Good bye, Sofa King. . . xxoo

I have carried this blog on for far longer than is likely healthy. For me, for you for all of us . . . it served its purpose far beyond what I set out to do, which was to keep friends and family connected to Bob when he was so violently ripped from the world for too long. . . . I was and continue to be astounded at how far-reaching this blog has been, and for that, I am eternally grateful. And I know Bob was, too. I rarely posted an entry without reading it to him first, to get his approval (unless it was during a very critical situation, where he was incapacitated . . . which, now that I think about it, was a helluva lot of his ordeal . . .) anyhow, I always asked him if he was okay with the entries, and if there were any that he wanted me to remove/edit. I never, ever wanted to speak for him, to say anything that would insult or offend embarrass him, never, ever wished it to be too "out there" for his comfort. . . I am so honored that he approved every entry, and often thanked me for keeping him connected to the friends, family and colleagues he loved so dearly but couldn't personally communicate with . . .

But, to continue writing here, now, feels like I'm living with one foot in a past that will never become present. No matter how much I cry, how I barter, beg, pray or toss fistfuls of pixie dust, scream, threaten or whimper, Bob is physically gone from this earth, as we knew him. As much as I hate to acknowledge this, I am slowly coming to accept this truth, in my head and in my heart. I can't say I have fully embraced this truth, can't say I'm "a-okay" with his dying, can't say that there aren't days that I'm hit with sucker punches that literally, physically drop me . . . I still am so lost without my very best friend, trying so hard to come to grips with his horrific ordeal, but slowly, ever so slowly, I feel I have at least a few glimmers of hope, of understanding . . .

Because of these glimmers of hope, I have decided this format, this Sofa King blog, no longer serves Bob and no longer serves me. Bob is now in the most beautiful place that we could never begin to imagine; that place that one day, we all will be. I am blessed with continuing signs that Bob is alive and well in a place we call Heaven. Nirvana. Happy Hunting Grounds. Paradise. The Great Beyond. The Other World. Pure Love. Call it what you want, semantics no longer matter where Bob now is. Words are those horribly inept things that we earthly creatures have created to feebly try to define, to cling to, corral, control the things over which we really have no control. . . where Bob is, words are no longer necessary.

At some point, I know I will find complete peace knowing that Bob is free, but it's gonna take a little more time and a helluva lotta work on my behalf to reach that place. The cliches don't fit, don't work for me, a blind acceptance of "what is" doesn't help me, but I am finding other ways to help me make sense of the horrors of the 19 months of Bob's ordeal . . . working toward the true comfort of knowing that he is beautiful, healthy, whole, and in a place where we all will be one day, surrounded with pure love, emanating pure love. . . the bitch is, this stuff just doesn't happen overnight, much to my impatient dismay. (I know, I know . . . for all the ethereal talk, I still have the mouth of a trucker . . .small comfort, knowing some things never change, huh?)

Bob is with us, this I know is true, and he continues to guide us from a place of pure love. Life doesn't end with death; rather, it is a new beginning. This, right now, is my job: learning to let go. To so many things that I once thought were true. To things that are keeping me in a place of pain and stagnancy. To open myself to new possibilities. Let go. Surrender. . . It's a new way of life for me, this letting go shit, being in "fight mode" for the past two years. . . my first big step in letting go is letting go of this blog.

I have decided to start another blog, called Widow (w)rites . . . and I invite you to follow me on this next journey in life, if you wish. Right now, I'm not really sure what it will be, other than a new "home" in which to write about life without the best person I have ever had the honor to know . . . I might write frequently, I might never write. Every day is an adventure in Widowland . . . I do know that death and dying are not a "normal" topic of conversation in our everyday life, but the reality is, we will all die one day. We work so hard to try to avoid this fact of life, and the tragic, unfortunate side effect of this affliction is that we are so often denied a truly respectable, dignified death, and it is a subject that so many avoid, literally run from, and when it's too late, the wrong people end up making the decisions. . . Bob was denied this right, this option—a dignified, respectable choice in how he would die—by the very people we put so much trust and power in, to care for him. . . maybe that is what my new blog will address—that's a loaded issue with endless layers, and it's far too early to know . . .maybe it'll be just a bunch of inane drivel, which we all know I'm really good at . . . whatever the direction I take, if you chose not to continue this journey with me, I'm super-okay with that. Huge part of me doesn't blame you one bit, for not wanting to buy a ticket on this Krazy Train . . .

Endless love to all of you, who loved my beloved Bob so very dearly, who love me immensely, who held us so close to your hearts, who cried with us, fought with us, prayed for us, did so much for us, who continue to do all of that, and more, holding me up, as I walk alone. . .

xxoo Jen

Losing my mind so I can find it again . . .

Continuing this blog is so very hard, for endless reasons and I often wonder why I do it, plod on, without the main reason I started it in the first place, the main reason everyone checked in—my beloved, our beloved, Bob . . . more often, seems rather pointless, for endless reasons. But I will, till something/someone tells me to shut my f'n piehole and get a real job . . .

Seven months . . . it still seems like Bob just died. In my world. Have I said this before . . .every day, still, I miss everything about him. I miss his smile. I miss his wicked sense of humor. I miss his silky black hair. I miss his cute little butt (which was waaaaay smaller than mine—seriously something wrong with that picture???), I miss arguing with him—I always told he should have been an attorney because even when he was wrong, he could convince anyone he was right. . . I miss kissing him, period. I miss that cute little cowlick in the middle of his hairline that drove him nuts, but drove me wild—made his hair kind of swirl up and over to the left, kind of like Elvis, if his hair got too long, and he didn't "tame" it before it dried . . . I miss cooking with him, miss coming home from work and having dinner ready for me . . .

I miss his beautiful, expressive hands—he had the most beautiful hands, strong and perfect, cradled a camera so gently . . .I miss giving him foot rubs and his cute "pillow toes" (his big toes were so cute and "puffy," looked like his toenails were pressed into marshmallows . . . I miss his back rubs—he would set a timer, but always gave me bonus minutes for good behavior . . .I miss his take-charge attitude . . . I miss simply sitting in the living room with him, as we both "did work" on our laptops, or watched a bit of TV . . . I miss snow-shoing at William O'Brien and stopping at the little tavern in Marine on St. Croix for a beer and onion rings . . . I miss our road trips, and I'd buy Cosmo and the Enquirer, and read all the trashy tidbits to Bob on the way to our destination . . . I miss grocery shopping with him. I miss cooking dinner with him. I miss crawling into bed and curling up next to his warm body. I miss doing his laundry. . .I miss getting mad at him when he'd try to be a "helper" and do my laundry with his, and turn all my bras pink, and shrink my jeans in the dryer . . . I miss him washing my car, getting the oil changed as a "surprise" forme . . .I miss roadtrips to the north shore, I miss camping with him, I miss sharing a bottle of wine as we sat around a campfire . . . II miss being his "Vanna White" at wine tastings . . . how do I end this list . . .

There is nothing that makes sense along the grief journey, yet at the same time, I do know, in my heart and my head, I am heading toward a better place. Because of my time on earth with Bob. I still can't quite describe or define it . . . it's still more of a feeling than a true knowing, and the unfortunate thing is, it ain't happening as fast as I want it, and I won't know if or when I'll arrive . . . When I do, I'll let you know . . . in the meantime, I'll continue to ramble on . . .

Six months. . .

Nearly a month has gone by since I last wrote and I debate, every day, whether or not to keep this thing dragging on. . . It's been six months since Bob left this earthly world, but it still just happened, in my world. How do I possibly put into words this journey of immense loss and subsequent rebuilding my life without my best friend, the person I loved most, by my side . . . every day is an adventure in widowhood, and I can hardly keep up simply living in the minute-to-minute fluctuations of emotions, memories, thoughts and feelings that yank me in every direction, simultaneously, much less write about it, do it justice, make sense of it, convey all there is to this journey. Impossible.

I think back, often, to a guest at Bob's Celebration of Life service, who told me in the receiving line—much too giddily—that I should look at this time as an opportunity to reinvent myself! How exciting, she gushed, we all wish we could do what you get to do! Two and a half days after Bob died, after a 19-month journey through hell. I was too deep in shock to say what I should have said: Oh, really? You want your husband to die a horrific death so you can have a do-over? Instead, all I said was, "No, it'd be exciting if I'd had a choice in the matter . . ." Timing, people, timing . . . but as time passes, I am finally, grudgingly having to admit that that is, indeed, what I get to do. Reinvent. All the while reinventing, I am reminded why it is I get to do this in the first place. Because my beautiful husband died.

I find it an astounding phenomenon, that when one suffers an immense loss of someone so close, one can still get out of bed every day (but at the same time, I completely understand if one simply cannot), go through empty motions of living, when those on the outside say, "You look so good! You seem to be doing so well!" Fake it till you make it . . . When every second of every minute of every hour of every day is intricately laced with thoughts of Bob, I am astounded that I can still carry on conversations, pay bills, shop for groceries, drive a damn car and keep it on the road, go through the act of living, while feeling dead inside. To be able to do all this, when no one else knows that the all day, every day, Bob is in my thoughts. How can there be room in one's brain for all of this thinking, all these images, so many memories are tangled up with all the day-to-day stuff we have to process. Astounding. . .

