The Land of the Living

Dearest,

Yesterday, I visited the magnificent nursery at a lavender farm with our daughter to seek out some plants for her garden. They offered a mind-boggling variety of herbs and kitchen garden starts, the best I've seen anywhere, as well as a multitude of other unusual plants, edible and not, for the beautification of tables and homes. One of my favorite things about this farm's nursery was the opportunity to meander through the owners' established gardens, with water features and benches and expert arrangements of mature plants. What fodder for the imagination!

My favorite spot, which we walked through on our way out, was their herb garden. I've never seen such a lovely one, with meandering paths and huge plants (who knew they got that big?!) and delightful fragrances and happy bees. It was so peaceful, exactly what I had in mind when I planted our sorely-neglected patch in the back of the property.

Inspired, I spent a good part of the afternoon pruning and trimming the overgrown plants and shrubs -- now trees, let's face it -- in our sad, abandoned garden. I haven't finished and, of course, the process must be ongoing. But there are three large piles of debris to discard, bit by bit, in the solitary "green" bin that's picked up every other week. There will be more, much more.

In spite of the sore muscles today -- which, can I just say, feel much better than sore joints -- it was refreshing and rejuvenating. It was also much easier emotionally than sorting through and packing up your things, your numerous (and never-ending) collections, your...garage. Goodness, the garage! Don't get me started.

Anyway, spring has sprung and, with it, a tiny, tiny flicker of life. A glowing ember of hope. A small-but-growing sense of the presence of God and His purpose for my life now, in the land of the living. I may, in fact, survive.

Love you forever,

Me

Stage 8

Stage 7 is considered the "final stage" of Alzheimer's; and, for the person suffering from the illness, it is. The completion of Stage 7 is the end of the marathon for the patient, the passing through the veil that separates mortality from eternal life in the presence of the Lord. For my husband, the years of unkind and relentless suffering have come to an end. He is himself again, only better. Healed. Whole. But the suffering is not over for me. I'm in what's known as "Stage 8" of Alzheimer's, the grief and limbo that follows the death of the loved one. 

When we were united in marriage, we started becoming "one," two halves of a whole. It was a process. As time went on, we became more and more "one" rather than two wholes living life together. We learned to understand, or at least tolerate, each other's needs and wants and quirks. We were never joined at the hip, and we gave each other space to pursue interests. He did his things. I did my things. We did our things together. We had hit our stride (even though, to be fair, we still drove each other crazy at times) and were looking forward to retiring in a few years, traveling, growing old together. Life had taken on a golden glow. It was satisfying.

I remember driving down the freeway on a beautiful, sunny day, alone with my thoughts, admiring the scenery. I breathed in deeply, smiled, and said to myself, "Life is so good!" Immediately, I felt a sense of foreboding. It was strange. I should have thrown a little salt over my shoulder or something. But I digress, as I have a tendency to do.

Then the horror of Alzheimer's struck, a slap in the face out of nowhere. It was a difficult, painful, arduous trial by fire for both of us. And yet, through it all, we somehow became closer than we had ever been. Our bond was tighter. Our connection was stronger. My love for him was powerfully focused in a whole new way. I willed for him to be well, to live, with all my being, all the while knowing he might not. And he didn't. It's been almost six months since he left me. My heart yearns for him. It's so hard to let him go.

I am alone with my thoughts. They wander. I stare out the kitchen window at my neglected garden. I ponder the electronic display that cycles through our pictures, giving me glimpses of happier times (and also sad times) when my Beloved was here, alive, smiling at me. I wonder what I am going to do with whatever time I have left before I join him on the other side. Who am I now, in this up-and-down, roller-coaster-ride called grief? Sometimes I care about these things very much, and other times I really don't care at all. I am in a state of suspended animation, in limbo. It's a day-by-day, moment-by-moment journey into the unfathomable unknown.

I'm not the same person I was when we started down this Alzheimer's journey. How can I be? Half of me has been painfully, inexorably ripped away in one of the most torturous and cruel ways possible. There's a gaping, bleeding wound where my other half used to be that is slowly, slowly, perhaps a bit too optimistically, trying to start healing. 

