A former neighbor, an experienced grief counselor, said to me soon after Dianne died, "You will know your grief work is done when all your memories become memories of celebration, rather than memories of loss". Now there is a man who can speak of grief from personal experience. His first wife died. His second wife was diagnosed with MS a few years ago, and is now wheelchair bound. They have had to move out of Foxborough to a downtown condominium, with elevators.
In any case, I was permitted a glimpse of that Nirvana of celebration at lunch time today. On Wednesdays, during the summer, I get to have the privilege of granddaughter Molly's sunny company. That is a mid week ray of light, and a celebration in itself, during my lonely week. I usually try to do something special with her on Wednesdays. Today, we went to Andre's for lunch. For those not in KC, Ande's is a swiss chocolatier and dessert maker extraordinaire. It was a delight to see her enjoy the selection of the menu, and her special dessert. Andre's was a place where Dianne and I would, on occasion, go for special events or celebrations. For a brief, fleeting moment I celebrated the connection with happiness.
Waves of grief sweep over me at times, like hot flashes do to women. I am learning not to fight those waves, but to embrace them, and the wave disappears more quickly now than it did at the beginning of all this, and I am resigning myself less to tears.
Over the last two days, I have received observations from two respected people. The first is my dentist, in Lawrence, whom I have been seeing professionally for 23 years. He spoke of watching his father deal with the death of his mother, ten years ago. His father used to say that the silence was awful. Joe said it took his father at least a year to process and handle it all. Another friend, in his late forties, mourned the death of an older male companion, lost to Alzheimer's Disease. Again that magic, rounded one year period of time came up. So, it looks as if I will have to be patient a while yet.
But I do see some improvement and decrease in the sadness over all. I would like to quote Nicholas Wolterstorff again:
"By His wounds we are healed." In the wounds of Christ is humanity's healing.
Do our wounds also heal? This gaping wound in my chest - does it heal? What before I did not see, I now see; what before I did not feel, I now feel. But this raw bleeding cavity which needs so much healing, does it heal while waiting for healing? We are the body of Christ on earth. Does that mean that some of our wounds are his wounds, and that some of our wounds heal?
Is our suffering ever redemptive? I suppose the blood of the martyrs sometimes was. It was an instrument of God's peace. But my suffering over my son (wife), which I did not choose and would never choose: does that bring peace? How? To whom?
Is there something more to say than that death is the mortal enemy of peace? Can suffering over death - not living at peace with death, but suffering in the face of death - bring peace?
I leave you today to wrestle with the issue he raises, while I get ready for the proposed trip to Denver tomorrow. Peace, love and compassion be with you all. Geoff
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Lament
My kind friend, who visited last night, left with me, a book, called "Lament for a Son", by Nicholas Wolterstorff, Pub. William B. Eerdmans Pub.Co. Grand Rapids, Michigan. 1987 ISBN0-8028-0294-X.
Although I did not lose a son, much of what he writes so resonates with me, that I will quote his words, changed slightly, to reflect my situation.
"She was a gift to us for 53 years. When the gift was finally snatched away, I realized how great it was. Then I could not tell her. An outpouring of letters arrived, many expressing appreciation for Di. They all made me weep again: each word of praise a stab of loss. How can I be thankful, in her gone-ness, for what she was? I find I am. But the pain of the no more outweighs the gratitude of the once was. Will it always be so? I didn't know how much I loved her until she was gone. Is love like that?"
The story is one of incredible poignancy. The author, Nicholas Wolterstorff, was a professor of Philosophical Theology at Yale Divinity School, New Haven, CT. One sunny Sunday afternoon, he received a telephone call to tell him that his 25 year old son had been killed in a climbing accident, while climbing alone, in Austria. He had to fly to Austria, claim his son's broken body, and bring him home for burial in the US. He decided to publish this book containing his very private thoughts "...in the hope that some of those who sit beside us on the mourning bench for children would find my words giving voice to their own honoring and grieving".
He hits on so many reminders and thoughts that are common to people mourning the loss of a loved one, And, like others, in the same boat, asks "Where is God (and, or Christ) in all this?"
