(google image)
Nobody likes an angry woman
she’s unbecoming in the worst way
a primal scream can’t cure
an uncontrollable rage
it frightens me
how deep it is
rooted in me
like an ancient tree
I want it to go away
but somehow, I don’t
It lets me know I am still
alive
and that you matter so much,
and that you will never go away
(google image)
Today is the 20-month anniversary of Lorin’s death. I think about him every day, and light a candle for him every night. The passage of time has not altered my love for him or the depth of my sadness, and anger, that he has left this earth.
Lorin and I loved our many road trips together. He used to say he was “Driving Miss Sweetie” — Miss Sweetie being me.
We planned our music, audio books, snacks and drinks ahead of time. It was always an adventure.
On the drive home from Orlando after a long weekend, there was a delay on I-4 East due to a car accident. A fatal car accident.
In the past, I might have been annoyed at such a delay, but yesterday I felt differently.
I imagined how annoyed motorists must have been after our car accident on September 29, 2016. How they might have been complaining how they would be late for work or to take their kids to school that morning. I used to be one of those people.
Yesterday I felt profound sadness. Tears welled in my eyes as I thought of the life or lives that were lost on I-4. As we passed the mangled red SUV, I said a brief prayer for the deceased and his / her family.
Another lost soul on the American highway.
Another family, grief-stricken and traumatized.
I will never forget the beautiful person I lost on September 29, 2016. I am forever altered and still struggle to understand why only my cat Samson and I survived.
Perhaps someday it will all come clear. Until that day, I will do the best I can to make sense of it all and live another day.
It’s April.
Time of spring, Easter, resurrection, rejoicing or . . . not.
I’m not finding it very cheery thus far.
Perhaps it’s due to the gloomy weather we’ve been having in the low country.
At the risk of waxing too melancholy, I will invoke the spirit of writers past who conveyed it in ways quite sublime, albeit tragic/sad.
A Well-Worn Story (Dorothy Parker)
In April, in April,
My one love came along,
And I ran the slope of my high hill
To follow a thread of song.
His eyes were hard as porphyry
With looking on cruel lands;
His voice went slipping over me
Like terrible silver hands.
Together we trod the secret lane
And walked the muttering town.
I wore my heart like a wet, red stain
On the breast of a velvet gown.
In April, in April,
My love went whistling by,
And I stumbled here to my high hill
Along the way of a lie.
Now what should I do in this place
But sit and count the chimes,
And splash cold water on my face
And spoil a page with rhymes?
The Waste Land (T.S. Eliot) (an excerpt)
The fence goes up when it wants
it is not of my choosing
we may be sharing a beer
and chatting
I may smile at you and laugh,
but I am not there
It’s not because I don’t care
It has a mind of its own
It protects me
Too much light
too much noise
too much interaction
too much normalcy
sudden terror
it doesn’t like
It will stop it
It shields me
It is my shadow self
my secret friend
I can hide under its wing
like a momma bird
warm and loving
It helps me get through
when I cannot
it knows what I need
when I do not
Fence
is my armor
and my friend
(google image)
No Christmas movies on TV this year
Caught “Bad Santa” on Netflix, though.
Enforced jubilation wears on the soul
inside I’m screaming, “No more!”
Wish I had a new brain
free of the pain
no trauma
to re-live
helpless, out of control
I sincerely wish you all “Merry Christmas”
and a “Happy New Year”
though I can’t wait for it
to go
Don’t expect me to smile
though I know how to laugh
Surviving the Ghosts of Christmas
Present and Past
Halloween was Lorin’s favorite holiday. He loved getting dressed up and greeting the neighborhood kids.
If Halloween fell on a weekend, we would get more inventive with our costumes since we weren’t getting home late from work.
On one such Halloween, Lorin dressed up as a hillbilly zombie or was it a “redneck” zombie? He was excellent with makeup from his years studying and working in the theater. He wore a torn flannel shirt, suspenders, old pants, hiking boots and carried a mixing bowl with blood (red food dye colored water) and eyeballs (fake, of course). He stirred the bowl with a wooden spoon while sitting on the stoop. He scared some kids, but one actually asked for an eyeball, much to his mother’s chagrin.
I dressed up as the “joker’s wife” (Heath Ledger’s Joker) in a housedress, torn knee-high stockings, big slippers, matted hair in a hairnet with rubber spiders in it, and white face paint with a jagged red smile.
We were quite the pair.
A neighbor took a photo of us, but I can’t find it.
I will miss Lorin at Halloween, as I do every holiday, and every day.
