Tag Archives: life

A Year of Mourning

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It will be a year tomorrow, on June 26, that I held my husband in my arms for the last time as he took his final breath. It was a year of sorrow, tears, blessings and joy. Isn’t that what a life is? A mixture of feelings squashed together, wringing the worst and best out of us.

It was a long year, yet a short year with some days slowly marching through the minutes and seconds, and other days soaring fast from sunrise to sunset.

The last few years with my husband were difficult because of his dementia. Caring for him was hard. If you haven’t experienced it, it is hard to understand because there is so much you don’t see if you’re not a 24/7 person in the caregiving realm. You miss seeing the sweetness that can turn in a minute to anger, always surprising you, keeping you on edge or as the saying goes, pins and needles. Sleep is a rarity. Nighttime is difficult because of sundowning. Yet, you plod on because of love, feeling it is your responsibility to take care of someone you’ve loved and lived with for fifty or more years.

This past year my emotions have been all over the place. Living alone for the first time I faced fears that I felt were silly. But because my anxiety had been out of control while caring for my husband, it didn’t vanish overnight, it just shifted to other things. My body felt like lightning bolts were hitting me while shopping in the grocery store, or being in a large public building, or going downstairs for coffee. I wanted to hide away. I had to schedule work in my home for as small a thing as washing dishes or vacuuming. I would say to myself, “At ten I will wash dishes.” Then I would rest for hours so I could get up for my scheduled load of clothes in the wash machine at two. Small steps as these, gave me so much anxiety, I would be sick. I imagined death in the shower from a fall and no one to call for help. My mind was all over. Driving a distance made me shake, and making a commitment for an engagement made my heart pound and my body weak. I could go on, but I beat myself up on not being strong enough to get over those feelings.

I couldn’t cry anymore. I cried for years while he was sick, large tears, loud sobs and my friends and families’ shoulders were soggy every time they saw me. Some of them understood and other’s thought I was just looking for sympathy and feeling poor me. I maybe was, but not intentionally, and though I knew this, and a few people and family were avoiding me, I still couldn’t stop. I too was sick in heart and mind. I was the lowest of the low the last few years, but I had to plod on, knowing how weak my reserves were. I couldn’t be there for anyone else, not even my children. I was emotionally drained. Not being able to cry on the outside after his death stressed me out and made me feel guilty. I felt I should be crying more now than then, because he was gone.

I am healing. I no longer am afraid to take a shower. I am not afraid to be alone. I had help in that department. My beautiful cousins understood my fear and gifted me an Apple watch to wear so should I fall and need help; it would detect it. That watch became a lifeline the first few months and now too. Friends would call often and check on me. A couple friends got me out on small shopping trips at intervals and encouraged me as I shook walking through the store. A new church welcomed me in and befriended me. My family, kids and grandkids, took time for me. My daughter would pop in or take me out for coffee or a day away, and my grandchildren took day trips with me and made me laugh. My neighbors where I live made sure I was never lonely. A Pastor friend and his wife from many years ago, called sometime twice a week to just chat. There are many others I did not mention, such as my online friends who kept me going with messages and phone calls. It truly takes a village to raise a senior citizen in mourning.

My doctor said I was tired and needed rest. He felt I had PTSD from taking care of someone with dementia. I prayed, meditated, listened to music and became stronger. But I beat myself up continually in wondering if I did enough for my husband’s care. Did I fight for his health enough or could I have been more precise and demanding with the doctors? Should I have taken him off hospice to get him surgery for his back, so he didn’t have to be on so many drugs for pain? Did I spend enough time with him in memory care? Should I have fought harder when I thought the care was not what it should have been? Maybe if I had stayed with him overnights, he wouldn’t have had all the falls and had the pain associated with it. Did I let him die when I should have fought for him to live? No matter what anyone said to me those silent fears were there. I still struggle with them now a year later.

They say God puts people in our lives when we need them the most, and this past month two people entered my life. Two different situations that gave me perspective and helped me feel someone understood my weird fears.

The first is a woman who lost her husband last June too. She shared with me her attempt at taking care of someone with dementia and then living alone for the first time in her life. She couldn’t go to the store without panic attacks. She was afraid of taking a shower that she would fall. Driving distance made her shaky. She too scheduled her household chores. And she felt guilt at not being sure she had done enough. Her feelings mimicked my feelings and my insecurities. I began to feel I was normal.

Another person entered my life as a friend. They too are alone for the first time in fifty-three years. It’s a different scenario I won’t get into, but they shared with me the fear of being alone for the first time too. This friend was driving out on the road in the country, and they began a panic attack because their mind asked themself, who do they call in case the car breaks down? They weren’t prone to panic attacks until now. Eventually they realized they have many friends they can call, but they couldn’t call their spouse. This was a male person and they again helped me see life changes and anxiety spans the sexes.

I’m sharing this on the anniversary of my husband’s death so others know that the feelings they may have after the death of a spouse are their feelings, but other’s share the insecurities that to the world who have not experienced this, seem silly. Each person’s grief is different.

