love

Another Sign

~ rdicarne ~ 4 Comments

Today started out a little shaky.  I had a scheduled appointment to have my car inspected and an oil change. It had to be done today because the inspection sticker was set to expire at the end of the month, and I would not be able to take it on Monday or Tuesday. Yes, I know, I was cutting it close, but believe it or not, this is the first time I have ever done this myself. (I’ve been telling you I was spoiled!)

I got to the dealership on time and went into the office.  Of course, I had to go back out to the car to get my insurance and owner’s card because I didn’t know I needed to bring them in. (duh) When it was my turn to step to the counter, the service manager said he wasn’t sure whether they could do the work today because their systems had been down for 30 minutes, and they weren’t sure when they’d be back up. Cue the tears. I apologized for my mini meltdown, explaining that my husband died six months ago and he normally took care of all car-related things. To make matters more complicated, I had to attend the funeral of my cousin in three hours. I told him I would take a chance and wait to see if the system came back up.  

Once seated in the customer waiting area, I began thinking of what I could do if the work couldn’t be done today.  A nice man tried to make small talk, saying he had called his wife and said it might be a long wait, etc.  I was having trouble talking without letting the tears spill, but he was so kind. We had not been sitting there more than five or ten minutes when the service manager came up and said they were good to go, the computers were up and running. I told the man that my husband must be looking out for me.

About an hour later, my car was ready to go.  I decided to say hello to our salesperson, Diego, before I left, because when Chuck took the car for service, he would talk to everyone in the showroom! While telling Diego how much I am enjoying my car (bought it new in July), I mentioned Chuck.  Just then, Diego said he got the chills.  Now I may be watching too much of The Long Island Medium, but that seems to be a sign of a deceased presence.

I paid for the service and drove out to the parking area, where I pulled into a spot and put all the papers neatly in the glove compartment, when what song came on the radio but “Magnet and Steel.” (Those who have read some of my earlier posts will know the significance of this song.) That was my sign that Chuck was with me today when I tackled another one of those dreaded “firsts.”

There are those who may think I am crazy, but I believe our loved ones are sending signs from the other side.  

A Widow’s Creed

~ rdicarne ~ 11 Comments

Six months down, a lifetime to go. Being a widow is hard. Taking on new responsibilities is hard. Living alone for the first time in my life is hard. Moving forward is hard. Being happy is hard. All of these things are hard, but not impossible.

Some days, it would be easy to give up, plant myself in front of the TV, and veg out. Some days I am up to the new tasks, but don’t always feel confident. Chuck was always my biggest champion, and he believed I could do anything I put my mind to, whether it was true or not. Sometimes I think he believed in me more than I believed in myself.

I am trying to overcome limiting beliefs that crowd my mind, especially on days when I am sad or tired. This is the most difficult thing I have ever had to do in my life: learning how to live without my best friend and partner. Even though I don’t like or want this new life, it is all I have.  If I truly want to honor Chuck, I need to make the most of it. We were a team, and our motto was “We’ll figure it out.” I know I can figure this out with my faith, family, and friends, but more importantly, with myself.

I am working on believing in myself more.  Over these past six months, I have learned and continue to learn new things about myself every day. I started a list of things I believe (or want to believe) and still need work on.

  • I believe I will always miss Chuck immeasurably.
  • I believe he is close by and watching over me.
  • I believe life seems unfair sometimes.
  • I believe I am strong enough to take care of myself.
  • I believe I have a supportive community of family, friends, and neighbors.
  • I believe I am intelligent and still have gifts to share.
  • I believe I will be happy again in some form.
  • I believe God has a plan for me.
  • I believe in the power of yet.

Now I need to keep repeating these until I believe them without hesitation.

The Reluctant Roommate

~ rdicarne ~ 7 Comments

Dear Grief,

Do you know that sometimes you are a bully? I am really trying to learn to live with you, but you are not the best roommate. Don’t you see how much I am trying to navigate this world without my husband? You have to remember that I am new at this. It hasn’t even been six months yet, but you are relentless.

I can live with the sadness and melancholy you bring to the room, but why do you keep surprising me with punches to the gut like on the day that he died? Do you think I could ever forget that day? Those images are permanently embedded in my memory like scenes from a horror movie. It is difficult to be present and “stay in the moment” when you try to lock me in a time machine and bombard me with painful memories.

You are an opportunist—coming at me when I am tired or not feeling well, or on a day with special meaning. You never play fair. Just when I think I have discovered a way to cope with my fears, my uncertainties, my loneliness, you pounce. I once thought I understood you, but this grief is not the version I met when my parents or other family members passed away. This is often overwhelming.