So far, I have found no satisfying answers. But the book is well worth reading by grieving people, particularly those grieving the loss of a child. We find we are not alone in our feeling and doubts.
Tired tonight. Trip to Denver, to see our eldest son, planned in a couple of days. Don 't know whether I will have time to write during the trip. Peace and love be with you all. Geoff
Although I did not lose a son, much of what he writes so resonates with me, that I will quote his words, changed slightly, to reflect my situation.
"She was a gift to us for 53 years. When the gift was finally snatched away, I realized how great it was. Then I could not tell her. An outpouring of letters arrived, many expressing appreciation for Di. They all made me weep again: each word of praise a stab of loss. How can I be thankful, in her gone-ness, for what she was? I find I am. But the pain of the no more outweighs the gratitude of the once was. Will it always be so? I didn't know how much I loved her until she was gone. Is love like that?"
The story is one of incredible poignancy. The author, Nicholas Wolterstorff, was a professor of Philosophical Theology at Yale Divinity School, New Haven, CT. One sunny Sunday afternoon, he received a telephone call to tell him that his 25 year old son had been killed in a climbing accident, while climbing alone, in Austria. He had to fly to Austria, claim his son's broken body, and bring him home for burial in the US. He decided to publish this book containing his very private thoughts "...in the hope that some of those who sit beside us on the mourning bench for children would find my words giving voice to their own honoring and grieving".
He hits on so many reminders and thoughts that are common to people mourning the loss of a loved one, And, like others, in the same boat, asks "Where is God (and, or Christ) in all this?"
So far, I have found no satisfying answers. But the book is well worth reading by grieving people, particularly those grieving the loss of a child. We find we are not alone in our feeling and doubts.
Tired tonight. Trip to Denver, to see our eldest son, planned in a couple of days. Don 't know whether I will have time to write during the trip. Peace and love be with you all. Geoff
Monday, July 5, 2010
Independence weekend
Today I spent most of the day entering data for the Quicken program. This Di used to do, until she became so ill that she could no longer do it. By that time I was so busy that I couldn't do it either, so we fell behind. I am now caught up. Some of the data entered referred back to our last trip to the Mayo Clinic in November, 2010. What a desperate time that was! And what a desperate trip back that was!
Di was in such terrible pain with her huge mouth ulcers, in turn the result of her low white cell count. We stopped overnight in Des Moines for bladder and diabetic care. Di was in such pain that she couldn't sleep, and, despite the "bladder botox", had to get up frequently to urinate. I wasn't sure I could drive all the way back, with so little sleep, but knew, if I didn't, there was no other way of getting back. She would have to be hospitalized in Des Moines and, perhaps, die without her family around her. So, I just saddled up, and drove straight back, taking her directly to St. Luke's South Hospital. Neither of us was sure she would make it, but Di sat stoically. till we got there. There in the ER, she began to receive strong pain relieving medicine, with IV fluids, and began to revive over a few days. Thus began her last three months on this earth.
She must have felt so awful most of this time, but she did not complain - just tried so very hard to do what was asked of her. She got paler and paler, as her hemoglobin level fell so rapidly and continuously necessitating recurrent transfusions, every 2-3 weeks. And there was nothing else I could do to save her. I felt utterly without power, and absolutely helpless in the face of this cruel disease.
We had her presence for three months more, and, during that time Gillian was able to come over, to see her, and spend some very pleasant time with her, doing mother-daughter things. Thank God for that time, though I fretted over its rapid passage.
Often I wish my faith were stronger; how, instead of beginning my prayers with "God if you're out there......", I could say "See God, there is this mustard seed!"
I seem not to have been able to see what everyone else was seeing, that the treatment was not working, and the end was rapidly approaching.
Bob H., a kind and good friend from EFM days come over tonight, to be with me and talk. Loneliness is awful at present, until I can reassemble myself, and develop a bigger circle of friends. Like the psychologist, Bob emphasized the necessity of tears to deal with grief, in that it opens the depth of the emotions and gives permission for other people to experience it also. Bob, you are a kind and gentle friend.
