At what price pain?

I have someone who helps me–she helps me put a pain I cannot categorize into a context that I sometimes forget–because I am in such pain. She helps me find the evidence to disarm my fear.

I am insured through my employers, yet I see the therapist I have seen off and on for 15 years. I pay the full tariff even though I could retell the whole darned life thing and start over with someone I don’t know–at much less monetary expense. Even the paying is a struggle.

When my mother was ill I went a little bonkers. Alzheimer’s will make the people around you crazy too I have learned. At that moment, I could deal with the fact (for me) that I was unraveling and needed to find a bottle of clear fingernail polish (or its emotional equivalent).

I could not deal with reliving the whole “in the beginning…tell me about your childhood” thing. I went back to see Colleen because I WOULD NOT retell the whole pile-o-stuff I had already explored. She knew. She didn’t need life history 1-A and 1-B. I needed the context and the trust I have with her. One of the things Colleen helps me put into perspective is “what is enough?”

I did absolutely everything that could be done to make Lane comfortable and secure in his last months…and still in the dark of the night I wonder was there something I missed? There must have been because he is gone. My thought process takes an unexpected left turn from rational to magical. Nothing I could do would cure cancer. Cancer killed Lane. Not me. I was not even responsible for the Second World War–even though sometimes I am willing to take the blame.

I get wound around the axel over the difference between what I believe and what I know. I am learning that I can choose what I believe–what I give attention to and what I reject. It is hard work, staying rational, not going to places where there is no possibility of an answer. The grief, the pain makes rational thinking more difficult. I have to concentrate to decompose a thought or feeling from “Lane is dead; I am terrible.” To “Lane died and I was blessing to him while he lived.” All the rational evidence supports the latter.

Your life is yours. Your history is yours. I am 60 next month. I think I have at least a passing understanding of my life after high school. I have no understanding of yours. It is yours. So whenever I tell you what is working for me, it is just that…working for me (at least most of the time) and that not perfectly. “Advice is worth what you pay for it” is an old adage–I have heard it for years. I just want you to know that the advice–or more correctly–the testimonyI offer is not free. It came at a price, which I have paid. I am willing to share whatever might make your load a little lighter.

The Beat Goes On

My heart is still beating. I am surprised. It is nearing five months and my heart is still thumping away in my chest. Sometimes it pounds so hard I am sure it is trying to break out. Sometimes it barely taps out the rhythm of life–quietly–so quietly I think it might stop altogether.

There is nothing wrong with me except that Lane is gone and I cannot seem to find myself without him.

We have a concert series here on the Ranch. I have worked on the committee for more than 20 years. I have wonderful friends from the committee, from the neighborhood, from the mens’ beer and softball society. There is always a week’s supply of hugs and kisses…and I am still alone. The music is a summer tradition. I go to the concerts, I pack the picnic supper for one, and I look for his face in the crowd. Most often I leave early because it hurts to look for what is never there.

I try not to dwell on the aloneness. I try to remember the love. But even remembering the love reminds me that there is not a soul in the world today who knows me as well or really ever wanted to.

Lane’s brother is ill. Yes, cancer. His stomach will be history this time next week. Lane died on February 20th. Bob’s surgery is July 20th. It isn’t nice that mom has so many unpleasant 20s so close together. I would try to comfort her, but I remind her Lane is dead and she doesn’t like to be reminded. She is 86. She can grieve or not however she wishes. I think we could have given comfort to each other but since she didn’t want to find out, we go through whatever these steps are 20 miles apart. I wonder if she feels alone. I wonder if she wishes her heart to slow and stop or if she wonders that it beats at all.

I was surprised that mom would not participate in the memorial celebration that had rock and roll ringing from the hills and 300 people eating street tacos and drinking beer to the memory of her son. I was even more surprised that she declined attending the inurnment at the National Cemetary–family only. She acts as if he is being obstinant in not coming to visit her. Or perhaps, I am keeping him away.

It is the end of another day. The hour approaches when all working women must tuck themselves in or risk very bleary eyes in the morning. The hardest time of the day is the half hour between the shower, sleeping pill, and the 11:00 news and the blessed relief of sleep. Sleep would be more blessed if Lane even came into my dreams but I cannot even find him there.

Healing Touch

I go to the masseur just to have someone touch me. He must think I am a real whack job. He works the kinks out of my back and shoulders and I just sob. I have the same response to a manicure. If the girl doing my nails knew she was the only one to hold my hand all week I bet she’d flip completely out. Hey. I flip completely out. I work in a very high pressure environment. I am feeling completely out of my depth. I cannot sustain a cohesive thought and I am sure that everyone is wishing I would get over it already. I am not used to feeling inept. I don’t much like it. I am afraid it may become my new definition. You cannot imagine the restraint it takes not to just go off at people who are patently stupid. I have no patience. I have less than no patience for stupidity. It will be four months on the 20th. And Lane’s birthday is the 22nd. The grandgirls always have a birthday party in January for Dr. King. They are having a birthday party this weekend for their papa. Papa (Lane) is more important than Dr. King–so say the six-year-olds and the gramma says amen.