Why do you suck up all the oxygen in the room sometimes instead of letting me breathe in the joy? You make me do things I don’t want to do – stress eat, doom scroll, ugly cry. You are a monster that is so hard to tame, reminding me that life as I knew it is gone, that who I was before is not who I am now. Sometimes you make me irritable and short-tempered; other times you bring lethargy and body aches. None of these helps me be productive. I know that I need you, but I don’t need so much of you.

They say the stronger the love, the greater the grief. Well, I am in real trouble then. They say this will get easier; I am not so sure, but I am willing to play along. Living with you for the rest of my life is not something I look forward to, but I am not a quitter. When I feel like a toddler having a temper tantrum and want to scream, “You’re not the boss of me!” I will try to remember that living with you is not a choice, but how much power I give you definitely is MY choice. I promise I will keep trying my best, but could you go a little easier on me?

Respectfully,

Your reluctant roommate

Before & After

~ rdicarne ~ 12 Comments

There are moments in our lives that split time for us—we remember things as before and after these lines of demarcation. Some are simple and unrecorded in history, but they stand out vividly in my memory.

Before and After Color TV – I remember we were among the first to have a color TV because my grandmother lived with us and wanted one, so she bought one. We were so lucky to be able to watch Lawrence Welk and Ed Sullivan in color (just kidding… not so happy), but the trade-off was seeing the Saturday cartoons in living color!

Before and After the Remote Control – Before the remote control, parents treated kids like a remote control, having us get up and change channels for them. Afterward, there were squabbles over who got to control the remote.

Other instances drew a deep, heavy line that stayed with me forever.

Before and After the Assassination of JFK – I was in kindergarten, and I can still remember the day over 60 years later. It was a sort of loss of innocence in the sense that now I knew there were bad people in the world.

Before and After the Internet – I can still hear the dial-up service sound in my head. How exciting that we could look things up without going to the library, searching in the card catalog, and stretching our Dewey Decimal System muscles. Now, the Internet has places I want to protect my students and grandchildren from exploring, which is not as exciting.

Before and After Covid – Sometimes it is difficult to remember the world before Covid hit in 2020. Never in my wildest dreams could I imagine such a pervasive virus, with people wearing masks and isolating. I realized how much I took for granted before the virus reached me here in Pennsylvania.

Before and After Chuck’s Death – This is obviously the most devastating “before and after” for me. Before, I was part of a couple, a pair, a team. Now, I am going solo. Before, Chuck handled all household maintenance; now it’s up to me to deal with contractors and service providers. Before, I had my other half, my soul mate, my best friend to confide in, ask for advice, lean on. Now, I need to learn to lean on myself, trust myself, and believe in myself now that my biggest champion is gone. I have family and friends to lean on and support me, but ultimately it is up to me to keep things going.

Before and Afters are hard. Change is hard. Life without Chuck is hard. I am not the same person I was before Chuck’s death. I am not quite sure who I am, but I know that my “after” self still has a lot to process and learn, but I also know that I can figure it out.

Open Mic; Open Heart

~ rdicarne ~ 13 Comments

Last Friday night, I did a thing. I read three of my latest poems at an open mic night at the Horsham Township Library, where I belong to a Poetry Writing Group. The last time I read was probably a year ago, and about 15 people were listening. This time, about 40 people attended. The large number in attendance was mostly due to a fellow group member debuting his first chapbook of poetry (very exciting).

What made this experience a little nerve-wracking was that I was reading three poems that emerged from my grief processing. Since I was reading to so many people who were not in the group and did not know my story, I had to preface my reading by telling them about Chuck’s death and how long we had been together.

When it was my turn to read, my hands were shaking more than normal. (I have familial tremors that really kick in when my adrenaline is high.) At first, I placed my hands flat on the podium, but that felt very unnatural. I remedied that by clasping my hands behind my back as I read poems two and three.

I managed to make it through my backstory and all three poems without tears, and received very nice feedback from several attendees I had never met before. Below are the three poems I shared, and I would like to share them with you. You may have read the first one in one of my first posts about the loss of Chuck, the love of my life.

Piracy

Cancer came like a marauding pirate
Cunning, ruthless,
Pillaging my lover’s body
Plundering life as I knew it.

No time to climb to the crow’s nest
And plan for the fight
No time to batten down the hatches
We were hit broadside.

Casting me into a sea of devastation,
I am a rudderless vessel,
whirling in an eddy of grief
unable to fathom the loss.