Good night all, and love. Tomorrow is a busy day including a trip to Lawrence. May God bless all who are reading this blog, and may His peace and love descend upon you. Geoff.
Di was in such terrible pain with her huge mouth ulcers, in turn the result of her low white cell count. We stopped overnight in Des Moines for bladder and diabetic care. Di was in such pain that she couldn't sleep, and, despite the "bladder botox", had to get up frequently to urinate. I wasn't sure I could drive all the way back, with so little sleep, but knew, if I didn't, there was no other way of getting back. She would have to be hospitalized in Des Moines and, perhaps, die without her family around her. So, I just saddled up, and drove straight back, taking her directly to St. Luke's South Hospital. Neither of us was sure she would make it, but Di sat stoically. till we got there. There in the ER, she began to receive strong pain relieving medicine, with IV fluids, and began to revive over a few days. Thus began her last three months on this earth.
She must have felt so awful most of this time, but she did not complain - just tried so very hard to do what was asked of her. She got paler and paler, as her hemoglobin level fell so rapidly and continuously necessitating recurrent transfusions, every 2-3 weeks. And there was nothing else I could do to save her. I felt utterly without power, and absolutely helpless in the face of this cruel disease.
We had her presence for three months more, and, during that time Gillian was able to come over, to see her, and spend some very pleasant time with her, doing mother-daughter things. Thank God for that time, though I fretted over its rapid passage.
Often I wish my faith were stronger; how, instead of beginning my prayers with "God if you're out there......", I could say "See God, there is this mustard seed!"
I seem not to have been able to see what everyone else was seeing, that the treatment was not working, and the end was rapidly approaching.
Bob H., a kind and good friend from EFM days come over tonight, to be with me and talk. Loneliness is awful at present, until I can reassemble myself, and develop a bigger circle of friends. Like the psychologist, Bob emphasized the necessity of tears to deal with grief, in that it opens the depth of the emotions and gives permission for other people to experience it also. Bob, you are a kind and gentle friend.
Good night all, and love. Tomorrow is a busy day including a trip to Lawrence. May God bless all who are reading this blog, and may His peace and love descend upon you. Geoff.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
An emoting place
Service at the cathedral this morning, and singing in the Summer Choir. It is the site of Di's Memorial service and site of the interment of her ashes. We always have a short "chat" when I go down there, and I tell her how much I miss her, but that it is going to be OK, eventually. I am pushing along the trail alone, and I will make it.
Sometimes I ask myself, "What was all this struggle about? What did we leave behind?" For those starting out on the marriage journey, I hope we have left behind an example - an example of love in action, when tough times come. I hope that does not sound self aggrandizing.
Always, I have been such a control freak that I felt that God would give me a lesson in dependency before I died, making me totally dependent on some else for care. Instead, it was Dianne who paid my price. One can 't be more dependent than being quadriplegic. I just hope I was sensitive enough to her needs, to comfort and inspire her. Post operatively, when she had her endotracheal tube removed. she told me she had wanted to die, when she first found herself quadriplegic, lying in that awful Shawnee Mission Hospital. While I could understand those feelings, the statement shocked me at first. I am not sure that she ever decided consciously to live, after that, or rather just decided to go along to see what happened in terms of recovery,reserving the right to die if things didn't go well. Certainly, at the end, she was very much further along the road to embracing death than I was. Not long before her death, Dianne told a long time friend that she was tired and was ready to go, but she was not sure that I was ready to let her go. For being obtuse in that regard, I am sorry, my love. I was always ready with the next medical strategy, to try to prolong her life. when Di was tired of trying to dig herself out of holes, and ready to give up the struggle. Even her hospitalist told me one day "There is more fight in you than there is in Dianne". Coming from her physician that shocked me, but, in retrospect, I have to admit its truth. In the end, I never should have allowed her to go to that nursing home. That was an awful experience for her, and I am sure that, while there, she decided to give up and await the end, when she found herself making no progress with her PT. But I am glad, at least. that we brought her home in time to die at home, surrounded by the family she loved so deeply. A visitor to our home that day said, "I have never witnessed so much love as I did in your home that day!"
