Looking Back in Order to Look Forward

"Sometimes you have to look back to be able to look forward."
~ unknown

It's that time of the year when I look back to see where I've been, what I've accomplished, and where I want to head in the coming year.  I've done this every year for the past 35 years except last year.  John had died in November and the best I could do was hope that I'd endure the grief and mourning that overwhelmed me - and I wasn't so sure about that.

So, this year I dared to pull out my private journals from 2018 and 2019 (six in all) and began to read, hesitantly, a few pages at a time.  Knowing I would dredge up painful memories, bittersweet memories, but also, hopefully, memories that could sustain me and buoy up my tentative optimism for the coming year.

 I had so many questions:

• Had I been the compassionate companion I wanted to be?  Did I do enough?
• What help and support meant the most to John, to me, to us?
• What help could I or should I have asked for sooner?
• Why was this past autumn so challenging? Why am I optimistic, even if cautiously, now?
• What have I learned from these past two years?  How have they shaped me?
• What could I accomplish or contribute as a result?  What calls to me?

I've started at both ends of those 26 months, the early months after the diagnosis and the last months immediately preceding and succeeding his death.  And the months of this previous autumn.  It's glaringly obvious that this will take me more than a couple weeks to accomplish, as I write a minimum of two college-lined 8 1/2 x 11 pages every day and many of them are challenging to read.  I've taken on a  project that could well take a few months.

But this much I have learned already:

• This past autumn was so challenging, in part, because the summer flew by with relative ease, and I became complacent.  I was stunned by the impact of darker mornings and earlier dusks and much more anxious than I had anticipated for the impending anniversary of John's death as well as the holidays.  My private journal pages contain more grief and anxiety than is my intention to share here.  Not that I didn't share that with close friends and a counselor, but my intention here is to be helpful and as positive as possible.
• Speaking of intention, I was reminded that we promised each other from the very first week that, whatever came our way, we would handle it together with as much grace and dignity as we could muster.  And my reading to date reaffirms that we did, some days better than others, of course, but we clung to that promise especially in the final weeks of his life.
• In the weeks following John's death, I was overcome with regrets.  Normal, I'm told, but so very painful.  It was, therefore, a gift, and an affirmation of the value of all that journal writing, to come across the passage where I captured one of the last things he said to me - "How was I ever so lucky to have found you?"  He thought I did enough, more than enough.  And today, that's good enough for me.  
• Regarding support,  I learned so much about support - especially about needing it, asking for it and accepting it willingly and graciously when offered.  So much that it will be the topic of my next post(s), maybe eventually, a book.  For me, looking back is helping me to rebuild a bruised sense of self-confidence, to reassure me that I will be ok, maybe stronger than ok, and to point optimistically to a future that holds purpose and satisfaction.  
• I'm back.

Just Not Yet

"Don't cry because it's over.  Smile because it happened."
~ Dr. Seuss

I love Dr. Seuss and I so want to believe this.   I can recognize that I am making progress, for sure.  In those first few weeks after John died, I despaired of remembering him other than from those last six months when he declined so significantly, losing weight, losing his ability to drive, losing his eyesight, eventually needing my help for even the most rudimentary tasks.  I panicked when I couldn't remember the silly little jingle he created and sang only in the shower.  I couldn't sleep in our bed, couldn't ward off the regrets.  

I turned to a multitude of grief books, hoping to find that someone else, anyone else, who felt the way I did.  Thankfully, I found the reassurance I was looking forward.  Not crazy, not unusual to feel so frantic.  

Then one morning, out of nowhere, the jingle emerged as I was waking up.  Gradually, sweet memories from those last six months returned.  How pleased he was that our little rescue dog, Rufus, and I had "found each other."  How he would sing to me, "Have I told you lately that I love you?" several times a day.  How, when I asked if he knew how much I loved him, his response was "and do you know how much that mattered?"  How he always expressed his gratitude to me, to his doctor, to the home health care and hospice nurses who cared for him.  Memories that, though they first brought tears, could also evoke a smile.  Not either/or but both.

In recent months, other memories have returned, sometimes initiated deliberately by someone sharing a common experience.  Or when I have had the courage to sit with photo albums or my basket of all the cards he sent me over the years.  When I have had the courage to go through a travel journal - our trips to Tuscany or the one to Sicily when we came upon a relative of mine sitting on a doorstep in her housecoat and flannel slippers, a scene from a Fellini movie.  Or the photos from the helicopter ride down the face of the Jurassic Falls.  How thrilled he was to sit beside the pilot.  

