Releasing The Ties That Bind

On a recent hike in the moors

It has been almost two years since my husband fell from my grasp and I was left on my own, again. Two years since I was able to turn my key in the door and hear his voice calling me. Two years since I could awaken to the warmth of his body next to mine.

Two years.

Slowly, incrementally, I have begun to loosen the ties that bound me so tightly to my husband. I have taken his few remaining clothes from the wardrobe and folded them neatly into a suitcase. I have removed the photo of us from my facebook profile. I have stopped wearing my wedding ring.

I once said I would never quit wearing it. But it felt like the right thing to do. It’s not that I am now on the search for a new partner. I don’t see a partner in my future, ever again. It’s just that I don’t feel married anymore. The truth is that I am alone.

This separation from Stan is a necessary step in my journey through grief. I can no longer cling to my relationship with him. He’s gone. That’s the sad reality of it. And in order to grow I have to figure out who I am without him by my side.

I sit in the living room that we once shared, but it doesn’t look the same as it did when we shared it. Gone are the gadgets he loved: the big screen tv, the music system, the dvd burner and the blu ray player and the apple tv and all the other things I didn’t know how to use.    

I bought a wood burner and pulled up the carpet and had the floors sanded and stripped—all of the things I wanted for us but he said were too expensive, and not worth the effort.

I can just imagine his reaction to my new regime of juicing in the mornings. He’d tell me I spend too much money on food these days. He’d want me to buy cheap instead of organic; he’d tell me those foods are frivolous, and posh.

I go to bed early and wake up early, too. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night—he hated that—and read or write for an hour or two.  Most nights after work, I stop at the gym. He wouldn’t have liked that, either. He would have wanted me to come home to him.

 

I am not the person I was when we were together. I have changed. I wonder if he would approve of or appreciate the woman I have become. I wonder if, had he lived, he would have been able to make room for all of this. 

Perhaps I would not have been able to make these changes. Perhaps, had he lived, I would have acquiesced, and compromised, and lived a life that was full of love and companionship, but didn’t meet some of my needs.

Maybe that’s what relationships are about. Maybe you let go of some of the things that matter to you so that you can live with the one you love. I don’t know. I have never been very good at them. I have spent most of my life on my own.

They say that you continue a relationship with your loved ones even after they are gone. They say that your relationship with them changes once the heavy weight of your grief subsides, and you have time and space to reflect.

When Stan first died, I placed him carefully upon a pedestal where he has, until recently, remained. I could not speak or write about any aspects of him that did not place him somewhere near Saint or Buddha-hood. He was wise, brilliant, sensitive, insightful, funny, endearing, and brave. He was a great father, a loving husband, a kind friend. He healed the sick, fed the hungry, clothed the naked, befriended the poor.

I think Stan would have loved that I saw him this way, but after awhile he would have gotten bored with the accolades heaped upon him. He would not have recognised himself in them anymore. He would have wanted us to remember the real him, with all of his wonderful traits, but with his maddening traits, too. He would have wanted us to remember all of him—the Stan that was sensitive and wise, but the Stan that could be a bit controlling, and, sometimes, a bit selfish, too. 

In the early throes of our love, (as women tend to do), I neglected my own preferences and wrapped myself around his. Had we married as youngsters, we would have negotiated the things that interested us, and grown, together, with mutual desires. But we married late in life, and there were things that were important to me that I had let lapse.  I preferred quiet nights and book festivals to music venues and jams. I wanted to eat brown rice instead of mashed potatoes for dinner. I needed time, sometimes alone, with my son.

In the months before his death, I was beginning to loosen the ties that bound us so closely together, and it generated some conflict between us.

When I began to assert myself,  he found it difficult. He liked having me with him, and he wanted me at his side. He didn’t want to participate in many of the things I loved. He saw my assertions as a rejection of him, and it made him angry and sad.

I am sure that, had he lived, we would have found a new way of living together. I am certain that our love for each other would have helped us to overcome these conflicts of needs.

He was making great changes, too, before he died. I like to think that we would have continued to nourish each other. I like to think that we would have made space for each other to flourish.

We just ran out of time.