Since moving, I have been reaching out more, to friends, to a grief therapist, to other widows (that label still does not fit me well, I cringe at the sight and sound of that word . . . I'm going to have to work on that one, perhaps try to embrace it, own it, maybe come up with a better word. Or, perhaps I could market widowhood, make it trendy, like pregnant women now are . . . I am now visualizing a whole line of clothing and accessories, emblazoned with the silhouette of a black widow spider, maybe encrusted in rhinestones, sequins, a chain of stores across the country, reality show to follow . . . yes, you can say it—I'm temporarily, maybe forever, insane), trying to piece together some sort of meaning for this journey. . .

Gotta admit, it's been much easier, being in the city, closer to "civilization," to make myself get out and about, make myself more accessible to family and friends, baby steps back into the land of the living. But being "out of it" for so long, it can get overwhelming at times. And damn scary. The neighborhood where I now live has had a rash of burglaries and break-ins all fall. Both next door neighbors and a neighbor behind me have been burglarized. It's enough to make me want to pack up and head back to the safe, sad loneliness of my "old" home. I now have a security system and told my landlord I was getting another dog; amazingly, he agreed to it, but I have yet to do it. . . on the plus side, the string of events have spurred my neighbors to band together and form a block club—we exchanged phone #'s and e-mail addresses and even have a facebook page, where police reports and other helpful info are posted. From an unfortunate string of events, we're rebuilding a stronger sense of community. . .

I met two amazing women with eerily similar stories to Bob's and mine, at an event sponsored by Fairview Hospice several weeks ago. Of all the people to connect with at the event, I was inexplicably drawn to these two 40-something women, who had also lost their beloved husbands to gruesome battles with cancer. We now try to regularly meet for dinner and drinks, to cry, laugh, curse, vent, share our stories in the dim corner of a restaurant in a northern suburb, our own little support group. . . I have connected with another group for widowed, called The Grief Project (in a crazy, round-about-way, I met the founder of this organization who is an acquaintance of an acquaintance of my sister, Jill), and have again, found a hidden tribe of people who speak my crazy language, who know the customs of this fucked up world to which, against my will, I now belong. It's both sobering and comforting, to know there are so many people walking around wearing heavy, nearly debilitating cloaks of sadness, but also to know that these are the ones who truly understand. . . and that there are those among the mourning who have been on this path longer, who offer hope, peace and even love and happiness to those of us new to this world of grief . . .

I find it equally astounding that, even beneath this crushing shroud of grief, wondrous and beautiful things continue to happen, to me, around me, to others, around others. . . I don't believe in miracles the way most people believe in miracles. I believe it's a miracle that when we suffer immense loss, we are able to inexplicably pick ourselves up and continue living, hard as it may be. The resilience of the human spirit and its ability to heal is a miracle. I find it miraculous that no matter what happens in the world, the leaves still change colors, the sun still rises, the day slides into night, that babies are born and love is found, that friends and family are still by my side, still willingly hold me up and love me as I stumble along through this strange land, most of the time, not knowing what I'm doing, but doing it anyway, in spite, despite, who knows why . . . I find it wondrous, if not a miracle, that so many people have told me that they now immediately think of Bob when they see or hear an owl. . .

I was recently accepted into Hamline University's Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing program, to start in February. I am still in shock, still half-expecting someone from the department to call me and tell me they've made a huge mistake in accepting me, that they meant to accept Jenna Hildebrandt, not Jennifer. . . I haven't been a real college student in over 20 years and I'm scared to death, but also deeply honored and excited about the whole deal. Bob would be so proud of me; he had encouraged me, for so long, to go back and pursue my advanced degree in writing. At the time, I wanted to, but couldn't fathom it. I had my business, the timing wasn't right, I was too scared, endless other excuses . . . And now, at the heart of the deal is the glaring reminder of why I finally applied for the program this summer. Because Bob died. Because life as I knew it is no longer. Because I get to reinvent myself.

Walks in the neighborhood . . .

Walking Rocco the other day, I encounter a neighbor, a man I've met several times already, lives around the corner from me. We often pass each other as we walk our dogs through the park near the house I am now living in (I initially typed "my house," there, but immediately, it looked and felt all wrong. This is not my house, or my life. I don't think I will ever get used to any of this. . .). Sometimes we stop to chit-chat a bit, other times we simply wave from across the park.

Today, he's standing outside with his grown son, I stop to exchange a few words, and eventually, he asks, "So, what's your sweetie's name?" Sweetie? I thought he was asking about Rocco, and then it suddenly hit me. My sweetie. He's asking about a significant other. Shit . . . no way around these scenarios. His name is Bob, he died in May. I tell him with a voice that's not my own, with words that shouldn't belong to me, but do, fiercely. "Oh," he says, his voice changes abruptly, clearly not expecting this answer. "Well, he went through the same thing," jerking a thumb toward his son. "His woman left him, and stole his dog, too. . ." shaking his head. I stare at him. Are you fucking kidding me? You honestly think "his woman left him" and adding a stolen dog for effect, is even remotely similar to my husband dying? No, no, no, I scream all of this at him, in my head. . . "Left him" means someone had a choice in the matter, "left him" means he probably will still see his woman, that they might have a chance at getting back together, slim as it may be. It's very possible he'll get his dog back, at the very least. What part of "died" don't you get?!? "Died" means neither of us had a choice in this matter, "died" means there isn't even a slim chance I will ever see my sweetie again, much less, a chance to be with him again . . . .

I don't remember exchanging good-byes, maybe used Rocco as my excuse to continue my walk, but I do remember feeling that it's often easier to not talk to strangers. The widow thing freaks people out, myself included, makes them, us, say strange things. What I just said (or didn't say) to my neighbor was such a dishonor to Bob, to all he was, and all we had, the good, the bad and the ugly, and suddenly I am thinking, I have to tell everyone I meet that not only am I a widow, but my husband was only 44 when he died, and had the most beautiful brown eyes and the silkiest Superman-black hair that I loved to run my fingers through . . he possessed the sharpest wit, a most wicked sense of humor and could infuriate me like nobody could . . . but was the best person I have ever had the honor to know in this life on earth, that he died an awful death that is the stuff of nightmares, but fought his incurable disease like nothing I will ever witness again on this Earth, right till the end, I loved him, still love him, would have taken care of him and his broken body forever, if I had been given the choice. . .

On the rest of my walk I think of how horribly inept the English language is. We say died, and love, and widow, but mean nothing when we say them. To have one word that would sum it all up for me, tell our story, who Bob was, what he meant and still means to me, how he died, would be o-so helpful, for me, for everyone I encounter. But I can't tell his story, our story, to everyone I meet. I will just have to learn to be okay with the fact that most people will never have the honor to learn who my sweetie was. . . and somehow be okay with how very tragic that is.

Fake it till you make it. . .

This is how I get to spend the better part of my Tuesdays and Thursdays, with my dear little nephew, Otto. He is the coolest baby ever, and I can say that with pretty accurate certainty, being the (favorite! ;) auntie of 13 nieces and nephews. NOT that the others aren't cool, awesome, amazing—all of the above, x 100!—because they are, but there is something undefinable about this newest kidlet . . . as a baby, Otto is so full of Zen, so loving, so peaceful, so awe-inspiring, beyond what a beautiful yet simple baby should be able to convey (and let's be real—not many babies are like this, ever,

I have never been in the company of a baby who gazes dreamily into my eyes, for minutes on end. . . an old soul in the heart of an adorable little boy, so evident in his eyes, his spirit. I have a hard time taking my eyes off him, my green-blue eyes gazing deeply back into his own baby green-blues (though I do recall thinking this about each of my nieces and nephews as I held their tiny bodies in my arms). Still, Otto is different. Can't explain it, just different. Not a bad thing, to be different.

And one of the sweetest things he does, is babble, "Bob bob, bob, bob, bo-bo-bo-bob," over and over. Jill swears he never does this anywhere else but at my house, or when I'm around. He often does this while gazing off, beyond my shoulder, or above my head, with the sweetest smile on his face, as though he's talking to someone . . . I like to imagine he sees Bob, is talking to him in a way babies only can, letting me know all is right where Uncle Bob is . . . I truly believe babies see angels, speak to angels, because their little baby spirits are so pure, so untainted by all the shit of life that gets in the way of that which is pure. . . either, that, or Otto thinks my name is "Bob." I'll take the former . . .

I am still "settling" into my new digs in St. Paul. It doesn't feel like home, nothing will feel like home, for a long time, maybe ever. A stranger in a strange land. But, I am inundated with visits/calls/e-mails from friends, near and dear, near and far, old and new, and it definitely has increased in frequency, since I moved closer to the masses, and I embrace it, feel very connected, very loved, if not at times, overwhelmed. Went to the Selby Avenue Jazz Festival with a dear friend a few weeks or so, have had numerous lunches/dinners out with family, friends, even strangers whom I've just met (that isn't as weird as it looks in writing . . .). Walk the dogs endlessly, weaving in and out throughout the blocks that tie the neighborhoods together. . .

