sheb were up to now. They were great friends. Linda said, "But Weren't we lucky gals to be loved by such wild, crazy guys?"
Absolutely, so says Sassy
Meanwhile the garage has room for my car, suitcases, a cabinet with tools and more, plus a bottom drawer with old, old letters he saved. These go back to 1983 when there was major chaos I won't share. But Yikes! How we got through that challenge, Only God knows and actually that's who saved our sanity.
I'm saving his office for when I no longer have bouts of sadness, especially on Sundays. I have been reading, "Fear" Essential Wisdom For Getting Through The Storm" by Thich Nhat Hanh. It is helping me deal with memories of those Sunday visits to the Mound when after visiting him, guilt followed me home.
Hahn reminds us that our memories can cause us real suffering, both emotionally and physically. Save them for a later time when we can look at them compassionately, he advises. My true home is in the here and now. The past is not my true home. Easy for him to say, I think.
Then I find a Plastic bag labeled 'Dick's handkerchiels for baptisms' and two neatly folded linen handkerchiefs are in it. Dick, his beloved brother, and baptisms to remind me of his calling.
Gratitude kicks in about here, and I know what a great ride these 41 years have been. Last week Sheb Wooley's. widow, Linda Dotson and I were reminiscing on the phone about what kind of mischief Des and Sheb were up to now. They were great friends. Linda said, "But Weren't we lucky gals to be loved by such wild, crazy guys?"
Absolutely, so says Sassy
Sunday, April 21, 2013
Snapshots of Happiness
It is more fun to go through old snapshots than clean out a garage. Our garage holds strange and unfahomable tools and other things that Des was loathe to toss out. This is the week we start the sorting with a handyman named Dana referred to me by my Dr. Murphy who happens to be his brother. I recommend either one whether you have pain in you joints or in your clutter. But I digress.
About snapshots, they seem to multiply faster than ants at a picnic. Boxes and albums abound. I started to separate families into separate stacks so I can offer them for the taking, when I noticed a common thread. Des and I looked happy, smiling at the camera with eyes that smiled too.
There we were at the foot of the Eiffel Tower, waiting our turn to go up to the top. In another we wore bright orange life vests on a cruise to Alaska during a lesson on what to do if the ship goes down. Titanic flashed across my mind, but then I can get dramatic.
Again on the water, we are headed down the Columbia River following the path of Lewis and Clark in a bright red paddle wheel vessel. More water, riding on the Maid of the Mist in NiagaraFalls. Did I mention I can't swim?
A last on land, there I am sitting on a swing in the back yard of brother and sister-in-law Dick and Siby Shields while she hangs out the wash in a soft summer breeze in Ripley, New York. Still life in motion.
All these lead me to start an album, pictures and narratives of our life, lived with gratitude.. I've decided to highlight grand travels to Paris as well as tedious road trips across the country, west to east and back again.
We got acquainted with our blended families through our travels. Wish I had a snapshot of Des surrounded by my noisy Italian family in the basement of a home in Chicago. A comic strip would show him with a cloud above his head, asking 'what did I get into?'
On the other hand, I got up close and personal with a cow on Dick's farm, awed at how big they are, city slicker that I was. Des and were extremes in our backgrounds. He was the youngest of 7 children, I was an only child. I never finished college, he earned a doctorate. Still our values matched and do did our faith. Love made it work, warts and all.
So says Sassy
About snapshots, they seem to multiply faster than ants at a picnic. Boxes and albums abound. I started to separate families into separate stacks so I can offer them for the taking, when I noticed a common thread. Des and I looked happy, smiling at the camera with eyes that smiled too.
There we were at the foot of the Eiffel Tower, waiting our turn to go up to the top. In another we wore bright orange life vests on a cruise to Alaska during a lesson on what to do if the ship goes down. Titanic flashed across my mind, but then I can get dramatic.
Again on the water, we are headed down the Columbia River following the path of Lewis and Clark in a bright red paddle wheel vessel. More water, riding on the Maid of the Mist in NiagaraFalls. Did I mention I can't swim?
A last on land, there I am sitting on a swing in the back yard of brother and sister-in-law Dick and Siby Shields while she hangs out the wash in a soft summer breeze in Ripley, New York. Still life in motion.