It takes a while for gaping wounds to heal, though. Sometimes, it takes a long while. A scab tries to form but is ripped off repeatedly by painful memories, what ifs, and I wonders. The scar that will eventually replace the scab will, I'm told, be stronger than the surrounding area. It will be a reminder that there has been a wound but will be a sign of healing, renewed strength, and survival. It will be a sign that I am going to make it through and that a light will appear at the end of the tunnel. 

Here we are, at the end of this terrible annus horribilis. As we turn the page and start a new chapter, I do wish all of you a very happy new year, full of blessings. Good health, much love, and a prosperous life to you in 2021!

This Is Real

Our son and I went to decorate my husband's grave with a Christmas wreath today as part of the Wreath Project at the Sacramento Valley National Cemetery. The graves will all receive this honor next week, but families are invited to participate early; and, for obvious reasons, we wanted to be the ones to decorate this particular grave.

If you have never been to a national cemetery, driving through the gate, down the flag-lined lane, past rows and rows of identical headstones meticulously placed just so, the thick grass kept very green and manicured with military precision, is a breathtaking experience. Here, each grave is maintained beautifully as a matter of honor. It makes an impression.

It is a privilege to visit my husband's grave, knowing there won't be weeds covering his grave marker as there so heartbreakingly often are at the cemetery where my parents are buried, where the barest decent minimum is done. But I digress again.

As our son and I stepped out of our vehicle, walked across the grass to my husband's grave, and placed our wreath, I was again overwhelmed by the enormity of the great chasm of separation that exists between my husband and me now. Or maybe it's just a thin veil. Either way, he's gone, and I'm not. Not yet, anyhow. 

It slapped me in the face once more, as it always does when I'm there looking at his headstone, that this is real. Really real. Even though I still half expect him to be watching television downstairs when I go down there, or almost hear him coming through the door announcing his presence with an, "I'm home!" Even though I can nearly sense his presence sometimes, or maybe that's just me wishing I could.

I guess I still can't believe he's gone. It hits me like a ton of bricks every time. My heart breaks. Again. And I cry. Again. Still. How I miss him and wish things were different. But they aren't, and perhaps I'll learn to accept that. Someday.

If you would like to help honor the veterans who are buried at this National Cemetery, donations are accepted year-round for this "home grown" project. There are over 40,000 veterans buried in this cemetery, which was opened in 2006. Donation instructions here.

The Ultimate Promotion

There hasn't been much but sadness in my blog in the lead-up to and wake of my husband's passing, and understandably so. My heart is often heavy, my eyes well with tears, I stare at the digital display of pictures of him, of us together, that's always going. So when something good and uplifting happens, it's important to share that, too, along with less-happy moments. Here's why I woke up with a big smile on my face the other day.

I dreamed about my husband, but it wasn't one of the stress- or grief-laden dreams I've been having at all; it was a good dream. A great dream, even. It was a dream of normal things during ordinary times, when we were in our prime.

He had come home from work looking excited and happy, a twinkle in his eye as he approached the desk where I was editing a news article submitted by one of his friends. With a somewhat shy little grin on his much-too-handsome face, he handed me a letter to read. It was a very long letter, on professional stationery, from his boss. As I began reading, my beloved was virtually bursting with pride, anticipating my reaction.

In the letter, he was being heartily congratulated on the quality of his work, his leadership abilities, his contribution to the team that was so fond of him and respected him and his ethic so highly. His potential was being recognized, and he was being promoted and receiving an increase in salary (always a good thing). And then there was a bit about how it was hoped that he would enjoy his new sedan.

"What new sedan? They gave you a car?" I couldn't believe it. This was superb news, indeed!

"Well, it's actually a car bonus," he replied modestly. He was so happy and proud. His beautiful, vibrant, blue eyes were filled with excitement, with a hint of hesitation and doubt, as they had a tendency to be. It was as if he couldn't believe his great good luck. I knew he richly deserved this promotion and all that came with it.