The good memories are back. I look at pictures, have dreams almost every night about my husband and cherish what we had. The good, the bad and the in-between. He was the love of my life. It doesn’t matter what the world saw. Marriage is joyous, difficult, loving, scary and there is no normal. Marriage is compromise and forgiveness. People need to choose on their own what they can live with and when they need to let go to live.

This year I’ve lost my sense of humor in my writing, when I can actually bring myself to write. I need to find that again. I’m learning new things such as wood burning with a laser, watercolor painting, spoon carving. I recently took a class in vibrational sound. Zip lining is on my list though I don’t know if I will complete that one. I learned I’m an introvert pretending to be an extrovert. I would be lazy in my room alone if my friends and family weren’t always pulling me out into an enticing activity. This year has been extremely busy to keep me from wallowing in grief. Now I am feeling the need for a little solitude to take care of me. My friend that I mentioned earlier is doing the same thing. She echoed my thoughts. Taking care of ourselves is one of the hardest tasks, because we were so used to taking care of our spouse. It feels decadent to spend time on us.

I have no advice for getting through losing a spouse. I’m still figuring it out. What I do know is that I have to figure me out, taking the time to find out who I want to be when I grow up, because death and losing the one you love changes you, no matter what the relationship was. Most of my adult life I was part of a couple. I am learning what it is to be me, alone for the first time, finding my path and journey for hopefully, many years to come. And cherishing the life I had.

“What is lovely never dies, but passes into another loveliness, star-dust or sea-foam, flower, or winged air.” — Thomas Bailey Aldrich

Ending The Old—Beginning the New

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It’s been a rough and tough year in my life. 2023 will go down in my mind as the most difficult year I have experienced. It’s been a year full of blessings, stuffed with caring and joy.

You might think those two statements can’t possibly both stand side by side and be true.

2023 will be marked as the year I became a widow. After years of confusion and pain and memory loss for my husband, God chose to take him home and give him peace from the PTSD he lived with because of the Vietnam War, from the pain he suffered from his back and stomach, and from the anguish he felt when he realized his mind was playing tricks on him, giving him hallucinations and fear at what was happening with his memory.

Watching someone you love suffer, blaming yourself for not doing enough, or not knowing what to do as a spouse and caregiver, destroys any semblance of sanity. The family, children, no matter their age, suffer too, and their feelings get overlooked, especially by the caregiver because the caregivers can’t get outside of their grief to help kids sort through what’s happening to their dad or mother.

And then… deep breath… there are the friends and other family members who God also chose to bring home to him, leaving us devastated at the emptiness of those people being gone.

Worst year of our lives.

The blessings. When you are reeling from the pain, the most surprising events happen. New friends pop up to lift you up, carry you and lead you through the darkness. Old friends never let you go and surround you with prayers, and knowing you so well, they sense what you need when you didn’t know you needed it.

Extended family, though separated by miles or community, come together, sharing your pain but offering memories and hope for the future by letting you know that family is forever.

The dark road you are on is lit by the kindness of others.

My road has included stops I never wanted to make, but looking back I am thankful the roadblocks included these stops. I didn’t want to sell my home and leave my community of 62 years. I didn’t want to move my husband to memory care, and I didn’t want to move again this past year to a new place and another community. However, I did. I learned lessons I never would have learned had I stayed stuck in my old life.

I met people that expanded my world. I learned a handicap and age does not have to define your life. Courageous, beautiful souls live in bodies twisted from life. They let their spirit define them.

I learned to look into people’s eyes and souls and not judge them by race or gender or age. Their hearts beat the same as mine.

I learned to look beneath the glitz of our materialistic world and see those that are missed and forgotten. Our neighbors may be one paycheck or social security check away from homelessness or food insecurity. It’s easy to judge when you haven’t experienced it.

I learned our health care system and assisted living and memory care need change so nurses and aides aren’t set up to fail by lack of training, horrible workloads and hours, because these facilities only have to staff the bare minimum. Regulations mandating enough staff are sadly lacking. Facilities shortchange staff on wages so it’s hard to be competitive with other careers. Management always seem to be compensated. Elder abuse is alive and well propagated by money and greed.

I learned even though you pay over $4000 for a room in memory care, you have to provide your own toilet paper. That may seem like a small thing but those small things add up. Not only do you pay the price for the empty room, you must provide furniture, essentials plus every little thing staff does for you, including picking you up off the floor has a charge. I learned that in assisted living, if you fall no one can help you up or give you CPR, that includes staff. You have to call 911. I learned to ask about details such as this when moving in. Not all facilities do this but many for profit establishments do.

I may not have wanted to educate myself on any of these things, however, I would have missed meeting the people that changed my life for the better, teaching me that you can smile and play during the pain of whatever situation you are in. Their quiet courage and faith moved me beyond words

I love where I now live, city and building. My building mates enrich my life. I see my family often. And it’s a new year full of possibilities. I have a new slogan, “Be careful what you don’t wish for.”