Bob's cameras have sat unused for months, and a few days ago, I hopped onto National Camera Exchange's website, to see if they offered any novice photographer's classes. . . saw one that was being held that very night; called my sis, Jill, and after a flurry of conversations/phone calls/craziness, her husband, Jade (who works at NCE), I was signed up for the class. I lugged Bob's beloved backpack, full of camera and lenses, and got my first "real" photography lesson. Elementary as it was, I felt fully enveloped with Bob's spirit, hearing the "technical" insights to all the things that Bob knew, inherently. . .as the instructor explained various techniques, I could picture endless photographs Bob had taken, using the same technique . . .

Next day, I proceeded to snap endless photos of beloved Otto . . . it's going to take me a while to get a "handle" on these intimidating, impressive pieces of photographic equipment, but when I pick them up, I feel Bob reverberating through the metal frame of the camera; I am slowly learning why he chose nature over churches, as religion. And love him even more than ever. And am more sad than ever, with his loss.

(the picture to the right was Bob's last stay at the U, when he had the GI bleed right after Christmas. He was never prone to kissing babies, despite the many nieces and nephews we have. . . love the way Otto leans into Uncle Bob as he kisses. . . )

A journey that won't end till I take my own last breath

For every sweet memory I want to share about my time on earth with Bob, I'm flooded with countless images that I will never be able to share with anyone, that will forever be imbedded in my head, in my heart, a 1:1,000,000 ration of good to bad, at any given moment, and the astounding thing for me is that people live like this all the time, very minute of every day of every year, and we have no idea how many and to what extent. . . an inexplicable world to be living in, going through the motions with everyone else while your mind is anywhere but . . . I'm continually amazed that I move right along with life, as though I'm a part of it, but feel anything but. Over four months since Bob's passing, I am continually, daily, by the minute, bombarded with thoughts, memories, images, flash-backs of the past year and a half (October will mark the two-year "anniversary" of the onset of his cancer, though we weren't given the diagnosis until nearly three months later), that refuse to vacate, and yet I "function" damn near as good as most others walking the face of the earth. Fucking astounding. . . no two ways about it . . .

The season changes are especially hard, maybe that's why I've had some rough days of late. This time of year, we'd be camping, hiking, traipsing the trails of the north shore, camping with Penny and Jim, dogs in tow. The smells, the sounds, the sights of each season tear through me like a bullet, and every day, I'm astounded that I get out of bed and do something. Last year at this time, Bob was still at the U, in the very beginning stages of "recovering" from that cursed, god-awful, torturous 13 hour surgery he'd endured a few weeks prior, endless complications ensuing. . . But, a year ago, he was still with me.

Went to a bbq at my cousin, Erin's last weekend. Was talking to a couple, somehow Bob got brought into the conversation (how can he not? He was my husband and everything I am doing now is because he is no longer with me. How do I explain just up and moving from Stillwater to St. Paul and not explain why my husband is not with me . . . just an example of how, in multitude of layers, this loss never leaves my side, continuing to define every action, every word. . .)

The wife of the couple stood in wide-eyed disbelief as I fed her the condensed version of Bob's story. "My god. . . " she slowly whispered. "For all you've been through, you are so, ummm, well, I don't know the right word—so put together?" I stared back at her in equal wide-eyed disbelief. Is that how people see me? I think. Put together? Maybe I need to break down in public a little more frequently. . . Who really goes around sobbing in public, at bbq's, in Target, at the grocery store, ? (well, there have been times . . .Tootsie pops always do it for me. And Dr Pepper. And Trader Joe's frozen fruit bars. . . and . . .) How do I tell someone I've never met that every waking minute of my day, at this point in my life, is immersed in memories of my husband, of our lost lives together, of all he went through for a year and a half, and I have no fucking clue how I get through every day? I simply don't.

A few days ago, I ran into neighbors of ours from Stillwater. More than once in the conversation, the husband of the pair said, "I don't think I could ever do what you did for Bob, for as long as you did, Jen . . ." Again, I am the one in wide-eyed disbelief. How do I tell the neighbor that I hope he will never have to find out if he has "what it takes" to do what I did for Bob, for as long as I did? All I can say to that is, you'd be surprised at what you're capable of, given the circumstances, I tell him. And that's all I can say with any certainty.

That, and that I truly believe that the sole purpose we are here on earth is to care for one another. Doesn't matter how we do it, whether one by one, or in droves and throngs. Just take care of one another. However you can.

A slow motion dance with my new life . . .

I took a walk in my new neighborhood with my sister, Jill and her kids last weekend, a long stroll down Summit Avenue, oooh-ing and aaaaahhh-ing over the gargantuan mansions we passed along the historic boulevard. No sooner would we decide on the one we liked best when we'd come upon another, even more opulent and dramatic, if that's possible. The architecture of the homes on Summit is the real-life definition of breathtaking. Truly, I could waste an entire day, gazing at a single edifice and still not see all there is to admire. . . kalidescope stained glass . . . intricately detailed Victorian "painted ladies". . . ornate yet stately carved stone. . . even chimneys are spared no elaborate attention—one home (even calling it a "home" sounds insulting) has towering chimneys with wrought-iron calla lilies imbedded in the masonry. . . and that doesn't even begin to touch the grounds and gardens . . . this alone could become a full-time job, admiring historic buildings . . .

Our meandering brought us to a party gathered on the lawn outside yet another grand residence, a wedding in full-swing. I immediately recognized the location—Bob and I had attended a wedding here ourselves, and suddenly, I was whisked away with the memories of a good ten years prior, sharing them aloud with Jill and the kids, though I was talking more to myself than anyone. . .

That beautiful fall night, Bob and I dazzled the wedding party with newly acquired ballroom

dance skills, waltzing, two-stepping, jitter-bugging and polka-ing, sometimes cheek-to-cheek, sometimes whirling around like tasmanian devils, like a scene from a movie movie—the crowd parted, including the bride and her father, and circled around Bob and me, as we danced the night away, in perfect time to the music swirling along with us . . .

Jill interrupts my story. "Wait a minute— Your Bob? Danced? Really?" More an accusation than a question.

A few seconds pass, and finally, Not willingly, I confess.

Bob and I had been married maybe four years the summer of the wedding of conversation. Shortly before the wedding, we'd embarked on a camping trip to northern Minnesota. Camping, as in, in a tent. Trip, as in, a whole week. Northern Minnesota, as in, no hotels this time, Little Miss Flat Iron Dependent. This wasn't our first camping trip together, but it was the longest, with no "buffer" night in a cabin or hotel at the half-way point, to ease the pain of "roughing it." Buffer, as in, appeasing Jen. Hardcore, in my book.

Bob decided we should explore north central state parks this time, and painstakingly planned our trip to include Itasca, Lake Bemidji and Hayes Lake, damn near to Lake of the Woods, mapping out our trip based on seasonal wildflowers in bloom. The morning we departed, it had started to rain and increased in intensity as the day went on. It not only rained all day but continued the entire week. And not just little sprinkles or soft drizzles. No, we were subjected to full-blown soakings, downpours—torrential deluges—as in, Each. And. Evey. Day. We had a "two-man" tent, as in, if you're lucky and happen to be African pygmies, and a smelly, sopping wet Alaskan malamute sharing our sleeping quarters. Smelly, as in, a vat of sweaty football players' post-practice laundry. The tent leaked, our sleeping bags were soaked, we couldn't cook a thing because it was too wet to make a fire. Bob, the eternal Ranger Rick at heart, said, "It's not that bad, Jen! We have Power Bars and Dr. Pepper! The rain'll quit soon!"

After three days of huddling in soggy, smelly quarters, gnawing on granola bars, I snapped—I tore open the tent, screaming, "I hate this—I'm going to go sleep in the van!" and stomped through ankle-deep mud puddles, yanked the passenger door open and slid into the blissfully dry interior of our van and slammed the door. And flipped the switch to lock. Bob sloshed through puddles after me, dragging Gaia behind him, but was too late. Doors were locked and I sat in the front passenger seat, crying. He pounded on windows, "Let me in, Jen! It's pouring out here! Let's talk!"

"No! NOt until you tell me we will do something with our time together, other than camping! I am done camping!It's not fair! It's all we do on our vacations—we never do anything I want to do, and I'm finally done with it!"

Rain streamed down his face as he continued to pound on the window. "Let me in, Jen—I meanit! I want to talk to to you, but I can't out here in this goddamned rain! Let me in, and we can talk! Please!" The genuine desperation in the emphatic please got me. Reluctantly, I flicked the switch on my door handle to unlock the doors and continued my sob fest as Bob quickly ledGaia into the back of the van before hopping in behind her. He slid his rain jacket off and slipped into the driver's seat and faced me.

"What the hell was that all about?" he sputtered as soon as he got into the van, grabbing an old dog towel to dry off. "What—are you five years old or what—we can't just talk, can we? You had to resort to dramatics to make your point?"

I was in no mood for logic. "We always do what you want to do for our vacations!" I interrupted. "For five straight years, all it's been is camping, camping, camping and I'm sick of it! I hate it, in fact, and as of this vacation, I've decided no more camping until you do something I want to do! Period!"

