What Doesn’t Kill Us Leaves Us Scarred

Nine years ago on this date, I awoke in the middle of the night knowing something was very wrong with me, by daybreak I could barely move. My husband was on a business trip and we’d just moved to our apartment building three months prior. I knew and had no one. My only thought was the walking of my dog. I called down to the front desk, gasping in a whisper; “is there anyone who can walk my dog?” I think I heard laughter. I got myself and my dog downstairs and held on to walls and wrought iron fences as we slowly made our way down the block. I had to rest every few steps.

My brother agreed to do that evening’s walk and my husband was home by the next morning. Later that next day, I sat in a doctor’s office silently crying and panting as she told my husband she refused to treat me as I belonged in the hospital. My husband, defying his lifelong need to be liked by strangers, explained that I would never agree to that. He was still recovering from the devastating hospital borne infection (C.Diff) and was still injecting himself with blood thinner from the post-surgical blood clot the hospital staff missed. I had been his caretaker and advocate and the experience left me even more distrusting of hospitals, if such a thing were possible. The doctor very reluctantly stuck an agreement with us: we were to call her every four hours for forty-eight hours with a temperature update.

It took me six months to fully recover from that pneumonia. A dear friend who had not been well for awhile succumbed to the illness as I emerged from the fever. Her funeral was my first time leaving the house. A month later my 12-year old bichon, overcome with a discomfort he couldn’t communicate, hid under a table and died a week later. 2010 was by far the worst year I had ever experienced. The pneumonia changed my body and mindset. My friend was far too young to die. And our dog was the best thing that had ever happened to us. It wasn’t my first time at the tragedy rodeo, but this particular trifecta was so dramatic and happened so rapidly. If anyone had told me; “oh honey, it’s gonna get so much worse.” I would’ve checked myself into a facility until it all passed.

The fact is that those advertising disclaimers are true: past performance is no indication of future outcomes. An awful childhood, doesn’t protect from crap things happening in adulthood. Misery is not metered out. There is no suffering or trauma quota. And there’s no healthy way to get more resilient or less human. The best one can hope for is to become laser focused on the light in one’s life. If I can focus on what I do have, while periodically admiring the scenery of my past life, I’m okay. Every night I have thoughts of gratitude, the first thing on the list is always the same: I am grateful that my dog is healthy and I am strong.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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It’s Beginning To Look A Lot Like A Light At The End Of A Tunnel

This is a difficult season for many. Whether your life includes grief, loss or run of the mill disappointment, being barraged by messages of joy, family and abundance can be oppressive. Recalling shared traditions and past celebrations can be a punch to the lonely gut. For me this is the winding down of a breath-holding four months. Of course I miss my husband and our winter rituals. I can recall our first New Year’s Eve: we had been dating for three months and had gone our separate ways for Christmas (he on a divorced dad guilt fueled trip to Mexico with his adult children, and me on a grandparent pity paid for trip to Florida) and planned to reconnect on New Year’s Eve at his house in front of the fire. I don’t recall the food or beverage but I do remember the music and his face as he explained how illuminating our separation had been to him. He told me he loved me and immediately began to plan our wedding. It was a marriage-long thorn (that I repeatedly thrust) in his side that he never properly proposed. But the truth is, New Year’s Eve always have felt like the anniversary of a proposal. But even with that wonderful and heartbreaking memory, the last week of the year is easier for me than the four months prior.

Each September I brace myself for my holidays (Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur) without him. Some years I simply pretend they are not happening which is really challenging when you live in New York City! Just as I’m catching my breath from the loss of my family of choice and a family of origin that does not engage in anything remotely traditional, my wedding anniversary occurs! Yay! If I’m particularly unlucky the weather is exactly as it was that gorgeous fall day. No one acknowledges the day (even those that wore matching clothes and walked down the aisle with us) and it just may the loneliest day of the year for me.  But wait! In just a few weeks it’s my birthday! (There’s a reason the month was dubbed “Brentober” in our house.) My husband made a big deal out of the whole thing. Dare I admit that for the last ten years of our marriage there was a small gift each morning of the month? We’d spend my entire birthday together, even if that meant me accompanying him on business trips. For the last few years we dined in the same restaurant, that has mercifully closed. Quite simply, it was really fun. There has been kindness and even some festivity on my birthday since then, as well as the self-awareness that I’m a grown-ass woman and can celebrate myself. But still…And just as I’m finishing off the birthday cake the yarhzeit (anniversary of his death) arrives and then Thanksgiving (unless I’m really having a shit year and they land on the same day.) It is lonely and horrible and terribly terribly sad, but I get through it. So you see, by the time “the holidays” come along, all I’m really seeing is the light at the end of the tunnel.