Rest in peace and love my dear friend, You have given us all such a towering gift of love over our combined lives. How can we ever repay it, other that to pay it forward? Love to all Dad/Geoff, and love to you too Di, my spirit.
Sometimes I ask myself, "What was all this struggle about? What did we leave behind?" For those starting out on the marriage journey, I hope we have left behind an example - an example of love in action, when tough times come. I hope that does not sound self aggrandizing.
Always, I have been such a control freak that I felt that God would give me a lesson in dependency before I died, making me totally dependent on some else for care. Instead, it was Dianne who paid my price. One can 't be more dependent than being quadriplegic. I just hope I was sensitive enough to her needs, to comfort and inspire her. Post operatively, when she had her endotracheal tube removed. she told me she had wanted to die, when she first found herself quadriplegic, lying in that awful Shawnee Mission Hospital. While I could understand those feelings, the statement shocked me at first. I am not sure that she ever decided consciously to live, after that, or rather just decided to go along to see what happened in terms of recovery,reserving the right to die if things didn't go well. Certainly, at the end, she was very much further along the road to embracing death than I was. Not long before her death, Dianne told a long time friend that she was tired and was ready to go, but she was not sure that I was ready to let her go. For being obtuse in that regard, I am sorry, my love. I was always ready with the next medical strategy, to try to prolong her life. when Di was tired of trying to dig herself out of holes, and ready to give up the struggle. Even her hospitalist told me one day "There is more fight in you than there is in Dianne". Coming from her physician that shocked me, but, in retrospect, I have to admit its truth. In the end, I never should have allowed her to go to that nursing home. That was an awful experience for her, and I am sure that, while there, she decided to give up and await the end, when she found herself making no progress with her PT. But I am glad, at least. that we brought her home in time to die at home, surrounded by the family she loved so deeply. A visitor to our home that day said, "I have never witnessed so much love as I did in your home that day!"
Rest in peace and love my dear friend, You have given us all such a towering gift of love over our combined lives. How can we ever repay it, other that to pay it forward? Love to all Dad/Geoff, and love to you too Di, my spirit.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
A Journey of a Thousand MIles begins with a Single Step
How true it is that one must embrace one's grief. The instinctive reaction, when feelings of grief arise, is to shun them and push them from you, to try to suppress those feelings. But that really is avoidance behavior, and does nothing to help ease the problem, or lighten the mood. My experience is that it is better simply to let those feelings of grief wash over one, shed a tear or two if one must, (tears are still never far away). But then the feeling passes, more and more quickly with ever passing day, as one deals with those feelings by experiencing them.
Perhaps as distressing, or perhaps even more distressing for me, is that feeling of mental dullness, that CS Lewis described as "....like a blanket between the world and me". There is no drive and alacrity, just dull, uninspired progress, putting one foot mechanically after another. I long for this stage to pass, so I can find some passion again.
However, in contrast to a few weeks ago, I am now looking forward to my cruise to Australia to see our daughter and family. Back then I felt perhaps I should simply cancel. While we keep in close telephone contact with Gillian and family, it is never quite the same as being there, , and being an intimate part of their ongoing, day to day lives.
There was one amusing incident yesterday. We have a Skye terrier, one of the most wilful of the terriers - Logan's Mistake. Each morning Ella gets her one mile walk quite early, before it gets too hot. For the last couple of days there has been a cooked T-bone steak by the side of the road, in the grassy verge. each day I have pulled her away from it, fearing it might be a "poison bait". Yesterday morning, during the "pulling away" she slipped her collar, went back and picked up the irresistible steak, and took off. She then headed home, keeping just far enough ahead of me so that I could not catch her. She knew her way home absolutely, and proceeded to go out on the back deck, and consume her bounty. Now, 24 hours later, she seems healthy, and my concerns about poison seems to have been unjustified. She misses Dianne's presence, and follows me from room to room during the day, as if to say, "Are you going away also?"
One needs to try and focus more on the present, the here and now, and not ruminate on the past so much.
I was regretting the past and fearing the future. Suddenly God was speaking.
