love

Nine Months

~ rdicarne ~ 19 Comments

Nine months.

39 weeks.

273 days.

3/4 of a year.

That’s how long it has been since I held the hand of the man whom I spent more than 3/4 of my life loving. I miss him every single minute of every single day.  Yes, I have been going through the motions, doing all the things, but he is always front and center in my heart and mind.

I miss Chuck more every day.  I miss his physical presence and being able to talk to him about the big things and the small, silly ones. I miss hearing his voice, calling him on my way home, and having him lovingly tease me. I miss opening the door when I get home and seeing him sitting in the recliner or standing in the kitchen prepping for dinner. This leaves me melancholy.

Sometimes it is difficult to stay present in the moment. When I am with my grandchildren, I keep thinking about how proud Chuck would be of them, how happy he would be to see them growing into themselves, and how tenderly they are taking care of me. When I am in other places with people, I look around and wish he could be sharing them with me. This makes me reflective.

As I move through my days, I think about what he would think or how he would react to certain situations. It is not always with sadness, though.  No, the kids and I lovingly add Chuck’s quotes to various situations, mimicking the way he would say them, the inflections. Imitation is the highest form of flattery after all. The last three nights, I have taken up his mantle of yelling at the TV while watching Phillies games. His blood pressure would have been through the roof, witnessing the ninth-inning comebacks. This makes me smile.

I will continue to go through the motions and do all the things until they become easier to do on my own. Grief is a sucker punch to the gut, but it doesn’t have to bring you to your knees every day. On days that it does, I just sit and let it have its way, other days, I pack it up and carry it with me.  This makes me stronger.

Love lives on.

Finding My Way

~ rdicarne ~ 13 Comments

We were on a path together that included retirement, more time with family, more time with each other, and casinos – always casinos. This time last year, I had no idea that the path would end abruptly, and I would have to find my own way. This time last year, we were dreaming about what adventures that path would take us on, imagining a life of no alarm clocks and making our own schedules. But here I am having to find my own way, not sure which way to go.

People ask how I like retirement, but the truth is I don’t know yet. I’m used to having summers off, so the change won’t feel real until September, when the school year doesn’t begin. This summer is a time for self-reflection, as I face two major changes: building a life without teaching and life without Chuck.  

Nearly nine months since Chuck passed, I am still learning how to be on my own. Survival mode has kept me moving, but as numbness fades, the reality and emotions of loss become clearer. I know I must learn to manage the house and my time on my own, and I’m considering how to spend my days meaningfully instead of just distracting myself.

September will be here before we know it, and I want to find a rhythm to my days. My main questions: How do I want to spend my energy as I move forward?  What is important to me?  Who is important to me? Losing Chuck has made me realize that life is much shorter than we think, and that time wasted on unimportant things that don’t make a difference in our lives isn’t worth our time or energy. I have less tolerance for bickering over silly things and fretting over small details. Situations and things that once held a prominent place in my life have lost their luster. I may not have a “new normal” yet, but there certainly is a “new me.”

This summer, I am leaving myself open to the possibilities, the spontaneous invitations, the unscheduled days. I am exploring what life as a retired widow could look like. I have definitely lost my path, but I am hopeful that I will find my way.

Every Good Thing

~ rdicarne ~ 7 Comments

Last week, I was watching the Hallmark movie, To Philly With Love. One line struck me, and I wrote it in my journal.  “Every good thing in my life traces back to the day I first met you.” It has been rolling around in my head all week because it rings true for me.  Every good thing in my life traces back to the first day I met Chuck. Everything. He was my “once-in-a-lifetime” love.

This first week of summer is feeling different. This is my first summer in 52 years that I won’t be spending it with Chuck, another “first.” I don’t like these “firsts,” but I think I will like the second and third even less. I know that life will never be the same for me, and whether I like it or not, life keeps going.

I am doing my best to practice living in the moment and learning to relax while still accomplishing what needs to be done. These past eight and a half months, I have been in survival mode, working and doing the minimum to keep the house and myself running. Even with my great support system, it has been hard as hell. Now it is time for me to begin to figure out what my life is going to look like.  I hate even typing those words because I want my old life, but as the Rolling Stones say, “You can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, well, you just might find, you get what you need.”