"Fine, fair enough! All you have to do is say the word—just tell me what you want to do."

Ballroom dancing.

"What did you say?" He stopped rubbing his head.

You heard me just fine. Ball room dancing. I want to take balllroom dance lessons. And I want you to take them with me.

"Oh god, Jen, please. Anything but that—and I mean anything. I can't dance! I don't have rhythm—"

You're a liar! You do too have rhythm—I know you'd be a total Deney Terrio! You'd love it, if you just gave it a chance. I gave camping a chance. . .

"Is there anything else you'd want to do?" his voice was weak and thin. He knew he was done.

No.

Anything at all? A cooking class? A language class?

Nope.

Heavy sigh. Defeat. "Okay. Fine." Another heavy sight. Dramatics have taken a turn. "Fair enough. Dance lessons it is."

I signed us up for dance lessons through Community Ed in Roseville, from a man whose hair was a little too greasy and seemed to pay a little too much attention to the little redhead in the class, according to Bob. I didn't care. I was happy, he was Fred Astaire, in my eyes, and a month later, we were able to show off our newly-acquired skills at a wedding on Summit Avenue. . .

Hours after I shared this story with Jill and her kids, I got the following e-mail from Jill:

Tonight, while walking with my you and my kids, it was moving as we passed gorgeous homes on Summit, to hear you talk of lovely times you and Bob had at a wine tasting benefit here, or how you two showed off your newly honed ballroom dance skills at a wedding reception there. Later, when we stopped into one of Bob's former wine clients, Solo Vino, the wonderful memories continued. Since his illness and his passing, this was, for me, the first time in a long time where I felt so connected to that healthy, energetic, hilarious, hard-working, uber-intelligent man who loved you with all his soul, and whom you loved and will continue to love with all your soul. He's so greatly missed, but hearing these stories, stopping by SV touched me so very much. Thank you, Jennifer and Bob.

Benefit Account for Corey Harder. . .

I just wanted to take a moment to share information about a benefit account set up for a dear friend and his family, Corey Harder. I went to high school with Corey and his wife, Ronda (Duerksen—Ronda's family were neighbors of ours, amazing family in their own right), and they have been and continue to be, such awesome supporters on this this long journey . . . recently, Corey, a cancer survivor himself, found out that his brain tumor had returned, and his prognosis is critical. . .

The parallels of Corey and Ronda's story to Bob's and mine are uncanny: Corey, like Bob, is a many-years survivor of cancer (his, a brain tumor); Ronda, like me, is a hairdresser. Corey was interviewing for his dream job when his cancer returned (Bob had just started his "dream job" back at Surdyk's when his returned); Ronda has taken a lot of (unpaid) time off from work, to be with Corey on this journey, and will likely be taking more time off as their journey continues . . . the frustrations, roadblocks and endless hair-pulling events they've experienced mirror what Bob and I faced a lifetime ago. . . I could just scream along with them (and I do . . .)

Ronda and Corey live in Kansas with their adorable son, Zane. They've been to their local hospital, have traveled to the Mayo, for more tests/treatments/input on Corey's situation. They are now on the road to Texas, to MD Anderson in Houston, for another opinion on treatment opinions, as the tumor is growing fast and initial treatment plans are no longer an option.

I am now on the "offering" end of a crisis; I feel helpless, yet desperate, in what I can to do help them, especially being so far away. I recently learned from Ronda's sister Kendra, that a benefit account has been set up at Corey and Ronda's local bank. I can't even begin to tell y'all how much the benefit account (and subsequent rockin' benefit event) helped Bob and me, in endless ways. It helped in making the decision to quit my job, to be by Bob's side full-time as we traveled the horrific journey together . . . for that, I am endlessly, forever grateful to everyone, and that our friends had the foresight (and persistence) to set up the account (and bugged me endlessly, till I eventually conceded to the benefit event), which helped to make that decision possible. Jump, and the net will appear . . . faith, personified. . .

But, I also get it, too deeply, that the events at hand take precedence to any benefit account—the crisis that Corey and Ronda are facing right now is all-consuming, and when I say all-consuming, I can't even begin to explain what that means, other than that a benefit account/event, along with pretty much everything else in life, is the LAST of their concerns. It's all they can do to focus all their time, energy and emotions on the immediate situation, and even then, they are grasping for beyond what they feel they are capable of . . . and that's where friends and family step in . . .

Please—if you are able—help this beautiful family. Anything you can do is welcomed and so appreciated. If there is one thing I have learned on this nearly two-year journey of Bob's and mine, it's that we are here on earth to take care of each other. Simple as that.

Checks can be made out to "Corey D Harder Benefit Account," the "Corey and Ronda Harder benefit account," the "Ronda Harder Benefit account," or any variation of the aforementioned. Any amount that you might be able to share, I know, will be gratefully accepted.

Midland National Bank
527 N Main St
Newton KS 67114

I don't WANT this fake life anymore . . .

My sister, Jill, spent a week down in southern MN recently, to allow her kids some quality time with the grandparents before summer's end. . . ended up being an exercise in torture for all involved, as she carted a 5 year old, an (enormous!) 8 month old and carload of equipment needed to keep both kidlets entertained, between the Mankato and St. Peter grandmas' homes. Toward the end of the week, she was once again piling kids & krap from one grandma's to head over to the other grandma's, when Amelia pitched an award-winning meltdown of epic proportions. "I don't want to go to Grand Jan's!" she wailed, thrashing about as Jill tried to stuff her into the car. "I want my real life back! I want my real dad, and my real house and my real toys! I don't want this fake life any more . . ."

I've spent the past several weeks, cleaning, purging, donating, doling out to friends and family, all my earthly possessions, in preparation for The Big Move to The Big City, which occurred on Monday, August 15th. My mom came out last weekend to help me, a few friends showed up along the way, more help with more packing, unpacking, cleaning . . . Penny and Jim and my friend Julie, arrived early Monday morning to continue the process. Monday came and went with little incident—we moved several loads of belongings to my "new" house in St. Paul—many boxes, some small furniture items—came back to Wrenwood for dinner (i.e., to clean the fridge of edible leftovers) and then collapsed into bed and attempted to get some sleep so we could to do it all over again the next morning, when the moving company would arrive for the big stuff.

The movers, two young strapping lads (well, one was strapping, the other was questionable—rail-thin, but proved to be a helluva worker as the day wore on), showed up promptly at 7:30 Tuesday morning as scheduled, ready to roll. Great company to move with, btw, Good Stuff movers. I walked the movers through the house, showing them which things were staying (for staging the house once I get it ready for sale), which things were coming with me to the new digs.

"This house is so cool! Why would you ever want to move from here?" one of the young men asked me, looking around the joint with genuine awe. Pregnant pause. Do I lie? Make something up? Too late, as my mind doesn't work that fast these days. "Ummmm. . . because my husband recently passed away and it's too much house for just me," I said. I quickly walked past him, continued to point out which things in the bedroom need to be moved, what should remain. "Oh, I'm really sorry," he said quietly and followed me to the bedroom. "It's okay," I say, because it is. It's not his fault.

I am not used to saying such things—talking about my husband and my old life in past tense—will never get used to saying such things, and felt at once awkward, self-conscious and tears coming, again. I began wondering, as well, why am I leaving this beautiful tree-house in the woods? First nanosecond, I note how very lovely it is—nestled in a peaceful, hillside setting with lots of windows looking out in all directions, gleaming bamboo floors, vaulted ceilings, adorable kitchen that we updated almost right away upon moving in (we had planned to live here a very long time and wanted to do things the way we wanted them, so we could enjoy them, unlike our Roseville house, where a new owner reaped the benefits of our updates), endless deck space stretching out into the great outdoors. The deck space was what captured Bob's eye when we first found the house—that, and the overgrown wilderness that is the backyard; I fell in love with the open floor plan, the funky 70's layout. . . .feels like I'm thinking of someone else's entirely different life in another world, than what was mine, with Bob . . .

In the second nanosecond, I was quickly reminded why I need to move. My brain quickly registered the nicks and scrapes in the paint along the door frame, trailing along the trim, from Bob's walker, the steps to the sunken living room and bedroom that even in his most weakened, debilitated state, stubbornly insisted on maneuvering (and sometimes falling, in the process, to my horror) the endless winters snow-blowing the long driveway, raking tons of snow from the roof, shoveling tons more from sidewalks and decks, by myself. I think of the hand-held shower head I installed in our bathroom for Bob when he came home for hospice, so I could help him with his daily cares. I think of the TV in the corner that I can't watch, because it reminds me of what Bob's once vibrant, active life was reduced to, for far too long. I look around the bedroom I don't sleep in and the kitchen I can't cook in, think of the basement I never go down, except to let the dogs out. I think of the three bathrooms I have to clean, the 2300 square feet to maintain, alone, and in that nanosecond, was reminded again and again, the endless reasons for moving . . .

It took about four hours to pack up what was only a fraction of our belongings into the moving truck, the "essentials" I already had determined I absolutely needed with me in the new digs. The young men loaded box after box, heavy furniture, smaller pieces, with an unspoken, calculated formula for stacking and stuffing all my things, like a giant Jenga puzzle, into their truck. As they loaded, we filled my Jeep and Penny and Jim's pickup truck with additional odds 'n' ends. Finally, around noon, the young men came to inform me that they've fit all they could fit into the truck and would head out, taking a 1/2 hour lunch break ("off the clock," they quickly assured me) en route to the new digs.