It helps that Christmas isn’t really my holiday and I feel perfectly comfortable being an outsider on that day. My family of origin did not go to the movies or have Chinese food (Jewish Christmas Day rituals), in fact one side of my family had a Christmas tree and presents. My husband and I did celebrate the holiday for about ten years, and I cherish those memories. But I do not feel left behind (as I have since September). I watch my favorite Christmas movies, decorate with a few snow-globes and feel grateful to be warm, safe and still here. New Year’s Eve stings a bit for the memories it conjures and the reality that it’s a very romantic night. However this year I’ll be doing something completely different. On New Year’s Eve I will be on a plane, headed to the beach with my 5-pound rescue dog. It will be an adventure (I’ve never flown with a pet, and he’s never flown!) and most importantly, something completely new. My hope is that I will be so focused and busy that there won’t be time to reminisce. The plan is to awake on the first day of 2019 with the sound and smell of the ocean and the warmth of a snuggling pup.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Being Alive

Over the course of one week I experienced two significant anniversaries: it has now been five years since my husband died and nine years since I’ve lived in my home. I’m a numbers gal, always have been, so these kinds of things really resonate. Even if you’re math averse no doubt you’ve gleaned that I’ve now been in this home longer without him than I was with him. It is also the longest I’ve lived anywhere in my entire life. For real.

By the time I was in 4th grade I think I’d lived in about 13 places and attended perhaps 5 schools. Needless to say, I don’t have many romantic notions about a homestead. I do however have many feelings about stability. I abhor surprises and above all else, I like to be told. Mr. Rogers did and said many things that spoke to me (he was most definitely my surrogate parent) but it was his song “I Like To Be Told” that made me feel so seen.  So yes, given my druthers I probably would never move, let alone dozens of times in my life. It is no wonder that it takes me no more than 24-hours to fully unpack. I love stability. Have I mentioned that? I could eat the same lunch every day for the rest of my lunch. I am like a dog with my love of routine. I don’t love to travel (see every word I’ve written above) but do enjoy the planning and packing. Those days or weeks imagining myself in another place are usually more fun that the realty. I’d rather read about travel or watch someone far more adventurous than myself (with a stylist and personal assistant just off-camera) traipse through the Swiss alps. I simply don’t like the unknown. Is that a product of so much moving? Probably not. The moving was simply the fall-out from a very unpredictable childhood. (Having to move across town and away from your four best friends because your mother can’t get along with the neighbors is about one’s parents’ unpredictability not about real estate.)

Going though life having stability as one’s guiding light is not ideal. I’d like to think that with age and repeated upheaval I’ve gotten less rigid. And I probably have. About stuff that really doesn’t matter. Change in plans? Okay. Purchasing a one-way ticket? Sure, I’ll try that. But the big stuff is still the big stuff. It’s been five years and I still become a bit nervous going out alone at night or having to make big financial decisions. I still at times feel paralyzed after five years. I spent the first year stunned and furiously taking care of legal business. While I did have to take care of everything myself, I had people who were always “there” for me. I felt somewhat taken care of by my “village” for the first year. I began casually dating the next year and had a few “relationships”. I loved the familiarity of the relationship routines and at times felt whole again. But over time I grew less resilient to disappointment (middle-aged men can be very very disappointing – it simply never dawned on me that they wouldn’t have learned how to be nice by now.). Not surprisingly, by the time I grew tired of dating, my support circle had dispersed. Well of course they had! They have their lives to lead and presumably I should have made one for myself by now.