While I was sitting on my deck this morning, I saw a beautiful bright red cardinal swoop across my yard not once but twice, into the arborvitae at the far edge of the property.  I wanted to believe it was a sign from Chuck, saying he was happy I was using the deck we had refloored last summer but had never had the chance to sit on together. Not long after, a female cardinal flew out of the arborvitae and perched on one of the fence posts. She was quickly followed by her partner, who seemed to check on her, then fly off, with her following behind. That is my sign. I know I need Chuck, and I know in my heart he is looking after me.

Here

You should be here for the next leg of the journey.

It was never yours or mine but always ours.

I refuse to carry on without you.

I only know how to live with you.

your strength

your encouragement

your smile

your love

You were the glue when I was falling apart,

my cheerleader no matter what the score.

You believed in me when my confidence faltered,

and lightened the mood when I was too serious.

You spoke the words I needed to hear,

and listened when my only words were tears.

So I carry you with me,

in my heart, my head, my soul.

I am forever yours.

You are forever mine.

This once-in-a-lifetime love is ours.

Coming Home

~ rdicarne ~ 6 Comments

Homebody – a person who likes to stay at home, especially one who is perceived as unadventurous (Oxford Language) – one whose life centers on home (Merriam-Webster).

These words accurately describe Chuck and me. When we got married in 1980, we were fortunate enough to purchase our first home together in Northeast Philadelphia. It was a 16’ airlight, red brick rowhome. We spent the months leading up to our wedding getting the house ready – cleaning, scraping, painting, breaking  down the chinchilla cage supports (that’s another story), and gathering furniture from friends and relatives to make the house our home. It didn’t matter to us that the only new furniture in the house was our bedroom set; I used to kid that our design style was the “early borrowed look.”

We loved that house and the memories we made there. We brought both of our children home from the hospital to this humble abode. Some of our best days were Saturdays when we were all home, watching WWE (WWF at the time), The Frugal Gourmet, or Professional Bowling in between chores. I would be folding laundry on the couch, and Chuck would most likely be washing and waxing the cars in the driveway out back.

Chuck was always ready to host family and friends for dinner, and he always made so much food that he could have fed a whole other set of people!  You could find us barbecuing out on the front patio or cooking up mussels and crabs with our neighbors, Mario and Sarah, for summer evening feasts.

After nine years in the city, we moved to the burbs to be closer to Chuck’s work and to get a backyard for the kids.  This time, we moved into a twin house with beige vinyl siding on a cul-de-sac with 16 homes. We were the youngest and newest residents in 1989. Over the next 36 years, our little twin played host to countless birthday celebrations, Thanksgiving dinners, Christmas Eve Feasts of the Seven Fishes, and casual get-togethers.  Sometimes, I thought I felt our little house exhale after the last guest had gone home. Chuck and I loved every minute of having family and friends visit us.

Some may have considered us unadventurous, and maybe we were, but being home together was all we ever really needed. Our home was our sanctuary, the place where we could truly be ourselves and build memories, our safe haven. No matter where we went, whether we were out for the evening or on an overnight trip, the best part was always coming home.

Now that Chuck is gone from sight, his essence remains a part of our home.  When I look around, I can visualize him in the kitchen cooking, walking up the path after running errands, or watching sports on TV from his spot on the recliner. If I listen closely enough, the walls echo with the sound of his voice, his love, and laughter, and I never feel alone.  I miss him terribly, but every time I walk into the house, I feel his presence still surrounding me with his love, and I am happy to be home.

Still Loving, Still Learning

~ rdicarne ~ 5 Comments

I’m not going to lie, this weekend was rough.  On Sunday, which would have been Chuck’s 70th birthday, there were tears, lots of tears. My morning was full.  I went to mass twice because there were two masses for Chuck at two different churches, one at 9:00 and one at 11:00. I don’t share this to suggest that I am so very holy, but rather to say that being present at both masses was in a way a birthday gift to Chuck – a way to honor him. Church is still difficult for me because it was something we did together.  I don’t think I have made it through one mass yet without a few silent tears.