I Have Something to Say About This Big Trouble

me at age 6

The title of today's blog is the title of a book that was written many years ago. It was a compilation of essays and poems written by children who lived in the Tenderloin area of San Francisco. These children lived with their parents or relatives in squalid rooms and cheap hotels; they were children born into poverty, often victimised by abuse and neglect, children who were invisible to the eyes of the world around them. They wrote their pieces in order to have a voice. They wrote to bring words to the terrors they had witnessed. They wrote to make themselves heard. They saw big trouble, and they wanted others to see it, too. 

Recently, some people who were close to Stan have made it clear to me that they are not happy about the launch of my book. They have said that the printing of the book, and my promotion of it, has resurrected painful memories for them, and that they would have preferred that I stopped sharing my story when I finished the blog.

This reaction, I must admit, took me by surprise. The last thing I wanted was to cause more suffering.  I had to take a moment to reflect upon my intentions in printing the book, in sharing the trauma and treachery of those early days and weeks once again, in a different venue. I wondered if it must seem to them that I was simply exploiting the story of us in order to find more readers for my words. I felt ashamed that I had written and shared so openly about my journey. I wanted to close the door on it in order to protect them from more pain. 

But then, I stopped myself. I realised that I wanted nothing more from the printing of this book than to bring alive the memory of my husband. I wanted to illuminate his many qualities for those who had not had access to the blog. I wanted to share the big trouble of my grief and the terrible tragedy of my loss in order to help others who had experienced loss, too. My intentions were good, and kind, and grew out of my love for him, and a desire to help others. 

Writers who write from their hearts write words that bring discomfort. Writers write to shed light on the shadowed places that others can't acknowledge or see. Writers write from their own deep wells of pain and joy in order to bring words to the living of this troubled and complicated existence. Writers write to explore the truth, their truth, in the hope that their experience will resonate with the outside world. 

Sometimes, the outside world doesn't want to hear it, particularly if the story relates to them. Augusten Burroughs, who wrote "Running With Scissors", was sued by some of the people he portrayed in the book. Pat Conroy's mother remarked that she was afraid to talk to him, because her words might end up in some 'damn book of his'. Truman Capote lost many friends in his New York social circle after he wrote about them in his stories.  

I have always written about the big troubles I have seen and felt and experienced in my life. I have written about the trauma I experienced as a young child, and how it impacted me. I have written about the people around me, too. Most of my work has been unpublished, and sits, unfinished, in a drawer. I have hesitated to share it with the world. I have not wanted to create more pain. 

I write from my heart. My words dig deep. Sometimes they are raw and difficult to read. But people have told me that my words have helped them to know my husband and me better. They have said that my writing has helped them to open up to their own grief and loss. They have said that my words have helped them to reflect, and think, and to remember to treasure their loved ones who are still alive.

I have something to say about this big trouble. I have something to say about the terrible way my husband died, its impact on me, and on the people he loved. I have something to say about how his life and death changed me, how I went from the euphoria of marrying the man I loved to the pit of despair following his instant and tragic death. I have something to say about how the sangha and the dharma have helped me climb out of that pit, and enter into life once again. I have something to say about the man I loved, who he was, how he lived,  and how his expansive presence left an imprint on us all.

I have something to say about this big trouble. 

And, as long as I am able, I intend to keep saying it. 

the book is available at lulu.com

Light And Dark

I don't know what I was thinking, two months ago, when I wrote my last entry for Widow's Voice. I had grown weary of grief, and I thought that if l could quit writing about it, perhaps, then, I could put it to rest. I thought that I should be able to move on to other, more important things, that setting aside the words of grief would allow me to focus on living instead of on death.

But then the darkness came, and the clouds and the rain. Northern England winters bring clouds that cover the sky from morning to night, and night that comes early, shrouding our world in darkness by 4 p.m. I sit in my living room, warmed by a fire, and watch as the sky turns black. 

My mind has been clouded, too, in the mist and the darkness of this wet winter. I have not been able to write as I had hoped. I have not been able to put words on the page. I have not been able to shift this sadness.

I want to turn loose of this grief, but it will not let me go. It waits for me. It reminds me that I am still here, and he is still gone, and the life that I once had is finished. 