There are the memories that pop up unexpectedly - when it's dusk and I can hear him call to me to "come see this.  You won't believe the sky."  Or when I wake in the morning and recall how he would ask how I slept.  Hearing that Tiger Woods won the Masters and knowing he would have said, "I told you so."  Walking into the local Starbucks and ordering an iced tea the way he would have.

The intimate memories - the night we met in a "bar in Kansas City."  Well, an elegant lounge actually, but he loved telling everyone it was a bar.  Our wedding, the way he hovered when I had breast cancer, the beautiful messages he wrote on every card until he could no longer even sign his name.  

There isn't a day now when yet another memory emerges.  Bidden, unbidden.  Most of the time I can smile, well, at least smile first.  Am I at the point when I don't cry?  Not yet.  Will there come a day when I can simply smile because it happened?  Maybe, hopefully, but just not yet.

It Was a Very Good Day

"How beautiful a day can be when kindness touches it."

~ George Elliston

I made a promise to myself at Thanksgiving that this holiday season, possibly our last together, would be one of our best, something for John to brighten his days, something to cherish for the rest of my life.  I made lists of possible activities, moments that could qualify as special, places we enjoy, meals I'd prepare - and I don't like to cook.  That weekend I took extra care to create festive touches in every room, even the bathrooms.  I spent an entire day just on the Christmas tree.  And crossed my fingers, hoping that my vision would become reality in the following weeks.  Hoping I'd hear him say that this was the best holiday ever.

Then, unexpectedly, unplanned, the telephone call from old friends, friends of three-plus decades.  Friends whose wedding we stood up for 32 years ago, friends whose conversations pick up where they left off even if months go by without contact.  Could they come out for a visit?  

They arrived last week.  And we did what old friends do - got caught up on each other's lives, shared wine, ate out, gossiped, laughed, reminisced, offered help without being asked for it, wished we lived closer.  And each of the three nights they were here, John commented to me, "This was such a nice day."  

Each day was a nice day, but I will cherish one in particular.  The two men went off for the day, a special treat for John, a day to spend with this man who in many ways has been as much a younger brother as a friend.  A chance to say things he might not say to me for wanting to protect me.  A chance to say what each needed to say in case this would be the last time they saw each other.

And they did just that.  When I asked John what they had talked about, at first he answered simply, "Love."  And then, "Of our love for one another and our special bond and how much I have touched his life." And then, "I cannot tell you what that meant to me.  To know I made such a difference to such a good man."  

There are other memories to create this holiday, but we have already had our Christmas.  John's days are brighter, I will always remember our conversation and cherish the man whose kindness and support made it possible.  A very good day, indeed.

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Reflections on Christmas Past

"Christmas is a season not only of rejoicing but of reflection."

~  Winston Churchill

I woke the other day with the sudden realization that this is my 76th Christmas and a flood of childhood Christmas memories washed over me.  For no apparent reason.  No dreams that I could recall.  No family traditions binding me to the past.

Then again, I have been decorating with a vengeance and friends have called to say they will be visiting.  And I have indulged in more than a few Hallmark holiday movies.  You know the ones, filled with romance and fantasy, ideal families and happy endings.  Simple plots and enough good cheer to last all year.

Our family was not filled with good cheer.  Money was tight. Relations could be strained.  But, somehow, we were at our best at Christmas.  

I loved watching my mother bake cookies for weeks starting right after Thanksgiving.  Enough chocolate chips and pecan snowballs, Spritz and sugar cookies, pinwheels and ladyfingers to fill the turkey roasting pan and several large bowls.  All made with real butter and leaving an aroma that filled the house for weeks.  Enough to give packages to all the family who came to visit.  And they came - all six brothers of my dad, and the two brothers and a sister of my mom, and their children.  They flowed in and out for days.

I loved decorating the real tree, purchased only a week or so before the holidays and laden with family heirlooms and silver tinsel that had to be layered a string at a time - I remember feeling so grown up when I was finally allowed to do so.  And the cards, checking the mail every day to see if we received a card from someone Mom had sent one to, her cards signed in red ink for the season.  She would read them, looking for a message, and then tape them to the archway to the living room.  And count them, every year.

The other sure sign of the season - the music.  Not only did Mom enjoy the traditional Christmas carols, (well, I think Rudolph was tolerated), but once we attended Catholic school, I sang in the church choir.  And Midnight Mass was the second time Dad could be dragged to church, Easter being the other.  Such a treat to get "dressed up" and sing before my parents.