We stuffed a few more loose items into our vehicles and took off shortly after, arriving at the St. Paul house a half hour later. I unlocked the door and we reversed the morning process, unloading the contents of the Jeep and truck into the house. I cleared a path for the movers to bring the couches in, more boxes, the dining set, more boxes, the bed, more boxes, directing them to the kitchen, the basement, the living room . . . an endless parade of things began to grow and grow and grow, like bacteria, inside the tiny house. My decisiveness quickly wore thin as more boxes and things began to overwhelm the house and me. It all fit into my old house, as did my old life, but here, in this ancient farmhouse with few closets and no garage, parked in the middle of St. Paul (built in 1858, the year MN became a state), there is no room for anything, most of all, my life.

I can't decide where anything should go because I suddenly I realize, with alarming clarity, that this life is not my life any more. Everything that fit into the house in West Lakeland is from a life that I no longer have, a life that Bob and I shared and does not fit in this new life. Not just my stuff, but my memories of Bob and me together. And, as much as I've already cleaned, purged and given away, I'll have to do it all over again, maybe several times, paring down to the basic necessities. More pieces of my life disintegrating in front of my eyes. Suddenly, I hate this house, I hate my life, hate what I have to do to "move on," because the harsh reality is that if I want to move forward, no one can do it for me. I quit giving directions to the movers and instead, drop to the hearth of the wood burning stove and start crying. Not just crying, but hysterical sobs that become more violent the more I try to stop. . . poor moving guys, poor Penny and Jim. Now and then, someone would tentatively approach me for direction and I would sob, "I don't care. Put it where ever there's room. In fact, maybe just start packing it all back up and haul it back to my real house, because I hate this one, I hate this life . . . " Penny sat down beside me and draped her arm around my shoulders.

"Jen—you can do whatever you want. Please remember that—if you want them to stop moving, just say the word. Or if you want to give it a few days, a week, a few months—whatever you decide, remember, you have choices and we're here for you. Whatever you want. . . when Bob was in the ICU, he asked us to be here for you, to take care of you, and we promised him we would, and we want you to please know that we meant that, that we are here for you. . . whatever you want . . . " I can't answer her, I can only cry. Again, the crazy, irrational, all-consuming nature of grief. . .

Julie arrived sometime after 2 and found me sitting at my dining table, head in my arms, still crying hysterically. She took Penny's place and draped an arm around me, allowed me to continue my epic meltdown. "I don't want this fake life!" I cry into my arms, echoing Amelia's earlier sentiments. "I want my old life, my old house back. . . I want Bob back, I don't want to move on, don't want to do any of this any more . . .this house is old, it's smelly, it's too small, what the hell was I thinking—I wasn't, that's the problem!" Julie lead me out to the little patio behind the house ("Jen, it's adorable out here! A mini "W.A. Frost" patio!" she gushed. . .) and went back into the house where she took over directing the movers for the rest of the items. . .

We didn't stay at the "new" place the first night and didn't stay Tuesday night, either. Penny, Jim and I went back to Wrenwood, ordered a pizza and shared a bottle of wine as I continued my crying jag. Again, Penny and Jim reminded me that nothing is permanent, I can change my mind about all of this at any time. I imagine how that could play out, endlessly, moving to and from each place, indefinitely. . .

Sometimes in life, our spirits are nearly gone . . .
sometimes we feel so crushed and broken and
overwhelmed . . .
that we do not even see where we are going.
We are just out there walking to keep the
heart beating . . .
and the circulation moving.
but . . . if that is all we can do . . .
and we are doing it . . .
that is still being faithful . . . not quitting . . .
giving it our best.

— ann kiemel

I am still trying to "get used" to my new digs. Dogs are adjusting better than I am, but at least I still have my "back up" plan, the house I have yet to sell . . .

Happy Anniversary baby, got you on my mind . . .

Today would have been Bob's and my 16th wedding anniversary . . . got the sweetest text message from Bob's sister, Nancy, today: Hi there. Not sure how to acknowledge this day, other than to say that 16 years ago Bob was the happiest man on the planet. Love you, chica!

To which I replied: I'd say the same about me, 16 years ago. . . and if I had known how it would have all played out, I'd still have done it, all over again . . .

For days leading up to today, I contemplated sequestering myself in the house on this milestone of milestones. . . but, at the suggestion of several people, including myself (odd, I know, but I talk to myself a lot these days, surprise, surprise . . .), I felt the desire to honor and celebrate the life I had with Bob, instead of hiding from it, hard as it felt it would be. I do have the choice to be the victim or not, on this journey . . . not always an easy decision, and sometimes victim wins out, but today, not the case. . .

Ended up being a lovely evening—threat of rain held off for the duration, a great "turn out" of friends and family, an abundance of good grub overflowed the tables, good company shared by all . . . warmed my heart, through and through, to be entwined (if not a bit taken aback—sorry, a defense mechanism . . . ) enveloped and elevated, from the friends and family representing . . . I wish I could have invited everyone I know (and don't know), who have been with us, on this long journey, and I hope that the grace of modern technology, we will all make good on the promise of keeping in contact at least via e-mail . . .

Happy Anniversary, my dear Bobby . . . thank you for all you have given me in our far-too-short-journey together. . . a lifetime of wisdom, an eternity of love. . . life is an emergency—you knew it . . .

xxoo, Jen

Winnie the Poo, and great horned owl, too . . .

You can't stay in your corner of the forest, waiting for others to come to you; you have to go to them sometimes ~ Winnie the Poo

I know I haven't written in a long while; this bog was started a lifetime ago, as a means to keep friends and family updated about Bob, not about me (though a "little" bit of "me" may have crept in, once in a while . . .). But I know that at least a couple of people still check this blog now and then, to see if I've updated lately and as such, I felt I should at least indulge those few, to let them know what's going on, on my end. Grief is an astoundingly self-absorbed, unbelievably irrational path, like nothing I've ever known, so bear with me, please . . .

So, after initially believing I should to "tough it out," out here at Wrenwood for a good year, per all the grief and widowhood "advice" that abounds—#1 being that one shouldn't make a rash decision after a life-changing event for at least that long—I've decided enough of that bullshit and am moving to the city (St. Paul) while simultaneously putting the house for sale, by owner. "By Owner," meaning for sale by me. Meaning, I have never been a realtor, nor do I play one on TV, and have no idea what the hell I'm doing, but feel in my heart it's the right thing to do, for me. So, talk to me next week, when the rules change on me, yet again, without warning.

Trying to "tough it out" out here means enduring another year of mental anguish, day by day, minute by minute, re-living the horrors of the past year and a half, not able to move beyond. n exercise in self-torture for which there is no prize other than endless heartache, living in the past, allowing life to pass me by. . . is that what Bob would want for me? A resounding, "NO!" is his answer, I hear in my heart. Shortly before Bob died, we had a conversation about his pending death (we had endless conversations about endless topics, but this was one that didn't happen frequently; as if he hadn't had enough shit handed to him over the entire year and a half, to talk about his death was about as insulting as it could get . . .). I asked that after he passed, would he please come back to haunt me in his afterlife, not in a scary "Ghost Adventures" way, but just to let me know that he was okay, that he was with me. He told me that he would come as a great horned owl, outside my window. Alarmed at this answer, I exclaimed, "Oh, no! We hear great horned owls out here all the time! How will I know which one is you?!?" Bob's response was, "Don't worry, you'll know. . ."

I can't even begin to go into detail how agonizing these past few months have been, for me, without him . . . grief is amazingly self-absorbed, so insanely close to insanity as one could ever been, I can't do it justice, to describe. . . I don't want to be around "old" friends, as I can't bear to hear that their lives are happily continuing, while mine is stuck spinning in mud, that they should "know" better than to rub their happy shit in my face . . . I become insanely jealous, hearing about vacations, lives moving on, milestones reached, aggravated to hear someone bitching about a spouse over minutia . . . I hate knowing that I am not fully in the present, as my mind is continually wrapped around that which is no longer, a life that will never be again, but feel at its mercy . . .

Grief is bizarrely irrational, makes no sense, skews even the most reasonable mind, encompasses, engulfs, twists and torments . . . in my mind I know all this, yet can't make sense of it, try as I may . . . I'm sick of platitudes, of quick, under-the-carpet sweeping "explanations" of life, of dying and everything in between, because no one knows, no one really knows what another suffers . . ."same but different," my friend Lisa astutely says, of loss; no one's loss is ever the same as another and it's arrogant, offensive, insulting to try to tell someone else they "know," and sometimes it is just easier to be alone than to subject others to this turbulent ride. . . if I ever thought I was close to crazy before on this Krazy Karival Ryde, I can now attest, I was never thisclosetoinsanity as I have these past three months since Bob died, and a would never wish this path on anyone, ever.