So I asked him what car he was thinking of purchasing, and he replied that he wanted a Ford. A Ford Thunderbird SC. Convertible. Those of you who know all about cars are probably looking up that make and model right now. Sure enough, we were in our prime when the last one was made.

As my mind is wont to do, it immediately started calculating the payment; which, for dream purposes, was $450 a month. Go ahead and laugh now. Yes, indeed, this was excellent news. Well, there was a tiny bit of doubt about the tax consequences, but not a word escaped my lips that wasn't full of pride and congratulation on his achievement. I was simply thrilled for him. Apparently, in my dreams, I have learned something valuable about thinking before speaking. 

Friends, what a richly symbolic dream! My husband has received the Ultimate Promotion. He who began a good work in him has been faithful to complete it and greeted him with the words, "Well done, good and faithful servant." In the presence of the Lord, my beloved is more alive than he has ever been. This is my confidence, my joy, my happiness, and my comfort on this beautiful, sunny Sunday afternoon in our little town by the water, where we raised our family and hoped to grow old together. It is well with my soul.

Dreams

Dear readers,

I'm sure you'll be surprised to know that I've had very few dreams of my late husband. To be fair, I've had very few dreams that I remember at all, so maybe I've had more dreams of him than I realize. 

I wish very much that I would dream of earlier, healthier days, or even later days but healthy, or perhaps have visions of him enjoying life in Heaven; however, that just hasn't been the case so far. Perhaps that is because the disease process took a long time and stole such a large chunk of our lives.

Early this morning, I dreamed that he was still at home, and I was caregiving. Our daughter was here with us, helping me care for him as she did regularly, God bless her! I was being patient, understanding, gentle, kind. But he was angry, confused, agitated, mean, sundowning. Because this was a dream, I was able to see the situation through the eyes of retrospect and remained calm; whereas, in real life, the situation would have been very upsetting to me. 

He turned and raged at our daughter, and I could see how incredibly hurt she was as she turned away from him and muttered, "Go to h*ll." Those words felt like an icy knife to my heart. I know that she would never, ever say such a thing in reality, but I can completely understand why she might have wanted to sometimes. It was a very difficult thing for the children to go through, too, and they each had to deal with it in their own way.

Needless to say, I awoke in tears. Obviously, the stress and trauma of the caregiving years is still being processed in my subconscious, and I am working out the stages of grief. I go back and forth with those, as most people do, one moment accepting, the next moment disbelieving, or angry, then accepting again, then regretting something, missing him, crying. It's one thing to know he's gone; it's another to really believe it. One day, I will have a beautiful dream of camping with my beloved beside a quiet lake in the mountains, gazing at the night sky full of stars together.

But, apparently, not yet.

- Me

The Fog

It's now been a month since my husband crossed the Great Divide between the land of the living and the arms of God. I knew it was coming, I thought I was prepared, I expected it at any moment, and all that. But still, when it happened, it was a complete surprise. My knees buckled as the nurse met me at the door to give me the news. I thought I was going to faint. It was like being caught in the middle of a breath. Time stopped. The Earth stood still. Everything seemed far away. Something escaped my lips. A wail? It felt like a bad dream, but it was real. Too real. Devastatingly real. 

Though I knew that in the blink of an eye he had transitioned from this life to the Next, the weight of a ton of bricks landed on me, crushing me. I had been praying for his healing and restoration, and now he was completely healed, but not in the way I'd hoped. He was gone. Gone gone. He wasn't coming back. And I was left behind. A woeful, overwhelmingly bereaved, blubbering mess. I could almost feel myself shrinking. The shock to my system was wholly unexpected. 

I had come prepared to stay, not expecting that he would leave so quickly. I had a cot, a pillow, my overnight bag, the ukulele. I had planned to encourage him, to pray with him, to play and sing for him. And so, our son standing next to me, I took out my music, pulled up a chair, took a deep breath, and selected a few of my husband's favorite tunes. My singing and playing were worse than usual, but I'm sure nobody minded.