Getting on with it

I have been feeling pretty smug. Life was getting, if not easier, at least a little less painful. I had been actually accomplishing some grown-up things like talking to the mortgage company about helping me stay in my home–renegotiating the loan and all that entails. I actually had been sleeping through the night–midnight to 5 a.m. is through the night, right? I have made it in to work on time and stayed all day fully 3 weeks in a row–without losing it in the ladies room every hour or so. I was feeling pretty pleased that the worst was behind me. Uh-uh. This morning should have been overcast and miserable. My mood certainly was. Some bug in my ear made going out to Ft. Rosecrans an absolute imperative. I never go to ‘visit’ at cemeteries–well, never until today. The government said they would write to let me know when the plaque was put in place on his niche. It’s there; they didn’t. Some stranger asked, “Are the ashes really in the wall?” oh, yep, they’re there. There are really good friends living their lives not a mile from me. My kids are in town and they love and support me. I don’t drink too much or take drugs other than as prescribed and right this minute I feel so very alone that I may short out my keyboard with my tears. It’s Memorial Day. Lane always grills for Memorial Day. There are always people in the pool and beer on ice and lots of horsing around and happy grandgirls shrieking at each other. In short this is one of the happiest holidays in our year–historically anyway. Elizabeth Hospice has a Monday night support group. I hope it will meet tomorrow. God, I hurt. I am not feeling smug at all.

One More Month

The routing number on my checks is not in the same place as other people’s checks. I entered the numbers wrong…well, according to the cheatsheet on the website…and the bank did not honor the payment. When I picked up the mail this afternoon there was a letter notifying me of my mistake and adding a $25.00 gotcha to the bill.

In the past month, I have learned that the world is very tolerant of the holes in my brain. When I called the management company, the nice lady was happy to reverse the charge. She just couldn’t quite figure out how to put the account in my name rather than his. He is dead. He isn’t answering the mail.

It’s not like they don’t have a complete profile of the property, including that my name is on the title. Indeed, by now, mine is the only name on the title. Note to world: DO NOT argue with a new widow. The waves of emotion that have absolutely nothing to do with property management or HOAs crashed over me in wracking sobs. I don’t want to do anything, particularly anything extra or requiring thought. Don’t ask me to find the title and send it to you when it is on file somewhere in your archives.

The waves crashed over me and they also crashed over the nice lady who was just trying to do as little of her job as possible. She felt bad. She called IT and yes they had the information…no problem. The name is changed. Just quit crying please, please?

Twenty five dollars is not the end of the world. I just spent more than that on a ledger that will not work for my accounts and I owe the government an order of magnitude more money than that (unless I figured the taxes wrong). This grief thing hurts. It makes me act like a crazy lady. It makes me feel out of control and out of my mind and really lame.

I am supposed to be kind to myself. How do I be kind to myself when I don’t even know who I am? I have been his wife for so long. His wife, his friend, his partner, his…what am I going to be going forward? I know I have to go forward. Backward is not an option. Dead stop is, I suppose, but it doesn’t appeal.

It has been six weeks–a month and a half–a century–a lifetime–the blink of an eye. I cannot tell time with holes in my heart.

A Head Full of Swiss Cheese

There seem to be holes in my mind…Holes so large that entire trains of thought go roaring through without leaving so much as a synaptic trace. I know intellectually that my confusion comes from preoccupation, distraction, grief, and sleep deprivation. Emotionally I feel like there are holes in my brain and I am leaving a trail of unexpressed thought splattered across the Southwest.

Thank Heaven for books that tell you what normal is. I have never appreciated normalcy nearly so much. This is normal. This is okay. The books don’t get around to saying when it isn’t okay any more and when one has crossed the line between normal and truly wacked. I suppose that would be diagnosis more than self help. You have to have a license for diagnosis.

Just when I get used to sleeping more than two hours at a time, drugs or no, my head revolts and forces my eyes open. There are no orders for more drugs in the middle of the night. I read the descriptions on all my scripts–some are addiction risks–I don’t really want to take them as prescribed, much less play doctor with their timing and dosage. Addiction is one thing I know I can do without.

I wake in the night and reach for Lane. I listen for the more recent cadence of the pump that subtly and noisily changed the pressure in his matress pad. The slight and constant movement meant it was easier to keep him free of bed sores. It was a distracting helper and soothing in its constancy. I find myself looking for things that are soothing and things that are constant. Lane isn’t here–oh, I remember–heavy sigh, catch my breath, sniff back a sob, and go on to the next thought. What the Hell am I going to do?

Bread and butter is a constant soother. I would have expected cookies and milk but toast with butter melting in golden pools and rivulets seem to grease the constant grinding more effectively. I’d rather wallow in the butter than the pain. That is only partly true. I rather not wallow at all.

Tonight I went to see a silly movie with friends. Confessions of a Shopaholic is not going to win a thing at Cannes and Sundance would laugh it off the mountain. I have practiced retail therapy. I know that for a moment, in the moment between the wish and the purchase, there is a feeling of power and control. There are few other moments so certain these days. I try to keep my therapy to dollar stores and thrift boutiques. I don’t always succeed. Lane would have hated this chick flick. He would have teased me about the lack of action, pathos, and believability. I would love to have Lane tease me.