All these lead me to start an album, pictures and narratives of our life, lived with gratitude.. I've decided to highlight grand travels to Paris as well as tedious road trips across the country, west to east and back again.
We got acquainted with our blended families through our travels. Wish I had a snapshot of Des surrounded by my noisy Italian family in the basement of a home in Chicago. A comic strip would show him with a cloud above his head, asking 'what did I get into?'
On the other hand, I got up close and personal with a cow on Dick's farm, awed at how big they are, city slicker that I was. Des and were extremes in our backgrounds. He was the youngest of 7 children, I was an only child. I never finished college, he earned a doctorate. Still our values matched and do did our faith. Love made it work, warts and all.
So says Sassy
Monday, April 15, 2013
My New Title
I lost my status as a wife on March 12, 2013. Now I am a widow and I don't like it. I used to be somebody who belonged to someone. We were a couple. Now I am a single.
Widows come in all sizes, ages and ability to cope. I have gone through the early stages when a wave of sorrow washes over me like a sudden tsunami and I weep like a forlorn child.
Shopping in supermarkets bring on silent sadness as I pass watermelon. Des loved water melon. And cinammon rolls and cheese omelets and peanut buttter cups, and he loved me.
A week before he died, he wanted to just talk. So I put down the book by Joel Osteen I had been reading to him and put my head on his shoulder. We reminisced about highlights we had enjoyed over the years, especially the three months we spent in Hastings Nebraska where he ran agape groups for Bud Israel, the pastor of the local Methodist Church. We loved the people and they seemed to love us. Even me. Especially when Des told them I could analyze handwriting. He like to brag about me, share his limelight. A sweet guy.
"We were a good couple," he said. I agreed. Why did I marry you, he asked. Because I was adorable, I said to make him laugh. I loved to make him laugh. It was a moving conversation. We both agreed that we would do it all over again.
Next morning, his speech was not good, another stroke maybe? Who knows. A few more days and he was gone. But that last evening of clarity was a gift implanted in my memory.
So, now I cope. Little by little. I am most emotional in church where it is so easy to feel his presence, I try to remember to bring a tissue, but my pal Donna hands me one wordlessly. Easter was glorious and I saw him in the stained glass scene of Jesus surrounded by children. I used to place him up there as a young boy, but on Easter morning when I looked up, he was all grown up, standing next to Jesus and looking at me. Believe it or not. Another gift of faith.
The Hospice organization sent me information on ongoing grief groups I might want to attend. I'll think about it. This week my doctor told me I was resiliant. Hope he is right.
Widows come in all sizes, ages and ability to cope. I have gone through the early stages when a wave of sorrow washes over me like a sudden tsunami and I weep like a forlorn child.
Shopping in supermarkets bring on silent sadness as I pass watermelon. Des loved water melon. And cinammon rolls and cheese omelets and peanut buttter cups, and he loved me.
A week before he died, he wanted to just talk. So I put down the book by Joel Osteen I had been reading to him and put my head on his shoulder. We reminisced about highlights we had enjoyed over the years, especially the three months we spent in Hastings Nebraska where he ran agape groups for Bud Israel, the pastor of the local Methodist Church. We loved the people and they seemed to love us. Even me. Especially when Des told them I could analyze handwriting. He like to brag about me, share his limelight. A sweet guy.
"We were a good couple," he said. I agreed. Why did I marry you, he asked. Because I was adorable, I said to make him laugh. I loved to make him laugh. It was a moving conversation. We both agreed that we would do it all over again.
Next morning, his speech was not good, another stroke maybe? Who knows. A few more days and he was gone. But that last evening of clarity was a gift implanted in my memory.
So, now I cope. Little by little. I am most emotional in church where it is so easy to feel his presence, I try to remember to bring a tissue, but my pal Donna hands me one wordlessly. Easter was glorious and I saw him in the stained glass scene of Jesus surrounded by children. I used to place him up there as a young boy, but on Easter morning when I looked up, he was all grown up, standing next to Jesus and looking at me. Believe it or not. Another gift of faith.
The Hospice organization sent me information on ongoing grief groups I might want to attend. I'll think about it. This week my doctor told me I was resiliant. Hope he is right.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)