My name is "I AM"
I waited. God continued, "When you live in the past, with its mistakes and regrets, it is hard. I am not there. My name is not "I was".
When you live in the future, with its problems and fears, it is hard. I am not there.
My name is not "I will be".
When you live in his moment, it is not hard. I am here.
My name is "I Am"
Said to have been found on the kitchen wall of the Ranch Guesthouse, St. Benedict's Monastery, Snowmass, Colorado. Published in "One Hundred Graces" Bell Tower, New York, 1992
Perhaps as distressing, or perhaps even more distressing for me, is that feeling of mental dullness, that CS Lewis described as "....like a blanket between the world and me". There is no drive and alacrity, just dull, uninspired progress, putting one foot mechanically after another. I long for this stage to pass, so I can find some passion again.
However, in contrast to a few weeks ago, I am now looking forward to my cruise to Australia to see our daughter and family. Back then I felt perhaps I should simply cancel. While we keep in close telephone contact with Gillian and family, it is never quite the same as being there, , and being an intimate part of their ongoing, day to day lives.
There was one amusing incident yesterday. We have a Skye terrier, one of the most wilful of the terriers - Logan's Mistake. Each morning Ella gets her one mile walk quite early, before it gets too hot. For the last couple of days there has been a cooked T-bone steak by the side of the road, in the grassy verge. each day I have pulled her away from it, fearing it might be a "poison bait". Yesterday morning, during the "pulling away" she slipped her collar, went back and picked up the irresistible steak, and took off. She then headed home, keeping just far enough ahead of me so that I could not catch her. She knew her way home absolutely, and proceeded to go out on the back deck, and consume her bounty. Now, 24 hours later, she seems healthy, and my concerns about poison seems to have been unjustified. She misses Dianne's presence, and follows me from room to room during the day, as if to say, "Are you going away also?"
One needs to try and focus more on the present, the here and now, and not ruminate on the past so much.
I was regretting the past and fearing the future. Suddenly God was speaking.
My name is "I AM"
I waited. God continued, "When you live in the past, with its mistakes and regrets, it is hard. I am not there. My name is not "I was".
When you live in the future, with its problems and fears, it is hard. I am not there.
My name is not "I will be".
When you live in his moment, it is not hard. I am here.
My name is "I Am"
Said to have been found on the kitchen wall of the Ranch Guesthouse, St. Benedict's Monastery, Snowmass, Colorado. Published in "One Hundred Graces" Bell Tower, New York, 1992
Friday, July 2, 2010
Reminders
Today I began the unbearably sad task of disposing of Di's clothes, starting with the work out clothes that she used during the time of her rehabilitation. She worked so hard and so courageously at rehab, only to have it all snatched away from her. Often I wonder if I could have been so courageous and so optimistic, and work so hard towards an uncertain recovery.
Those clothes I washed,dried, and hung up daily, and helped her to dress, in an effort to keep her looking "spiffy", when her coordination was poor due to weakness and spinal cord damage, and food spilled. She always took pride in looking neat and groomed, and it was my pleasure to try to keep her that way.
The whole house is a memorial to Dianne. We created that house together, design, decoration, gardens. We spent hours talking and working with our interior decorator, choosing colors for walls and carpets, switches and trim. Everything was discussed and negotiated. The house was built especially for us, and we lived in it longer than we lived in any other house during our 53 years of married life, and had a bountiful family life.
There are needlework hangings, hand worked by Di, sweaters knitted by Di, Australiana collected by Di and me, photos of children and grandchildren, quilts made by our daughter for Di and me, participating in the innumerable happy family times we had in that house. What great memories! The "joys of ferocious family living" is a phrase I heard for the first time last year - and it fits. The house is a living monument to Dianne. At every turn there are heart catching, powerful reminders of her remarkable craft abilities, her humanity, her influence, the love she had for and gave to other people, and the love that other people had for her.
Tomorrow, our daughter in law from Lawrence will come down and help me with the clothes. One problem is that Dianne was such a small person that very few of her clothes fit other family members. So they will mostly go to small strangers, via established charities.