I did make a few resolutions I know I can keep. I am going to hang my toilet paper any way I choose. I don’t have to make my bed, because then I don’t mess it up at nap time. I can eat crackers in bed. I’m the only one that sleeps there and the crumbs will be gone when I wash my sheets. My clothes will be clean, but I see no need to fold my underwear, you can’t see those wrinkles. And if I choose to throw my jeans in the drawer unfolded after washing them, when I wear them, I will be coordinated, wrinkle coordinated. My wrinkled jeans will match my face.

It’s a new year. I’m going to try and learn from the old, keep the lessons I experienced close and hope I am up to the task of what I encounter in 2024.

Life is not a fairytale. It is mixed with dreams, sorrows, love, defeat, peace and pain. We can get through it if we rely on each other and lift someone up when they can’t go on, and let someone lift us up when we are buried by the facts of life. And if we are lucky, somewhere in that mix we can hold on to a tiny piece of a fairytale, allowing us to keep on dreaming and growing by our experiences

Happy New Year!

A little postscript: I was informed one of those courageous people I mentioned died. I knew her as Dee Dee. My heart is sad but I will go on always remembering her kindness that she showed my husaband and I. No matter his problems, she always made him feel valued and cared about. The sense of humor they shared together made his last months memorable. The quiet faith she and her husband shared with us at every nightly meal will stay in my heart forever. Look beyond the disability and find the heart. Dee Dee showed us hers. Rest in Peace Dee.

In the Waiting Room

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I have always been a writer. The hobby started as a child and was something my mom encouraged. She was big on documentation. I certainly believed that after she died, and I inherited all the paperwork detailing things in her long life. The paper paraphernalia weren’t always appreciated, but after she left us, those writings became more precious.

My documentation started as a diary in my early youth, in my middle years journaling, and finally as an older adult, a column called Something About Nothing in the Albert Lea Tribune. That was I think, a twelve year gig. Technology changed from writing a column to this blog.

Recently I began looking back through my journals and they were helpful in reviewing my life, bringing back memories and seeing where I have grown, and where I have been stuck. Writing and journaling has always been a way to get my feelings out and to process them, many times letting of what I was upset about because I released it in word on paper without exploding at anyone. The times I didn’t journal are the moments I wrongly exploded at people including my husband and children.

Since our life with Alzheimer’s has begun I have shared with you the ups and downs. I’ve laid bare my feelings and emotions risking the backlash and disapproval of some. It was my way of coping and as I have received wisdom from others writings I wanted to share my experiences to let readers know they are not alone. I have heard from so many of you the life path we share. We have a choice to stay private or to put our hearts out there for all to see.

Thinking back to the times I’ve sat by bedsides of my family, and those acquaintances in the nursing home where it was at one time my job to comfort people in their last hours, I believe it never gets easier no matter how frequent you’ve been in that last waiting room with someone.

Each person’s last journey is different, which makes your own experience unique. It impacts wives, children and friends in separate ways, though they are with the same person. If each person at a bedside sat down and wrote their feelings each perspective would not be the same.

The waiting room. Minutes and seconds tick off on the clock. The first person whose death I witnessed was my cousin Ervin. He was in the hospital and we came to visit. My aunt, his mother, and also his wife were there. He took a quick turn for the worse and we knew he would go to a better place soon. My aunt asked if my husband and I would stay with them. I wanted to run out of the room and go home but felt we had to stay. I had never seen anyone die before and I was scared of my reaction, and instead of being a comfort, I would be a problem. I need not have worried. I held it together and kept my aunt close and my cousins death was peaceful.

A few years later my mom called me to be with my uncle, my dad’s brother. My mom left and he got worse. I was left with the choice of life support. I knew he didn’t want that and he had lived his life. I was there when he too left this earth.

There have been other occasions to sit with my loved ones on a final journey. It is never easy. It is never the same. It is never where I want to be. Yet, I have felt the presence of God. I have felt the presence of angels or messengers or whatever you want to call them and have seen the faces of my loved ones smile in welcome. Sometimes the waiting room lasts for weeks, or it might be hours or days. It is never easy but it is what you do for someone you love

That isn’t always the experience of everyone but that has been mine. My mother had a glowing smile on her face while she was in the waiting room. I asked her what she was smiling about and she answered, “Because I’m going to see your dad, my mom and dad and my brothers soon.”

Those words gave me peace. I don’t pretend to understand what happens while our loved ones are in the waiting room. And I have no explanation why some leave this earth easy and why some have to struggle so much.

Life is full of puzzles. When serious things are happening our emotions can get jumbled. We don’t see things clearly. All we can do is wait for the outcome no matter the situation. We can’t see the forest for the trees. We begin our life in the waiting room waiting to be born. And we occasionally end our life in the waiting room too.

For me sharing the journey through journaling and writing helps me sort out all those confusing moments preparing us for the next journey, or the waiting room where we can be silent and find our next path.