The fog that settled over me that day, deepening daily, was all enveloping, saturating. I could not think. It was an effort to breathe. I wasn't even sure I wanted to. My heart hurt so much, I thought it would surely stop beating. I sort of hoped it would. I had already lost my father, then my mother. But those losses didn't even come close to comparing to this whole new level of excruciating pain. Of guilt. Of anger. Of confusion. Had there been a funeral pyre, I might have thrown myself on it. All I could see ahead of me was a yawning chasm of emptiness. Family and friends surrounded me in the most loving way, for which I am grateful. I'm not sure how I could have made arrangements without their help and prayers.

Because of COVID restrictions, we were allowed only a very private graveside service. It took place two weeks after his death. Though it was small, it was very beautiful and personal and comforting. When the children and I returned to the cemetery the next day to place flowers on the grave, I felt oddly at peace, knowing my beloved was at rest. I know I will see him again, but that doesn't take away the terrible sadness, the horrible feeling that half of me is gone, the gaping wound in the core of my being. I will have to walk through the crippling grief, and I'm told there will eventually be more good days than bad days. 

In the meantime, I have begun the necessary work that follows a death:  contacting various agencies and financial institutions, filing paperwork, making sure nothing falls through the cracks. The first two are routine. The third, well, I'm hoping for the best through the fog. I thought it was starting to lift last week, but now I realize I was wrong about that.

Thank you, dear readers, for your words of encouragement and support over the years, and especially for your prayers both during my husband's illness and continuing through the painful days ahead. Some of you have asked that I continue this diary through what you're calling my "healing process." I'm assuming that I will, at some point, heal. At least, that's my hope, because that's what people do. I just can't really envision that right now.

The Last Note

July 14, 2020

I got "the call" this morning. You know the one. The one you keep expecting but hope never arrives. I was to come right away, if possible. I rushed to my car and sped down the road (apologies to the highway patrol. Thank you for not pulling me over). I wanted to be there to hold his hand, to whisper sweet nothings in his ear, to comfort him. But he decided to go quickly, before I could get there. Yes, that was devastating, especially since I'd had a camp cot, pillow, and weekender in the trunk of my car for over a month, expecting (obviously) to be with him for however long it took, at the drop of a hat.

But here's the cool thing:  The music therapist was having a video call with him (you'll remember how he loved music therapy) and was playing and singing Paul Simon's The 59th Street Bridge Song:

Slow down, you move too fast
You got to make the morning last
Just kicking down the cobblestones
Looking for fun and feelin' groovy
Ba da-da da-da da-da, feelin' groovy...

And here's the other cool thing:  As she was singing "feelin' groovy," he and Jesus decided it was time for him to go Home. He passed from this life to the next,  just like that. He fell asleep here, and he woke up there (or, for those who believe a bit differently, he will wake up there). And now he's healed. He's whole. He's...feelin' groovy.

Rest in perfect Peace, my love. There can never be another you. I'll miss you until I see you again. The time may seem long for me, but it will be short, really. And then we will be together in the presence of the Lord, and time will be infinite. Eternal.

The Lord, the Psalmist’s Shepherd.
A Psalm of David.
(New International Version)

23 The Lord is my shepherd,
I [a]shall not want.
2 He makes me lie down in green pastures;
He leads me beside [b]quiet waters.
3 He restores my soul;
He guides me in the [c]paths of righteousness
For His name’s sake.
4 Even though I walk through the [d]valley of the shadow of death,
I fear no [e]evil, for You are with me;
Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.
5 You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies;
You [f]have anointed my head with oil;
My cup overflows.
6 [g]Surely goodness and lovingkindness will follow me all the days of my life,
And I will [h]dwell in the house of the Lord [i]forever.

Footnotes
Psalm 23:1 Or do
Psalm 23:2 Lit waters of rest
Psalm 23:3 Lit tracks
Psalm 23:4 Or valley of deep darkness
Psalm 23:4 Or harm
Psalm 23:5 Or anoint
Psalm 23:6 Or Only
Psalm 23:6 Another reading is return to
Psalm 23:6 Lit for length of days