But at the same time, I know in my heart, that it wouldn't feel so godawful painful if I hadn't loved Bob so deeply, that it wouldn't be so hard if I hadn't cared so much for him, that I wouldn't have him on a pedestal so high if he hadn't been such a breathtakingly beautiful person—inside and out—to begin with. . . I gave him my all, these past 19 months, because he was so worth the fight, and I would have fought, would have cared for him as I did, till the end of time, he was so worth it . . . and I'm coming to know that he fought so hard for his own life because of the immense love that filled his soul, for me, for life and everyone and everything he held so dearly, and didn't want to let it go . . . what a privilege, to know that love . . .

To have experienced that immense love, in all its beauty as well as its flaws, in its highs, lows and everything inbetween, I know, I am eternally blessed, so grateful, so indescribably honored, to have had the gift for as long as I did and will carry that gift with me, forward, to the end of my days . . . because of all that, I felt I had to forge on in this house, as though I had something to "prove," that it was the "sane" thing to do, to continue living out here, without Bob, in spite of being continually flooded by sad memories, horrific images of all he had to endure the four months of hospice (not to mention the terrible times we endured here, before hospice . . .). And in the past three months of "toughing it out," I finally learned that even in grief—in spite of, or because of, I'm still not sure—often, what makes no sense to everyone else in their "sane" or "right" mind, becomes crystal clear to the one in mourning and that is what I need to follow, what's in my heart. . . but, I'm getting ahead of myself . . .

Long story even longer, I was at the proverbial rope's end a few weeks ago, wondering why things were getting harder, not easier, out here. I don't cook any more, don't eat, can't sleep, am delving deeper and deeper into despondency . . . on a whim, I hopped on Craigslist, perused the "Homes for Rent" section, and happened upon an ad for a gorgeous old house in the Cathedral Hill neighborhood of St. Paul. Reasonable rent, perfect size for me and two dogs . . . called the owner and over the next several days, had long conversations, explanations, many tears, and before I knew it, was signing a lease, paying the deposit, and slated to move in mid-August.

I drove home after that event, collapsed onto my couch and cried like I had yet to cry since Bob died, assaulted by endless thoughts of what have I just done? I don't even have our house close to being ready for sale again, it's such a terrible housing market—what if our house doesn't sell, if I move am I leaving Bob and all we had together behind, am I dishonoring his memory and all he went through, what if, what if, what if. . . as I lay on the couch heavy sobs wracking my body, I sent up a prayer to Bob, to please help me, give me a sign that what I had just done is the right thing . . . so tired, I tried to rest my eyes, calm my mind, but in spite of my best efforts, couldn't find the peace I longed for. . .

Suddenly, through my tears, I saw a flash of white out of the corner of my eye, outside the patio. I was so tired, I wanted to simply ignore the flash, but something compelled me to get my ass of the couch and go check it out. I walked out onto the deck and slowly scanned the back yard. This time of year, our backyard is so lush and full, it's nearly impossible to discern layers of foliage from anything else, but still, I was compelled, as if by force, to stand on the deck and scan the landscape, looking for what, I wasn't sure. Suddenly, I locked eyes with the penetrating eyes of a great horned owl, perched on a low branch not 30 feet or so from the deck. How I found it, I couldn't tell you. It was broad daylight, an odd time for a great horned owl to be out and about; no crows were harassing it to give its hiding place away nor any sunlight to spotlight its location . . . it was so close, I could see its eyes blinking, see the patterns and color variations in its feathers . . .

I stood still for several minutes, eye to eye with this immense bird of prey, until it finally looked behind, then back at me for one long last gaze before taking off, disappearing into the woods behind our house. My owl had come to me, as Bob said he would, and at that point, I knew, for certain, that he will always be with me, no matter where I go.

And that is the story of how Winnie the Poo and a great horned owl has coaxed this redhead from the woods. . . I move on Monday, and in the meantime, am getting the house ready for sale. Feel free to pass the word on, or to contact me if you or anyone you know might be interested in a beautiful little house in the big woods . . .

p.s., and just for the record, in case some fear I've been sitting in a catatonic fetal state out here in the woods—I do get out, I am doing things, but in tiny, incremental baby steps. I spend a lot of time with family and a few friends; I got my motorcycle license a few weeks ago (no bike yet—anyone know of a good Honda/Kawasaki/Yamaha 250cc for sale?); I walk the pups daily (sometimes 2-3 times a day, depending on how wound-up Rocco is), I joined a wellness studio and am haulin' ass on kettle bells 3x/week, I still can't bring myself to cook much these days, but thank god for Trader Joe's, I will be caring for my adorable 8 month old nephew a few days a week, starting in September . . . I am continually amazed that every day, in spite of the sadness that weighs heavily on my heart, I get out of bed every day, and do something. And in spite of the immense, crippling weight of grief, I actually feel happy at times, still find myself laughing occasionally, am rendered breathless at the sight of a glowing sunset, or an intense thunderstorm, and am eternally grateful for those who bless me with peace, patience and unspoken understanding, on this journey, which is pretty much everyone I know . . . xxoo)

Hollow life, hollow world

I recently discovered I need not just a new washing machine but a new dryer, too, as both now have a laundry list (ha. get it? laundry list? Man, even while grieving, I'm still punny . . . or not. . .) of issues that I've decided would be best rectified by replacing. Washer leaks all over if I do more than a medium sized load, dryer makes a most hideous screeching sound that both doggies high-tail it to the basement to hide . . .

So my latest pasttime has been researching washers and dryers online, talking to people, making a few stops here and there at appliance stores, to see what's out there, and my first conclusion is that there should only be three models of washers and dryers to choose from. But there's not. See, y'got your front loaders, your top loaders with agitator, your top loaders without agitator, washers with "sanitizing" features, dryers with "steam" features, "smart" machines that automatically fill up with just the right amount of water, based on the weight of your load, delay timers, multiple washing programs, anti-vibration systems, spin speeds that break the sound barrier . . .

Gone are the days of the simple dial and "start" button. Now, washers and dryers look like the cockpit of a 747. I am overflowing (kind of like my washer) with appliance information overload that I'm tempted to say, "hell with it all!" and take to scrubbing my clothes on the rocks in my front garden and hanging them up to dry on the line outside. All year. Even in winter. For the rest of my life. Can't seem to make a decision to save my life these days. . .

This search has been going on a good couple weeks now; today, I took a Sunday drive over to the Roseville area, hit ApplianceSmart and the Sears Outlet center to see what they had in stock, with every intent on whipping out the plastic and walking out with something . . . instead, I talked appliance features with salesmen who reeked of cigarettes, till my eyes glazed over and my head started to not really care which machine had what "latest technology." Suddenly, they all seemed ridiculously complicated, so instead, I asked for brochures, a business card and left. Found myself driving east on Larpenteur Avenue and before I could come to my senses, took a left onto Malvern and drove north till I was at 1901 Malvern, the house Bob lived in when I first met him. I was crying even before I got to the house, and almost didn't recognize it. . . it's had some updates in the 18 or so years since I last saw it, but I could still, easily imagine Bob's sweet little Mitsubishi Eclipse in the driveway, see him standing on the front steps, dressed up for work, long black overcoat, waving good bye to me as I drove back to Winona . . .

I cried the entire drive home, so many memories displacing the tangle of appliance information that had filled my head . . . talking to my mom later, she asked why I did I do that, why do that to myself, drive by his old house . . . I have to, I told her. I need proof that Bob was real, that what we had for 18 years was real, that he had an imprint on this world . . . these tangible landmarks of our life together are what does that for me, even though seeing them suck the breath right out of me, choke my throat, grip my stomach, and I haven't been able to stop crying all day. . .

I met Penny and Jim for lunch in Mankato for Father's Day last weekend, to catch up with them in person, even though I'm sure Jim had no desire to "celebrate" such a holiday . . . I gave him two cute photo frames from Ikea, in the form of a unrolled roll of film (how perfect for Bob!), with spaces for several 4x6 photos. I filled each space with the most beautiful pictures of Bob that I could find, which was a hard job because every picture I have of him is the most beautiful. . . When I went back down to St. James a few days later to see Nancy and her family who were in town for a few days, I noticed the pictures were nowhere to be seen. Not surprised . . . when I was saying goodbye, Jim hugged me tight and thanked me again for coming down for Father's Day and for the pictures. "It's going to be a while before we can put them up," he said quietly, "it's so hard to look at pictures of Bob yet, still seems so unreal . . . " I told him it was okay, that they have to do what's right for them, and if they never put them up, that's okay, too. I just wanted them to have the pictures. . .

Funny, I can't stop looking at pictures of Bob, can't stop reading the beautiful letters he wrote to me, can't stop trying to piece together the husband who was so visciously taken from me so long ago, yet also trying to honor and remember the journey he and I traveled this past year and a half, as well . . . I don't want to forget anything about him, and our life together, but I know I've already forgotten too much. That's why I drive past the Hickory Inn. That's why I drive past 1901 Malvern. That's why I can't stop looking at pictures of my achingly handsome husband. For some, it may seem like self-induced torture. For me, it's to remember. To make Bob real again, to try, somehow, somewhat, to fill the gaping hollow in my heart, my soul, in this world without him.

The week following Easter . . .

