The Sunflower House

We spent most of today cleaning out my dad’s house. He’s moved into a retirement community and we’re getting the house ready to sell. While my SIL and I were going through things she found this picture taken on the day Brent graduated from boot camp in San Diego in 1987.

I feel a strange sort of detachment when I look at this picture. I don’t even know if that makes sense, but I can’t think of a better way to describe it. Intellectually I know that this was real and that it happened. I know that’s my head on his shoulder in the picture. I remember the whole thing, but it almost feels like a fantasy life I created in my head. I think that’s the most difficult part of this for me. I have to remind myself that he was real and that we really happened and I didn’t just dream it.

“What healing? That’s another thing most people don’t know, but the widows of the world will know. Losing a husband is something you can’t shake. It’s not just a feeling of missing him. It’s something more that could never heal. His loss will always stay.” – Yoko Ono

I have always disliked that song. I think the entire premise is dumb and whenever it came on the radio I changed the channel. Once, when Brent and I were dating, we were in the car together and the song came on the radio. I leaned over to change the channel and he said “Don’t change it! I love that song.” I said, “You have got to be kidding me. That is the dumbest song I’ve ever heard.” Gauntlet. Thrown.

From that point, whenever the song came on the car radio he would turn it up and sing along and I would roll my eyes and laugh. Later on when cell phones came about, if he was alone in the car and that song came on the radio he would call me and say “Babe! Your song’s on!” and hold the phone up to the radio. If I didn’t answer, for whatever reason, he would let the song record on my voice mail, always with his laughter in the background.

Today I’m in the grocery store minding my own business and guess what song starts playing? I had to block it out and pretend I wasn’t really hearing it. I can’t handle that song yet.

I’m sure someday it will make me smile again.

I usually refer to myself as an agnostic atheist since nobody can prove anything absolute either way. Since Brent died I do not feel his presence or like his spirit is around me; I just feel like he’s gone. I am sad, but I was sad when I was a Christian and believed in heaven and someone I loved died. At the time my mom died I was a believer, but I was still completely devastated over losing her.

I can only speak for myself, but believing that this is likely all there is has made me much more present in my daily life. It causes me to live very consciously because I have a different sort of awareness now of how precious and short life is. When Brent was sick I knew that it was my last chance to show him how much he meant to me and how very much I loved him, and I did that. I have no residual guilt or regret. I laid it all out there and gave him everything I had. If there is any sort of sliver lining in knowing your spouse is dying, the ability to tie up loose ends and leave nothing unsaid is probably it. I realize that this is a luxury I was afforded that not everyone in my situation is, and I am endlessly grateful for it.

To me it doesn’t matter whether or not there’s an afterlife. I wasn’t bothered before I came into existence, so I’m pretty sure I won’t be bothered after. I want to fully live and love people right here and right now in this life. If there is something after, then it’s cool. If there’s not, I’m okay with that too.

I have posts that I’ve written but not posted to the blog and I’m about to do that, so if you read in RSS you might want to hit “mark all as read” about now. Sorry. I’ve been swamped with legal stuff/probate court, work, etc. This is your fair warning.

Memories are coming back to me in flashes. I didn’t realize I’d blocked so much until recently when it all started trickling back in.

Today I remembered the way I used to sit at the foot of the recliner and massage your feet and calves, sometimes for hours. There were times I was so exhausted and my hands ached, but I was so glad to be able to offer you some relief, to be able to make you feel something other than sickness and pain. Near the end when you needed pain injections every two hours around the clock and I had gone days without sleep, there were times I wasn’t too excited about the foot massages. But looking back, I’m so glad I didn’t complain. I know it was hard for you to need so much help. I know the last thing you wanted was to be a burden and I never wanted to make you feel like one. You weren’t a burden, cancer was a burden. You were my life, my love, my everything, and I would do it all again.

You promised me you would never leave me alone.

You promised.

I feel like I might be starting to emerge from my grief fog. Some of the light is creeping slowly back into my life. I’m having more bright days than dark days and generally I feel happy and positive about life. My kids help with that. They force me into living and I’m thankful for them and for their resilience.

I’m part of a young widows support forum and for the most part it has been helpful, but lately I feel out of place. So many of the widows in my time frame are still so mired in grief and despair and I’m not. That’s not to say I don’t have sad days because I definitely do. But for some of them, one person in particular, I’m too positive and it has created some sticky situations. I don’t take any of it personally. I know her anger isn’t really about me.

I forgot today was a holiday. I don’t think I’ve remembered any holidays except Christmas in the past eight months. Not that St. Patrick’s Day is particularly important. It’s just strange how disconnected I sometimes feel from the normal world.

I said to a friend the other day, “Too sad for the normal world, not sad enough for the widowed world.” Typical.

I know you still.

I remember the real you.

I remember who you were.

I remember who I was and who we were together.

I miss you.

I still love you.