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)