I didn't post much about the last week of Bob's life, as it was an incredibly difficult, almost out-of-body experience. . . an emotionally, physically tough week and I hardly left Bob's side at any point; actually, didn't much leave his side for over three weeks, maybe just to walk the dogs is about it, when things started slowly but surely sliding . . .but I want to write about it, have to, to try to purge my mind of the images that still hold such a grip on me, infiltrates all I think about, all day, every day, just want to make more room for the good memories, the beautiful images of a beautiful person and our life together before cancer. So indulge me, ignore this, whatever. It's really just for me, to get all this out, not much more . . .

Easter was a gift, an amazing, selfless gift from Bob, to all of us, but a day like that was not to happen again . . . Bob's parents left on Sunday, with Nancy and the crew, so happy in thoughts that Bob was doing so well, had rallied for them. "Call when you want or need us up again," were their parting words . . . that night, Bob and I continued to talk and joke around, lots of laughing, sharing, talked about everything and nothing . . . right now, in that crystal clear knowledge of hindsight, I wish with all my being that I had recorded the conversation, had held onto each word in my mind with a tight grip because now, I don't remember what we talked about at all . . . as my dear friend, Lisa, says, If only life came with "Play," "Pause," "Rewind," and "Forward" buttons . . . when it was time for his nightly meds, Bob sat at the edge of his chair, counted out his pills (without resistance or questioning, which he had been doing a lot of in the past week or two, as his mind slowly succumbed to the progression of the disease), downed every one of them without any begging or cajoling on my behalf—even his liquid meds, which he despised because of the taste. With that act, as though suddenly touched by the Fairy Godmother's wand, "poof!"My Bobby was gone, replaced again, with the very, very sick version . . .

Sunday night was the antithesis of the beautiful day we'd just experienced . . . a continuous struggle for both of us, Bob resisting or criticizing nearly everything I was trying to help him with, me begging and pleading for him to take his meds (he had a few that he took right before he went to sleep), to please try to lie down and get some rest; he'd forgotten he'd taken his earlier meds and wanted to re-take everything, then later resisted taking the last of his evening meds because he was sure he had already taken them. . . going to bed might or might not happen, because he was tired but didn't want to sleep, maybe wanted to go to the bed, maybe wanted to go to his chair, couldn't make up his mind . . . I felt so bad that I took that anger and criticism so personally, that I couldn't immediately know in my heart that it wasn't my Bob saying those things—that it was a horrific disease taking over—and respond accordingly. Instead, I cried because I wasn't doing enough, that I wasn't doing anything right, because he's so annoyed and frustrated with my lame efforts, cried because I was watching my husband being taken from me, right before my eyes . . . and I hated crying in front of him, hated adding to the layers of everything he was already dealing with, to have a despondent, helpless wife on top of all that . . . all this is part of the "process," the agitation, the confusion, restlessness, the lashing out—I knew that, from all the reading about hospice and "end of life" processes that I did, from talking to Bob's hospice nurse and doctor, but reading it and living it are two entirely different experiences. Nothing could prepare me for this deterioration of not just Bob's body, but his mind. . .

That night, before bed, Bob sat on the toilet and cried to me. . . cried because he was in so much pain, cried because he said couldn't do all of this any longer, because everything was so hard, couldn't remember anything, knew he was getting so confused but could do nothing to stop it, knew he didn't have much time . . . I can count on one had, with fingers left over, how many times Bob cried or complained in the 19 months this hell on earth has dragged on . . . all I could do was sit on the floor at his feet and hold his hands, or drop my head into his lap, wrap my arms around his waist and cry with him . . . I offered extra pain medication, offered to help him to bed, to his chair, where ever sounded most comfortable for him, which was neither . . . I don't know how long we sat like that, both of us simply crying . . .

Sunday night began the rapidly spiraling downward path. . . I've likened Bob's hospice journey to a slow airplane crash, rapidly picking up speed and barreling out of control that last week, nothing we could do would stop the inevitable crash. For the first few months in hospice, Bob cruised along, more stable than he had been all year—not to discount all the issues that came along following the horrific surgery in August—but we had very few new issues arise those first few months. But, since maybe mid March, every week or so, we'd take a sharp drop in altitude, Bob's health would hit a patch of turbulence then smooth out, though never back up to the point from which we dropped. This pattern repeated itself over and over, till Easter weekend, when the week-long nosedive ensued. . .

Bob's regular hospice nurse was supposed to be out on Tuesday after Easter, but was sick, so a replacement nurse filled in. Bob was responsive and seemingly attentive, but I could detect a lot of confusion, mixed-up information he was sharing with her. That was one of endless things that amazed me about Bob throughout this ordeal, how he could pull things together when he had to—when talking to his doctor or a nurse—no matter how bad things were for him, he had this amazing ability to make things look and sound a helluva lot better than they really were. I don't believe he was trying to play hero or trying to hide anything; it's just how Bob was in everything he did, even in acute illness— always at the top of his game, never played the victim card, even in his most messed up state, was the consummate class act . . .which often made my job all the more difficult, as his advocate . . .

I told her that he's become incredibly restless especially at night, getting up constantly, saying he needed to go to the bathroom; I'd get up every time, but often, nothing happened, so back to bed we went. . . lather, rinse, repeat numerous times, each time seemingly more difficult than the other, I could tell his strength was waning . . . around 5 a.m., he'd finally want to go out to his chair. . . but I told the nurse that didn't want to give him any more Haldol, given the events of the weekend before Easter. She recommended another drug, Thorazine, and called it in to be delivered that night.

Tuesday night, even with Thorazine, was a repeat of Monday, up and down, up and down, up and down all night long. . . at one point in the middle of the night, I heard Bob cry out my name; I leapt from the bed, ran out to the living room, found him lying on the floor in the hallway. He told me he had somehow lost his balance and fell over. More crying on my part, for not hearing him when he got up, for not being with him to prevent him from falling, for the pain he might be in now, possible injuries because of the fall, for the confusing babble that was coming from his mouth, nothing making any sense, because my Bob was falling farther and faster from me . . . I helped him scoot to the edge of the living room steps and we were able to get upright again and back into his chair . . . I don't remember at all, the details, the particulars. Just flashes of memories . . .

At some point early in the week, Bob started a serious bout of diarrhea that just wouldn't quit. Where it could possibly be coming from, I was at first baffled, as he hadn't eaten anything substantial in well over a week. Eventually, I theorized that perhaps it's his body shutting down, releasing anything that was "backed up," so to speak. Narcotics cause intense constipation, and Bob had been on pretty high doses of dilauded and methadone for quite a while (they had decreased it substantially when he was at Bethesda, but as time progressed, very likely the tumor was growing and the need for additional pain meds became necessary again). Along with the narcotics came strong doses of laxatives to help counter the narcotic effects, but from his hardened, distended stomach, it's likely the laxatives were barely working, at best. I truly felt that Bob's body was slowly giving into the inevitable . . .

Because of the diarrhea, we definitely were up nearly every hour, on the hour. I'd hear him waken and jump from my side of the bed to be close to his side as he slowly stood up and made his way to the bathroom. I thought about moving the commode to the bedside but with all we were contending with, I decided it would end up being more difficult. And, with Bob's restlessness, despite his waning strength, he still insisted on getting up and making his way to the bathroom, then perhaps the living room, over and over . . .

At some point, maybe Wednesday it was, Jim and Penny came for another few nights; my mom joined the group later in the week, Friday, perhaps? Much of the details are already a blur. Bob's good friend, Wally, also came up for a visit. I warned him about Bob's condition, that he sleeps most of the day, doesn't appear to be real cognitive, may drift in and out of lucidness—but Wally was undaunted, and came despite Bob's condition. A few of Bob's friends had been so amazing like that, so fearless of the illness, of the situation, and just wanted to be with him, to see him, say "hi," simply because of their love and friendship for Bob. I am forever grateful for Wally and Paulie . . .I love you guys, and Bob so did, too . . .

It was a tough few nights; Bob fell again, Thursday night. Thankfully Penny and Jim were with us, as this time, Bob's fall was not in a "convenient" spot and there would have been no way for me to get him up if it had just been the two of us. On Friday, Penny and Jim ran home for the night (they told me later, that throughout the year, often they had to go home, even if it was just for a night, to simply implode from the weight of it all, to have their own melt-downs, away from where Bob would see them, put themselves together again for the next round . . . I think of them so much, what all of this has been for them, seeing Bob go through all he has, from childhood, on . . . that's a whole blog entry of its own . . .

My mom stayed with us after Penny and Jim left, not wanting us to be alone any more, because of the mounting issues. She pretty much kept to herself in the basement, but like a little magic fairy, would pop up if I needed her for anything—to run an errand, grab some milk, just to sit and talk with us. . . Bob was quietly going downhill fast, needing help, needing something that I couldn't define, so afraid to be alone if something worse happened . . .