These were followed by a visit to the cemetery with flowers and a small birthday balloon to mark the special day. It was hot and windy, so getting the flowers and balloon in place took a little ingenuity and a great suggestion from my daughter. I brought my collapsible stool, sat at the grave for a while, and talked to Chuck, letting him know what was on my heart, but then it got really warm, and I retreated to my car.  I love him, but this fair-skinned woman forgot to put on sunscreen.

We’ve heard the “firsts” after losing a loved one are really hard, and they are, no doubt about it.  I can’t imagine it getting any easier, but they say that it does. Next week marks eight months since Chuck passed, and I have learned more than I ever wanted to know about grief.  Grief has stages, but they are not linear; they are more like a spiral staircase to nowhere.

This weekend, I felt thrown back into the gut-wrenching stage when the initial shock wore off, and I realized that Chuck was really gone. It is more than sadness and tears.  It is a physical reaction that makes your stomach twist and turn, and your chest feel heavy through the sobbing, but that’s okay. It must have been what I needed, and I let myself feel all the feels. I am slowly learning that grief isn’t something to get through; it is something I am going to have to learn to let walk beside me.

Echoes of a Celebration

~ rdicarne ~ 12 Comments

May has arrived, bringing a specific memory of Chuck and a smile to my face. Chuck’s birthday is May 17th; he would have been 70 this year. Chuck loved his birthday. Once May 1st hit, he began the countdown to his birthday with childlike exuberance.

We would always spend a weekend in Atlantic City, NJ, to celebrate, and by now, Chuck would have called his casino host at the Golden Nugget to book a room, hoping she would upgrade us to a suite for his birthday. Next, he would create an itinerary in his head and share it with me several times.

His list included:

  • What time would we leave on Friday (I had to be sure to be ready to go as soon as I got home from school)
  • What offers he was getting from the casino (free play money, birthday money, food comps)
  • where we would eat each day of the trip
  • how much money we would bring to gamble
  • What snacks he would be packing (He never went anywhere without water and snacks in a cooler bag. You never knew when they would come in handy.)
  • what time we would leave AC to come home on Sunday

I didn’t always have the capacity to share in his excitement until it got closer to the actual day of departure, but watching his genuine joy made me so happy (even when I was hearing it for the umpteenth time and wasn’t quite listening as intently as he expected).

There will not be a casino trip this year; in fact, I haven’t been to a casino since our last trip together last August. I don’t know if or when I will visit a casino because it was so much of a “we” thing rather than a “me” thing, but the memories of our casino adventures bring me more happiness than sadness. For that, I am grateful.

Wishing and Hoping

~ rdicarne ~ 27 Comments

wish – verb

: to have a desire for (something, such as something unattainable)

What do you wish for?  When you were a child, you might have wished for a day off from school or a special present from Santa. As we get older, our wishes change. Maybe it was for the perfect job, a raise, or a promotion. I used to wish I were thinner or that we would hit the lottery.  Sometimes I wished for perfect weather or for my favorite team to win.

Can wishes come true?  Some can if you are willing to set an intention, work hard, and be patient.  Others are only pipe dreams. Since my life was turned upside down in September, I have found myself wishing for the impossible.

Widow Wishes

I wish I understood the level of grief that came with losing your spouse, so that I could have been more helpful to those widows I know who came before me, but you can never understand until you walk that path.

I wish I didn’t have to experience this pain, but unless we died simultaneously, I would be leaving Chuck with the pain, and that seems selfish.

I wish I had more time with Chuck, but I know that was not up to me, and honestly, no amount of time would have been enough.

I wish I could see into the future and know when I will be reunited with Chuck, but that wouldn’t make the waiting and living any easier.

I wish I could learn to notice all the signs I believe Chuck is sending me, but I also believe he is near and watching over me, even when I don’t see them.

It is okay to wish, but wishing away your life is not healthy or productive. I am working on changing “I wish” to “I hope.”  

hope – verb

: to cherish a desire with anticipation : to want something to happen or be true

 My hope is to continue to work through my grief and learn to allow it to live beside me, not consume me. I had many hopes for the future. Now, that future looks different, but it is a future nonetheless.

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