In the quiet nights, and in the midst of the early morning clouds, these images call to me, peeking out from the dusty corners of my consciousness:  my sister's eyes, pale and blue, opened wide, my fingers gently crossing her eyelids to close them, before calling the nurse to inform her of the death; how I covered her feet with a blanket, though she could no longer feel the cold; eleven months later, lying next to my mother, wrapping myself around her frail body, watching her stomach rise and fall in rhythm with her shallow breaths; my husband, how I caressed his forehead and brushed it lightly with my lips, his lips pursed around a plastic tube; how I wished I had spent some moments alone with him before they ushered us out of the hospital room; how they handed me his wallet, and I searched inside it for his wedding ring. 

Why would anyone want to read words like these?  It is almost Christmas, and the world is telling us to be happy and gather 'round tables with candles and smiles and bounty and friends. Why should I inflict these images on unwitting souls who have their own sadnesses to bear?  Who needs to see these things? The world doesn't need more sorrow.

 This is why I have not written. This is why I have not been able to share. 

But this week, hope looms, a shimmer of light against the darkness. This week, my son comes to visit, and before long, we will have the shortest day of the year, and after that, the clouds may lift, and the sun may shine, and I can move toward living again. 

Monday's Writer for Widow's Voice

I am not posting on this blog, these days. I have been invited to be a weekly writer for Widow's Voice, where seven widows share their experience, strength and hope. The women who write for this blog are strong and brave. We have seen deep trauma and weathered great loss. Still, we write. We share. We breathe. We live.

Here is a link to a post I wrote, a couple of weeks ago.

http://widowsvoice-sslf.blogspot.co.uk/2015/01/layers-of-loss.html

I encourage you, if you are reading this, to check in to Widow's Voice. It is my reality at the moment. And I need to focus on it, rather than duplicate or scatter my energy by trying to do too many things.

Thank you. And I will return to this blog, someday.

Seventeen Weeks

Dear Stan,



It is seventeen weeks today, since you left us. It seems like yesterday that you were here. I am reminded of your sayings and your ways, many times throughout the day, and always they make me smile. You had a unique way of expressing yourself, and such a refreshing perspective on the world. I remember many winter nights, waking up to find you perched on a chair at the window, on ‘snow patrol’. You told me that, when you were little, you used to cry when the snow melted, because you loved it so much. You used to marvel at the fact that each snowflake had a different design.

This morning, on my march toward the train station, my mind resisting the piercing rain, I could hear you telling me that the leaves had been thirsty, and were so happy to finally get a drink, that they were dancing in it. And that we should thank the rain, like them. I pictured you, wherever you are, doing your little dance move, welcoming the rain.

I spend less time, these days, reviewing the actual day of your death. It was painful for me to replay it, over and over—wishing I had made more effort to comfort you, that day, to tell you how much I cared, to assure you I would help you through the grief of losing Gavin, wishing I had been able to save you—wishing I had known. Grief experts call this the “if onlys”. It is a common thread for those of us who are grieving, in the aftermath of such great loss. We agonise over lost opportunities. We blame ourselves. It is a torturous place to be. And it feels better, for the moment, to have moved on from that sad state.

Today, I find myself thinking of the immediate future, with a touch of fear and dread—wondering how I will get through the date of our second anniversary, November 17th, past Christmas, through New Year’s Eve. No arguments, this year, over my wanting to watch all the silly, sentimental holiday movies you despised, no tussle over decorations and whether or not to put up a tree. Even though I could now do it without complaint, I can’t imagine decorating a tree this year. It would feel vulgar, somehow, to participate in all the celebration and excess.

As the days without you stretch into weeks and months, I search for ways to preserve your memory. I have ordered a bench to be placed at the summit of Monks Road, where your ashes will be scattered. I have looked through your pictures for the right ones to use as Christmas gifts. I have kept your dressing gown hanging on the back of our door. They feel empty and meaningless, these paltry reminders of your presence on this earth. But it is all I have. And it will have to be enough.

No Name

I am participating in a "Writing Your Grief" workshop, and, each day, we are given a prompt to reflect upon and write about. This is my response to one of them.

"I am not me. I have no name."

I don't know who I am, or who I was, with him. The three and a half years I spent with him seem like a dream, now.

Before I met Stan, I was the person I had always been--alone, for the most part. I was not happy, necessarily, but I knew how to negotiate that world, and I was comfortable in it, and sometimes content.