The last few nights became a nightmare. . . Bob was getting up every hour, on the hour to go to the bathroom, so weak and unsteady on his feet, but still insisting on going, even medication would not slow him down . . . pretty much every time, there was an ungodly mess in his briefs; thought again about bringing the commode right to the bedside, but quickly realized that would probably be harder to try to clean him up from that point. . . often, we're changing not only the disposable brief, but pajamas, socks and shirt, too. . . some times, I had no other choice but to help him into the shower for a total wash-down, it got so bad. That was so hard to do, given his incredibly weak, feeble state at that point, but I did not want him to be messy like that, I knew he would just hate that . . . that's one thing he'd said all along, is how he just hated to feel dirty, but in his current condition (since the surgery), all he feels is dirty . . . broke my heart into a million more little pieces, if that was possible, to hear him say that—with that simple sentence, summed up the dignity and self worth that cancer and the fucking "curative" surgery took from him, among endless other things . . . often, we had to change his dressing again, too, if the diarrhea was especially messy; often ended up soiling his dressing . . . bedding often had to be changed too . . . nights were long, neither of us getting any sleep at all . . .

Friday (April 29th), his regular hospice nurse popped in for a visit; after sitting with Bob, talking to him and observing him for a while, she pulled me aside and with tears in her eyes, told me she really felt the end was near . . . she couldn't say whether it would be a week or two or just a few days, but felt Bob was going downhill fast . . . told her about the substantial diarrhea for the past few days now; she agreed, maybe the laxatives he had been taking were finally working through his system, maybe his system was just finally letting things go . . . I asked her if there were any meds we could simply discontinue, to simplify things, given he's taking so many but maybe there are some that are kind of pointless now . . . we eliminated a few, to make things easier on Bob. . .

His sleeping patters by Friday had become way skewed; sleeping most of the day—a deep, almost unrousable sleep—and when he was awake, was incredibly confused and nonsensical (which was only for short bouts of time); he often got angry at me, when trying to give him his pain meds, saying he already took them, accusing me of trying to give him too much . . . sometimes I just gave up, to make things easier on both of us, but was fearful his pain will suddenly amp up and cause him incredible discomfort, so I tried as much as I could to convince him that I would never, ever give him more medications that what he has scheduled, begged him to please trust me . . . when he talked, he reminded me of a confused, argumentative drunk, words slurring, skewed logic that makes perfect sense to him but none at all to me . . .

Saturday night, I decided to try something different. Thorazine didn't seem to be working to address the agitation, to help Bob rest at night, so I asked if he'd be okay to try Ativan. . . it was a confusing, frustration conversation, explaining to him why I wanted to do this, but eventually, he looked at me with exasperation and said something like, "why not, what does anything I say matter any more, anyhow?" Again, heart broken into a million more little pieces, it's now powder . . . my reasoning was that ativan's supposed to be the kinder, gentler approach to the night-time agitation, just supposed to relieve the anxiety to help a patient rest, but not zonk them out like Haldol or Thorazine might. It had worked well with him in the past; maybe we both can finally get more than a half hour of sleep at a time . . .

I gave him one mg at bedtime, knowing that in the past, Ativan was a very mild anti-anxiety drug for Bob, and that I'd hate to try to convince him to take another so soon, if just a 1/2 a mg didn't work. . . almost immediately, as soon as his head hit the pillow, he fell asleep, on his back (which he normally never does), and was deep in slumber. I could barely lift both his legs onto the bed, much less get him onto his side the way he prefers, to get him into a half-comfortable position on my own, he was completely dead weight. I did the best I could without his assistance, but had to leave him on his back, and crawled into bed next to him, wrapping my arm around his waist. Not much sleep that night. . .

The next morning, Bob was in the same position, hadn't moved an inch all night, hadn't even gotten up to try to go to the bathroom. I got up and tried to rouse him, but no avail. He was still breathing, but deeply and completely unresponsive. I looked at the clock, a little before 7. My mind started racing; had the Ativan done this? What have I done? Oh my god oh my god oh my god . . . I ran to find my phone and call the hospice on-call nurse. I got a hold of her, spewed out my story; she said the Ativan would not have done this to Bob—one dose wouldn't last all night; maybe Bob was finally, completely exhausted from the several nights of up and down, up and down, she also gently reminded me the stage Bob is in, that maybe he is nearer the end than we realize . . . she said to keep an eye on him, call back if I feel I need more assistance . . .

I went back to check on him, and once again, tried to get a response from him, as I was worried that because he hadn't gotten up to go to the bathroom all night, we'll really be in for a mess this morning. This time I did get a response, but immediately regretted it. In a groggy, seemingly drug-induced stupor, Bob awoke and clumsily tried rising from the bed, but couldn't hold himself upright and flopped backward, tried to sit up again, and again flopped backward. It was then I realized he was lying in a large pool of liquidy stool. . . he struggled to get upright, while I struggled to keep him lying down, so I could try to clean him up at least somewhat, at the bedside, before we could somehow get him to the shower (which in my heart, I knew wasn't going to happen), given the sheer amount of stool on the bed . . . I sternly instructed Bob to stay in bed, ran to grab my phone and called the hospice nurse back as I ran back to the bedroom, where I found Bob still struggling to sit up. The nurse answered, and I hysterically spilled the story of what was going on; Bob is awake, trying in vain to get up, wants to get up, is covered in diarrhea and I really need someone out here to help now!

The nurse on the other end told me help wouldn't be able to get to us for at least an hour, maybe an hour and a half; the next on-call person doesn't come in till 8:30, she herself is a good hour away from me . . . I started screaming at her, "Are you kidding me?! Bob has been in hospice for FOUR MONTHS and in that time, we've never asked ANYTHING of you people even though you relentlessly bugged us with offers of all kinds of services, but now, when we REALLY need your help, you tell me it'll take a fucking HOUR???!!!" The nurse interrupted me, telling me that they don't have any staff in our area; I interrupted her, crying, "Then what the HELL are we doing in Fairview's hospice program, if you can't service us, especially in a CRISIS???!! Oh my god . . . I need help NOW and you can't give that to me???" she started to say something but I hung up, nearly hysterical.

I suddenly remembered that neighbors down the street from us, husband and wife, are both nurses, he was a hospice nurse for years, recently retired. I had talked to them a few months back and was told, "If you ever need anything, please call . . . " I need help so badly right now, please, please please help us now—I called for Mom upstairs and asked her to run down to their house and see if they're home . . . she left, I continued to try to clean Bob up, again he's fighting everything I was trying to do—I stripped his clothes off, and started wiping from the feet, up, crying and begging Bob to not fight me, to please keep still, to hold on, help is on its way, praying praying, praying that the neighbors are home and can come to help us . . . and all the while, I was really only making the mess worse, but just wanted to clean him up as much as I can, do something to try to keep him occupied, keep him from trying to grab for his walker . . .

Mom returned, said no one answered the door. I almost fainted in frustration . . . I picked up my phone, scrolled down to neighbors who live across from the nurses, handed the phone to Mom and asked her to call them, ask if they have a phone number to call the nurses. Maybe just maybe they didn't hear my mom at the door . . . she got a number, I grabbed the phone and called. A voice answere. "Sharon?" I asked frantically. "Yes," said the voice on the other end. I almost fainted with relief. Again, words tumbled from my mouth as I told her what's going on and asked if they could please help at all. She said they'll be right down. . .

Not five minutes later, Jim and Sharon, the nurse neighbors, arrived and found us in the bedroom. . . I stepped back as they immediately took over; I grabbed supplies as needed, helping as much as I can. I was in awe with their skill and expertise and the gentleness and reverence with which they helped Bob. Between the two of them, they gently, skillfully finished removing his clothes, washed him, turned him from side to side to clean him well . . . at the same time, they removed soiled bed linens, cut his soiled shirt from him (to disrupt him as little as possible), rolled the soiled blankets into a ball and expertly slid new bedding underneath Bob's limp body . . . at once, time was moving through mud and racing by. . . eventually, Bob was thoroughly cleaned, the bedding changed and he wass gently rolled onto his side, fresh blankets wrapped around him . . . he had settled down, and was sleeping soundly. An odd sense of peace has settled in the room.

In the meantime, Mom called Penny and Jim, who were on their way, as well as my sister, Gretchen, who lives nearby and can offer an extra set of strong hands to help . . . Jim and Sharon were gentle but blunt in their assessment of the situation. Bob was very near death . . . they offered me wise advice about his medications. "Pain medication and Ativan are a must at this time. You want Bob to be as comfortable as possible—keep up with his pain medications, and continue giving him Ativan at regular intervals, to keep him calm and resting. Crush the pills, mix with a tiny bit of water, and slowly pour the liquid under his tongue or inside his cheek, so he doesn't choke, it'll absorb transdermally. . ."

Eventually, nearly 10 a.m. (three hours after I first called Fairview hospice on-call), a hospice nurse arrived just as Penny and Jim pull into the driveway (who drove from 2 1/2 hours away. . . what's wrong with that picture, I don't even need to say). I told the nurse everything has been done, by our angels from down the street, that nothing more is needed . . . she gave me some additional advice about Bob's meds, and shortly after arriving, left. Jim and Sharon stayed for a while longer, and then left, saying they'd be back a little later to check on us. I was crying, so grateful for all they'd done, for all they'd shared, for coming to our rescue, for being so kind and respectful to Bob . . .

I thought I could finish this in one last entry, but clearly that isn't going to happen. . . I have to take a break from this. . . finish another time . . .