When I reread these posts in the future, I will hope to discern a pattern of walking towards the light of happiness and joy again. But in this transitional stage there is not a lot of joy, though almost imperceptibly, the sadness may be lessening. I am so grateful for friends who will take, or make the time to listen, and empathize. At this stage of grief journey it is all about me, and my perceived loss - very self centered. But I am equally sure that the path to happiness lies in looking outside oneself, doing something for others. It reminds me of a short grace, in a little book of graces that we have:
"I slept and dreamt that Life was joy, I awoke and saw that Life was service, I acted and B.E.H.O.L.D, service was joy." Rabindranath Tagore (1861 - 1941)
Those clothes I washed,dried, and hung up daily, and helped her to dress, in an effort to keep her looking "spiffy", when her coordination was poor due to weakness and spinal cord damage, and food spilled. She always took pride in looking neat and groomed, and it was my pleasure to try to keep her that way.
The whole house is a memorial to Dianne. We created that house together, design, decoration, gardens. We spent hours talking and working with our interior decorator, choosing colors for walls and carpets, switches and trim. Everything was discussed and negotiated. The house was built especially for us, and we lived in it longer than we lived in any other house during our 53 years of married life, and had a bountiful family life.
There are needlework hangings, hand worked by Di, sweaters knitted by Di, Australiana collected by Di and me, photos of children and grandchildren, quilts made by our daughter for Di and me, participating in the innumerable happy family times we had in that house. What great memories! The "joys of ferocious family living" is a phrase I heard for the first time last year - and it fits. The house is a living monument to Dianne. At every turn there are heart catching, powerful reminders of her remarkable craft abilities, her humanity, her influence, the love she had for and gave to other people, and the love that other people had for her.
Tomorrow, our daughter in law from Lawrence will come down and help me with the clothes. One problem is that Dianne was such a small person that very few of her clothes fit other family members. So they will mostly go to small strangers, via established charities.
When I reread these posts in the future, I will hope to discern a pattern of walking towards the light of happiness and joy again. But in this transitional stage there is not a lot of joy, though almost imperceptibly, the sadness may be lessening. I am so grateful for friends who will take, or make the time to listen, and empathize. At this stage of grief journey it is all about me, and my perceived loss - very self centered. But I am equally sure that the path to happiness lies in looking outside oneself, doing something for others. It reminds me of a short grace, in a little book of graces that we have:
"I slept and dreamt that Life was joy, I awoke and saw that Life was service, I acted and B.E.H.O.L.D, service was joy." Rabindranath Tagore (1861 - 1941)
Thursday, July 1, 2010
The journey through the valley of the shadow of death
The journey into the shadow continues. One feels that one is in the shadow of a huge mountain that can only be climbed with great effort. And one wonders whether there is enough strength within one to tackle the ascent.
Parable of Immortality, Henry van Dyke, 1852 -1933
Someone younger reading this might say, "What's all the complaining about? You knew it was coming didn't you. After all you said in your marriage vows ....till death do us part. Now it has actually happened, why are you whining? And you did say, didn't you, in your introduction to the blog that she had a long final illness? So you must have had plenty of warning?"
Unfortunately grief just doesn't seem to work like that. There seems to be no way to prepare. Long tough illnesses, and the privilege of caregiving related to them, serve only to strengthen the relationship, and make it more intimate, making the disruption of it more painful.
The only way I can function at the moment is not by going around like someone who has had a major part of himself ripped way. I feel that Di's spirit is still with me. We are still a duo. I just can't see her. There is that old poem that says:
I am standing by the seashore.
A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze
and starts for the blue ocean.
She is an object of beauty and strength, and I stand and watch
until at last she hangs like a peck of white cloud
just where the sun and the sky come down to mingle with each other.
Then someone at my side says, "There she goes!
Gone where? Gone from my sight - that is all. She is just as large in mast and hull and spar
as she was when she left my side
and just as able to bear her load of living freight
to the places of destination.
Her diminished size is in me, not in her.
And just at that moment when someone at my side says,
"There she goes!",
There are other eyes watching her coming,
and other voices ready to take up the glad shout:
"Here she comes!"
Parable of Immortality, Henry van Dyke, 1852 -1933
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