Five year is a long time. I still get mail addressed to him and have memories so strong and sudden that they stop me in my tracks. But I’ve lived in this place longer without him than with him. For five months I have parented a dog (for the first time) without him. In other words, time is definitely marching on. I look different than I did five years ago. My hair is longer and my skin is getting a bit saggy in places. Other than that I’ve really nothing to show for these past five years except that I’m still here. I am still in the apartment I chose partly for the sunken living room which I (very wrongly) predicted would be suitable for a hospital bed when the time came. (You tend to think that way when your spouse is 19 year older than yourself.) I look around and realize that the place has changed as little as I have; a hallway painted, some chairs moved, a bathroom refurbished. But mostly everything is just the same except he’s not here. That seems wrong. He took up so much room. He was a big man in every sense. I feel there should be a visible chasm, right here in the living room. There should be some physical representation of the enormity of the loss (besides the bags under my eyes.)

I’m proud of myself for surviving. During the past five years I have never engaged in destructive behavior or done anything (too) rash. I’ve gotten out of bed every single day. I have tried new things and new people. None of these accomplishments are small or should be dismissed. But I honest to G-d thought that by now I’d be “all better” and have a new life. Let’s face it, I watch too many movies and tend to believe they are actually real. The five year anniversary was  disorienting in its intensity. I was gutted for a week. I listened (for the first time) to voice mails I had frantically had tech support save. I took out a photo of us with our (late) Bichon. I lit a yarhzeit candle for the first time. I made his favorite foods and even ate some of them. It felt sacred, raw, recent, sad and powerful. But mostly it felt jarring. How could I still be feeling the loss of him so strongly? The sorrow was deep inside and on the surface at the same time. I spoke to him all that day, something I very rarely do. And I admitted to him what I am to you right now: I never expected to feel this alone after this much time.

 

 

 

 

Rescue Me

There’s a glossy studio portrait of my little family. Set in front of a dark backdrop, my husband and I stand holding our “boys”; Jacques and Maurice (a Bichon and Maltese). It was a marketing device for when we were a Faculty Family in Residence for college freshmen. That photo was replicated into posters and plastered in the elevators and hallways, advertising our events to “our” students.

I came across that 5×7 photo a few years ago and let out an audible gasp. I am the only surviving member and have authorized the cremation of everyone else. I tucked that photo away along with that life. I loved being a wife and “mother” more than anything else. Ever. I have worked (what feels like tirelessly) for the past few years trying to reclaim happiness and create some sort of life. I’ve taken jobs (paid and otherwise) and partners (worthy and not). I’ve traveled and homesteaded. I’ve had more false starts than I care to track. I have confused taking care of people with creating a life for myself. And at the end of the day, it’s the end of the day. There is no one waiting there for me.

I’ve tried basking in my untethered life. I’ve flitted and flighted and had some interesting experiences. About a year and a half ago I met a neighbor’s cat and was overjoyed to babysit whenever possible. How delicious to have this tiny creature roam my home and snuggle and suffocate me with love. When he would leave I would miss him and remind myself that only loaners are allowed. I cannot and will not put myself through that pain again. I cannot sign those papers. I cannot be the lone survivor yet again.

A couple of weeks ago I flighted to a childhood friend’s beach house. I was greeted by her tiny shih tzu Leo and I fell hard, it was love at first lick. She and I sat on the beach while I peppered her with questions about being a single mother. The idea was overwhelming and thrilling. Could I really do this? Have I become strong enough to let myself do it? Will this change my life for good or bad? What about my allergies, my travel, my…my…oh to hell with it, I’m getting a dog. Less than two weeks later, Marty the rescue Maltese is home. It’s been 72-hours of emotional roller coastering. I am utterly gobsmacked by how much I am missing my husband. We co-parented so well together and taught each other and the dogs so much. I look at Marty’s sweet face and start to cry. My husband would’ve loved him so much. Last night, when I once again acquiesced and put his crate on my bed, I could see my husband lying on his side of the bed and gazing adoringly at that tiny face. It took my breath away. In 4 1/2 years, I have never felt his presence as I do right now. I had thought that getting a dog would be a new beginning, and maybe it will some day. Right now it feels like a very big ending. Taking jobs and partners was just about me trying new things. This is different. This is making a new family without him and no matter how good it is, I know it would’ve been so much better with him.