This poem is dedicated to him. I almost had my best friend read it at his memorial service, but I changed my mind. I would have preferred to have read it myself, but I wasn’t fit to do so.
Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, fast approaches. It begins sundown September 29 and ends the evening of September 30.
More importantly, September 29 is the anniversary of Lorin’s death.
If you are a believer, this is the day that God will forgive you, purify you and cleanse you of all your sins.
I am hoping that God or whatever Life Force there is will help me get through this day.
I fear the day. It will mark the end of all “firsts”: the first Thanksgiving without Lorin, the first Christmas without Lorin, the first Valentine’s Day, the first wedding anniversary, the first birthday, and so on.
This Day may bring a measure of closure, but of this, like everything else, I cannot be certain. I have learned there is no certainty and no security in life. I am accepting this without self-pity or a sense of hopelessness. It is my truth. I am living it.
My life is forever changed, having lost my “Lost One.” That’s what Lorin used to call me, referring to the short story “The Lost Ones” by Samuel Beckett. On September 29, I lost the love of my life, my favorite person in the world, my writing partner, and the one who understood me better than anyone ever has, and possibly ever will. I will try to be happy and continue to write and pursue the dreams we had forged as “Team Sweetie,” but I am forever changed.
Do not pity me.
Love more.
Today is the eleven month anniversary of Lorin’s death. Tomorrow is our wedding anniversary. We would have been married nine years.
I do not plan to celebrate our anniversary. I will light a candle for Lorin as I do every night and try to think about the happy times we shared.
Lorin died three days after my birthday, so that will be another day I think I’d rather forget. We were planning to celebrate my birthday in Savannah when we arrived, intact. He bought me some jewelry and was very excited about giving it to me. The jewelry did not survive the car accident. It went missing or was destroyed, don’t know which.
Some pearls of wisdom from the world of trauma and grief:
(1) Things that used to be bother me a great deal don’t bother me anymore.
(2) Things that didn’t bother me before may really upset me.
(3) Don’t waste time.
(4) I do not suffer whiners gladly.
I am still trying to figure out why I survived, what my purpose is. It’s lonely being the survivor. Samson survived too. I couldn’t touch him for the first couple weeks after the accident. He seemed afraid of me and was obviously traumatized. When he finally let me pick him up, he seemed uncomfortable or in pain. His little bones must have been bruised.
Here he is with his new best friend Bo, who I adopted in November:
This song is dedicated to my dear Lorin, who was a wonderful dancer. He liked to grab me while I was in the kitchen or in the living room fussing, and start dancing with me. I miss that, among other things. I wish I could dance with him one more time.
I came across this post today from Tyson 72. Being a recent widow myself, I have not come across many (or any) blogs written by widowers. His story is painful, heartfelt and beautifully written. Please comment at his site, not mine.
Thank you.
Personality counts. Especially in certain cases, like when you’re getting an ultrasound or another diagnostic test that may be cause for worry or concern. The technician who performed some tests on me yesterday had almost zero personality. She led me or rather shuffled to the exam room with me trailing behind. She opened the door and pointed to a paper “gown” that I was to put on. It wasn’t a really gown, but rather a sheet made of paper towel material.
She said, “Is that a dress?
“Yes,” I said.
“Take the dress and your bra off and put the gown on so it’s open in front.”
“Okay,” I said.
When she saw I was undressed with the giant paper towel wrapped around me, she said, “Lay on the table.”
A remake of “Lost in Love” by Air Supply was playing on her CD player / radio. One of my favorite love songs when I was a college freshman.
It seemed incongruous with the proceedings.
The technician begrudgingly pulled out the lower part of the examination table so my calves would not be dangling off the bottom. The table squeaked when she jerked it down, and it was still too short for me. I’m only 5’6″. How must it be for really tall people?
“I’m going to do the echo cardiogram first,” she said. “Lay on your side.”
“Okay,” I said.
She slathered gel on my chest and starting moving the wand over my flesh.
I felt like a canned ham covered in jelly.
“Now lay on your back,” she said.
The next song that came on the CD player/radio was another remake of an easy listening song.
After ten or fifteen minutes she said, “Now I am going to do the other test.”
“Okay.”
When it was done, she said, sans expression, “You can get dressed now.”
She didn’t offer me any paper towels to wipe off the goop, so I grabbed a few I found near the sink and used the paper towel “gown” to wipe off the rest.
“When will I get the results?” I asked.
“You can go to the front desk, and they will tell you.”
“Thanks.”
She didn’t turn around to convey the information to me.
As I said, personality does count. But as long as she’s good at what she does, I guess it doesn’t matter all that much.