And of course, the food.  Both Mom and Nonna were great cooks.  We celebrated Christmas Eve with Nonna who made pizza, from scratch naturally, and fried the leftover dough and rolled it in sugar, a treat for the grandkids.  Then, returned for Christmas Day to a feast that took days to prepare and almost as long to clean up after.

Gifts were simple - coloring books and crayons, puzzles, roller skates, a game.  And always pajamas and for me, and later my baby sister, a dress that Mom sewed.  Gifts that appeared while we were at Nonna's.  Gifts that I discovered Mom and Dad had bought when I finally noticed that Santa's name was always signed in red ink.  Gifts that were given and received with love and appreciation.

We were at our best at Christmas.  I think I'll bake cookies this year.

I Hope Life Has Been Good to Her

I haven't thought about her for years.  I doubt she would remember the dinner she prepared 40 years ago as a favor for a mutual friend who was deeply concerned for me and thought she could be of help.  In the midst of debilitating panic at the prospects of living alone for the first time after a nasty divorce, I, too, was concerned, and thus, very grateful for the invitation.  Hoping she, indeed, could be of help.  

I don't remember her name.  I'll call her Sara. Our friend said Sara was ahead of me in the stream of 70's divorcees, swimming with grace and serenity.  Walking into her home, I could feel the peacefulness immediately.  After our meal, she got straight to the point. This I remember vividly.  "Mike says you are struggling with living alone and hopes I can offer some good advice.  Well, I'm no expert, but these three things work for me, a career I love, friends of the same sex, and hobbies or interests that fill the empty hours."  Simple. Straight to the point.

Well, I was teaching and loved it. I had a group of female friends from among neighbors and colleagues, who supported, and worried about me. But hobbies, interests? All my interests had been directed by my ex. So I thanked her, not adequately I'm sure, and set out to develop my own hobbies. And never saw her again. I eventually settled on needlepoint,  needle pointing a pillow for everyone I knew. Eventually, settled into a modicum of comfort in my singleness, but more importantly, gained the confidence that I could and would do so eventually with my own style of grace and serenity.

So what triggered this memory?  No single comment or event, but rather a series of events that took place this week.  A week of daily contact with friends, old and new. A week of sharing memories, tears, laughter, good food, serious conversation, fears and hopes and even a few interesting possibilities for the future.  A week that has culminated with suddenly remembering Sara and thinking of how, 40 years later, I would respond to her advice.

Some of the contacts this week were extemporaneous - e-mails, Facebook posts, a telephone call - from friends acquired along my career path, some friendships over 25 years old. Others - the newer St. George friendships - had been planned for some time.  My monthly luncheon date with a friend in her 80's, who shared her dream of seeing Alaska some day, and opened the possibility that we might do that together.  The next day, lunch at a local spa with a friend in her 50's, Grasshopper to my Sensei. Discussing my plans for the future, she sparked an idea for a  project I could become passionate about.  Asked how she might be of personal support in the days ahead, we committed to a monthly luncheon, at the spa, of course.

Then, there were the gatherings.  A monthly meeting of a group that has been meeting for two years now, pulled together in the hopes that these women would be a bastion of support in the inevitable life crises that, indeed, have begun to emerge.  Aging from 65 to 82, with a fount of knowledge and expertise and a bottomless well of compassion, they have become the haven we hoped for two years ago. For me, for sure. Then, today, lunch with friends to discuss Hillbilly Elegy, four "senior citizens" who share a love of reading and learning, 

So, how would I respond to Sara's advice today? At 76, retired, with perhaps too many hobbies, I would say friendship has become the most important, enduring element for me in living a satisfying life, whether alone or with a mate.  I would add, that especially as I have aged, I value a web of friends of different generations and different interests.  That though it is tempting, especially in today's divisive, hostile environment, to surround myself only with people who think and believe as I do, the diversity of age, interests, and viewpoints keeps me engaged and invigorated. That I need friends to cry with, and friends to laugh with, too. That I need friends who share a piece of my history, friends who nurture me in the present, and friends who help me face the future.

I take comfort in knowing I have created just such an elaborate web of friendships over the years, largely by remarkable good fortune, surely not by conscious design.  I don't know how Sara has fared.  If she would amend her advice as I have.  I hope life has been good to her. I hope she is surrounded by a web of loving, nurturing, diverse friendships.