When I sat to write, I had a well defined thought about losing great hunks of memory, intention, and motivation between concept and commencement. I digressed, again. A shiny object caught my eye and, like the six-year-olds, I chased it down and, again, my attention lapsed.

I am becoming adept at writing lists and making pile of things I have to do. Some things have consequences attached to forgetfulness. Swiss cheese for brains only holds so long as an excuse. I wonder how long that is? When will “Get over it” replace “Poor dear?” The perfectionist/pragmatist in my head is already screaming for return to predictability. But I cannot predict when that might come.

The Witching Hour

I could learn to hate midnight. At midnight the pill that brought blessed unconsciousness some hours ago is history and there isn’t a back up (as in what do I do now that I am back up?) plan.
The television is full of war news and pervert news and unexploded ordinance in East County neighborhoods. Oh, and now they are talking about how little we know about our retirement plans. It isn’t polite to preach to people who cannot talk back to them.
The 401K is now a 101B. I have no clue what I need to do to survive the economic disaster. I do know who to ask for help. It is just one more of the things I cannot change–particularly at midnight.
It’s a smokescreen. I could give a rat’s left testicle what the stock market is or is not doing with my money today. I can’t spend it today anyway. I cannot retire for at least 7 more years and I may be working until much beyond that.
All the plans have changed. I won’t be retiring at 63. We will not both receive the social security stipend we earned together. Thank you Uncle Sam. If I work until I am 67 I will be able to collect a promised sustenance based on Lane’s earning history. He earned more that I for longer.
I get angry in the middle of the night with people who are just doing their jobs. The laws that rule their actions do not consider that terminal means dead soon. It isn’t the people who are without heart. The law is without heart, courage, and brain–and it is absolute. I know how close I am to becoming a statistic–at least I am afraid I know.
Midnight used to be my favorite time of day. The quiet warmth of a comfy bed; strong arms to hold me; kisses in the night; the warmth of his body to curl around all made night time a blessing and a refuge.
It isn’t midnight I hate even now. It’s death and loneliness and the newness of it all. I don’t ask why. There is no answer that will suffice.
I think a glass of water may help. Perhaps a half hour listening to the guided meditation that shows me truths I only half believe will call back sleep.
I miss the growly voice of months before–the one that called out “Babe, are you okay?” to my midnight wanderings. No, right now I am not okay, my love. I miss you and I love you and I am glad that you are not hanging in the limbo you were in. I only wish that the kind and gentle finish to your life would be as kind and gentle to the continuation of mine. Somhow it’s harder at midnight.

Be Careful in Thought

I should monitor my thoughts more carefully. If you wait for something, it probably will come. I waited for the shoe to drop. Didn’t expect the entire shoe department to fall on my head in the same hour–in the middle of the night.
Truth be told, I was feeling like a bit of a freak. I really was okay and that bothered me.
I have watched the interviews of witnesses and interrogators who were so sure how real grief would look. I have been skeptical of their observations and but, even so, critical of my calm. What does it mean that I have slept like a baby for the past four days? What does it mean that I have felt able to do anything that didn’t require sustained concentration? What does it mean that I have really felt okay?
It means that I was exhausted and normal. Now I wish I still felt calm and freaky because sad, lonely, manic, wide awake, and normal feels like Hell itself.

The Other Shoe

I am waiting for the other shoe to drop. I read all the material the kind hospice people brought me. I know that the novacaine of relief will wear off and I will probably cycle through the levels of pain again and again.
For now, I am doing okay. I have a few business things to do; a few insurance issues to see to; an urn to select. But I am fine.
As I actually made my bed this morning I realized he never slept on these sheets. He bought them for me–or threw them in the Costco cart just after the doc banished him to the bed with rails–the cage he hated. He could still walk then. But the sheets…went from package to laundry to bed and then to the laundry again. They do not smell like him. Nothing in the house smells like him. Cancer and the cycle of everyday life took his scent away.
I’d love to bury my nose in a sweat shirt and find him there.

After Waiting

Yesterday the past four months seemed like an eternity in Hell. This morning it seems like just minutes ago we were walking out of the doctor’s office incredulous that cancer had such an invisible strangle hold on his life. We both waited to wake from what had to be the ultimate nightmare. When we awakened, it was not a dream at all. We went on with our lives as best we could, trying hard to live rather than wait to die.

Cancer is insidious. The day came too soon when the waiting won out over the living. The chemo hurt more than it helped. Weakness–physical weakness–beat out our firm resolve. Day by day the hours asleep stretched longer. The ability to move diminished. Dependence replaced self sufficiency. Cancer transformed the stronger of we two into the more dependent and I do not know all the ways it changed me yet.

This evening Lane died. I know it is polite to say he passed but in every way he more than passed. I think he aced this life. The name of the end of this chapter is death. Only that ugly final word gives me comfort. My darling has died and the wait for his last breath is over.

There is a new challenge for the morning. I am not sure what that challenge is. I am not sure how to meet it or name it or recognize it. I know I will not be alone no matter how lonely I feel.