I interacted with people when I chose, which was not often. I spent my days (when not at work) in solitude, reading and writing and watching telly. I ventured out, into the centre of London, to take in a play or an art exhibit, or to watch a show at the cinema, on my own. I attended meditations and yoga at my Buddhist Centre. I went for walks in my neighbourhood. I rode the buses on the top deck and watched the world unfold around me. I didn't feel desperate for companionship. This quiet, solitary life was the life I knew.

Then I met this wild, passionate man from the north. He threw me into his world--a world of people, relationships, both casual and intimate, a world of pub gatherings and music festivals and long drives and Sunday dinners and popping 'round to people's houses for cups of tea. A world of celebrations at anniversaries and birthdays. A calendar that was almost always full.

I used to crave my silence and space. I was not comfortable with all that interaction and activity. I used to beg him to let me stay home. But we were partners, and he wanted me at his side.

We were together three and a half years. And now, he's gone. He brought me into his colourful, vibrant, world, and left me in it.

Now, I have all the silence and space I could ever want. But I know how to enter into the world of people, too. He taught me how to do it. Today, I can ring someone, and invite them for dinner. I have learned how to pop 'round for a cup of tea.

It was a wonderful three and a half years. And despite the pain of losing him, I would not trade that old world for the one I have now. My world is so much richer, having had him in it.

I don't know, yet, who the new me will be. But it will be a fuller, bigger, more interesting me. Once I can find my way through this sorrow.

Seven Weeks

I brought his ashes home with me.  They are heavy, and dense, settled inside a large round tube. Sunday, I drove up a scary, winding path to the summit of Monk’s Road, near Glossop, where, on a clear day, you can see all the way to Manchester, and where he took me, the first weekend we spent together, to show me the place he wanted his ashes scattered. It is a beautiful spot, with nutty brown grasses swaying in the wind, surrounded on all sides by his beloved green hills, their patchwork fields bathed in shadow and light. One day, we will make sure his wishes are carried out. I am not yet ready to let him go.

I have made him a little shrine, in the bedroom, with our picture above it, and it is a comfort to me, this cardboard barrel of bones and ash. It is what I have left of the body I loved. In the mornings, I rise, from his side of the bed, still imprinted with the weight of him, my head having rested on his pillows, and I pat the tube that holds him.  His dressing gown hangs on its hook at the back of our door, and sometimes I press it to my face, in search of his scent, but it has faded, now, and I can’t remember it. 

I try to keep him close to me, to recall his voice, his funny ways, how he sat at the computer with his headphones on, music blaring from them, waving his pen in the air, like a conductor. Once, shortly after he died, I awakened with a start, and rushed to the door of his office, to look for him. It was where I could usually find him, in the early morning hours, if he was not sleeping next to me. He wasn't there. The chair was empty, and the computer screen black. 

His computer and chair are with his son, now, and his music system has been dismantled, and placed in a box, for one of his other sons. His clothes, too, are gone, donated to his favourite charity shop.

It is difficult, this step, letting go of his things, passing them on to others, saying goodbye to the constant reminders of his presence in this house. And perhaps I am moving too quickly to do it. Yet he was more than his things, and it is important that some of them go to the people who loved him, so that they, too, can find solace in those reminders.

There are no roadmaps for this thing called grief. It is a private and solitary path, and we trudge clumsily along it, hoping someday to find our way through to another side. It will be a long road. It will be months, perhaps years, before I will be able to awaken in the morning without the immediate recognition of his absence, to leave work and not weep for him on the train ride home, knowing he is not there to greet me, to clamber up the stairs to bed and not panic at the thought of sleeping another night without him.  I will walk it, reluctantly, because I must.

I have friends to help me along this road, spiritual friends from the Sangha he loved, who have embraced me and warmed me with their welcome. I have friends in Glossop, who regale me with stories of his antics, who are also suffering from this loss. And I have his family, too. It does not take away this pain. But it lightens the burden a bit, to share it.

The internet is full of grief blogs, and I am sure that my entries here will not reveal any new insights on this journey. Perhaps, instead, my words can bring comfort to the people who knew him, and perhaps we can use them, as I do, to keep him close to us, for just a little while longer.