A veil of sadness covers my days
Marooned on an island of despair
My body anchored to the weight of my grief
Dehydrated from the deluge of tears.

Adrift and disoriented
I am lost in the daily struggle
of disbelief and loneliness
Drowning in heartache and pain

Now That You’re Gone

Our keystone has been removed.
Now what?
Who will hold the family together?
Who will hold me together,
Now that you are gone?

Who will –
Sniff the milk and tell me not to drink it,
and leave paper towels scattered around the kitchen for me to put in the trash,
or cook me five-star dinners
Now that you’re gone?

Who will –
I tell to pull up their pants and use a belt,
And watch Phillie’s games with me
Or yell at the TV on football Sundays
Now that you’re gone?

Who will –
Have me watching WWE on Monday nights because I am too lazy to go into another room,
Or start watching a movie with me and then fall asleep
Or steal the covers
Now that you’re gone?

Who will –
Water the plants and prevent me from murdering them
And listen to me vent
Or be my biggest champion
Now that you’re gone?

Who will –
Fill my car with gas
and tires with air
Or my life with purpose
Now that you’re gone?

You Got It

You got it.
You got it.
You got it.

That’s what everyone keeps telling me,
but I don’t got it.
I don’t want it.
I may never have it.

They tell me how well I am doing,
and I deflect with a joke
Too afraid, too vulnerable
To reveal what’s going on.

You got it.
I don’t got it!
You got it.
I don’t want it!

A perfume bottle from 1995
stares at me from the dresser
daring me to cry.

You got it.
I don’t got it!
You got it.
I don’t want it!

What was once easy –
without a second thought
has become complex and tiring
getting locked out
a broken storm door handle
dashboard lights I haven’t seen before
All can invoke tears.

You got it.
I don’t got it!
You got it.
I don’t want it!

People offer advice
for a fresh start I never asked for.
But who are we to decide?
Who are we to choose?

You got it.
I don’t got it!
You got it.
I don’t want it!

But, I’ll try.

I believe I am on an endless journey that will take me to many parts of my heart and memories – familiar and unfamiliar. Grief does not have a destination; it is more like a traveling companion that you have to learn to live with.

Forty-six Days and Counting

~ rdicarne ~ 29 Comments

Forty-six days ago, I lost the love of my life. A trip to the ER for what we thought were simple GI issues began an 18-day hospital stay that ended with his death. As it turns out, Chuck had a rare upper GI cancer that had spread to his brain and bone marrow before he even exhibited any symptoms. He never had a chance.

Those days in the hospital were frustrating and exhausting. We began with such hope, and every day the red tape of the healthcare system eroded it. Waiting for bloodwork results, scans, procedures, and pathology reports was excruciating. By the time we had a diagnosis, it was time to say goodbye and let him go.

I thought that night was the worst night of my life, but little did I know the days ahead would be even harder. Once the numbness of the traumatic hospital experience and the funeral wore off, the grief took hold of me.

Chuck and I met when I was fifteen and he was seventeen. We were high school sweethearts who stood the test of time and celebrated our 45th wedding anniversary this past August. This coming December would have been 52 years together—practically my whole life – and he was my entire life! I don’t know how to do life without him.

Although my commute home from school is only 10 minutes, I called him every day, and we talked until he saw me pull into the driveway. We loved being together and were best friends. Every facet of our lives meshed together like a well-oiled machine. Now my life has come to a screeching halt.

Even though I am back in the classroom, and my students brighten my days, I am struggling to make sense of the unimaginable loss. How will I find the strength to move forward without Chuck by my side? My head knows that grieving takes time – lots of it, but my heart is broken, and the sadness often consumes me.

Writing has always been a way for me to process life and feelings. Below is the first poem I wrote since Chuck’s death. I am sure that writing will help me through this grieving process. Thank you for letting me share some of it with you.

Cancer came like a marauding pirate
Cunning, ruthless,
Pillaging my lover’s body
Plundering life as I knew it.

No time to climb to the crow’s nest 
And plan for the fight
No time to batten down the hatches
We were hit broadside.

Casting me into a sea of devastation,
I am a rudderless vessel, 
whirling in an eddy of grief
unable to fathom the loss.

A veil of sadness covers my days
Marooned on an island of despair
My body anchored to the weight of my grief
Dehydrated from the deluge of tears.

Adrift and disoriented,
I am lost in the daily struggle
of disbelief and loneliness
Drowning in heartache and pain.

Love you forever!