It's been years since I have written on this blog. Maybe I have enough distance to write it now. We'll see.

2006-2007. In the early months of grieving, I thought I had skipped the denial stage. After all, I knew that Bob was dead--I had seen it coming--I had released him so that he could let go. But looking back, I can see that I begged him to come home for over a year. And that makes no sense, but I realize that denial isn't about sense. It's the heart that denies what the mind knows. So I just wanted him to come home and for all this to be over. And as I noted those desires, I thought I must be going crazy, because I knew he couldn't come home. Finally, in May of 2007, over a year after he died, I gave myself a shake and said I had to accept that he couldn't come back and that continuing to beg for him to come home was a disservice to Bob. If he could come back, he would never have left. That may not make sense to anyone else, but it made sense to my heart. I saw that I had to "move on"--not to stop grieving, but to stop denying--because this was the way things would be from now on. So then I moved into the next phase, although I could easily move back into denial.

2007-2008. So I spent the second year of grieving looking for a way to accept that my life would never be the way it used to be. Because I just didn't like the way things were for me now. I had nothing to look forward to because the future didn't hold anything I wanted. I had no dreams. I even heard the lyrics in my head: you got to have a dream/if you don't have a dream/how you going to have a dream come true? So I dragged myself through the second year of grieving by focusing on the day and ignoring the looming dark of the future. I just had to trust that time would bring about a change of some sort. And that's what I found. Time doesn't exactly heal--at least not in the sense that the loss no longer hurts--but the pain becomes more bearable. I missed being Bob's wife and his caretaker--so I decided to be a caretaker. I invited my granddaughter to live with me, with the understanding that she obtain her GED and that she had to work. So I had a project. And early in 2008, she got her GED. Then she met Chris at work, and she moved in with him.

2008-2009. The third year of grieving was when I decided to make my own life my project. I needed to work on something about myself so that I had something to work towards in the future. And I decided it was time to move closer to work and to my friends. Bob had wanted me to move into Austin, but I didn't think I could leave the house where we had been together, the house we were planning to grow old in. Now I decided it was time to do it. So I put my house in order so that I could list it for sale. It went on the market in late December. I closed on the sale in April of 2009, and I closed on the purchase of my new house in Austin. I moved on April 25, three years, one month, and five days after Bob's death.

Just a few days before the move, I was feeling terrified that I had made a mistake in selling the house that he had worked on. I was standing in the living room, looking into the back yard that he always compared to a Disney movie--the birds and squirrels, the soughing pines--with the door open to that beautiful yard. A wind came into the house and swirled around me. I felt it on all sides of me at once, embracing me and lifting me. And I knew that Bob approved of the move. From that time onward, I felt at peace with my decision.

I also had a dream before I moved. Bob and I were in the car together and we were going somewhere with that sense of adventure that we had about the open road. And I awoke and knew I wasn't leaving him behind in the old house. He was going with me on this adventure. We would still be together. And this dream was unusual because I hadn't been dreaming of him. In fact, I was feeling sad that he wasn't as much in my dreams as he had been that first year after his death. But I have dreamed of him several times since the move.

The move was three months ago. At first I yearned for the familiar places where Bob had been, the beautiful floor that I could picture him working on, the front door that he had installed, the yard that he had turned into a park. Now I know I have made the right decision. I still have those memories--I don't need that place to be able to remember.

My therapist said that healing would mean forming a new relationship with my memories. It's a process. And it's easy to get stuck. Stuck is comfortable even though it's uncomfortable. But it's all part of the process.  ¶ 8:57 AM 0 comments

  I met Bob on a blind date, but my blind date wasn't with Bob. He came along as moral support for Robbie, my blind date. Robbie's aunt had arranged the date, and all Robbie knew about me was that I was a nice girl that his aunt knew from church. So he brought Bob along. The next time Robbie asked me for a date, I already had plans--with Bob.

It took us a few months to realize that we were soul-mates. Bob would tell me, 40 years later, "You're the one." We went through times when we lost sight of this, or when we resented being meant for each other, but we always found a way to rekindle the romance and the heat. When we were dating, Bob used to say that he was "stoked." Well, we stayed stoked, and that was one of our strengths. And it's something I can hardly think about without deep sadness, a year and a half after his death.

Bob survived childhood cancer, but he remained at high risk of nead and neck cancer because of radiation treatment he received as a very young child. When he was diagnosed with a second cancer, 43 years after his childhood cancer, he proclaimed himself lucky to have had 43 years without cancer. He always believed that he would die from cancer and that he wouldn't live to be old. I refused to believe this, and I still have trouble believing that I have to live on without him.

When his cancer became very bad, his oncologist prescribed an steroid that would give him a temporary illusion of improvement. The steroid would temporarily reduce the swelling the tumor was causing in his brain tissues, but it wouldn't reduce the tumor, and the effect would only last a few weeks. Then the swelling would come back and the tumor would be further advanced.

At the same time, I took a leave from work, and those weeks--when he felt a little better and I didn't have to leave his side--were what we called "our Indian summer."

He asked me to write about our experience and our Indian summer, and I hope I can do so now.  ¶ 10:12 AM 0 comments

  I'm nervous aout even thinking this--for fear of jinx--but I think I'm doing better. Knock wood. In the past couple of weeks I've glimpsed what acceptance will be like. The pain and grief still overwhelms other feelings, but I can sense acceptance behind the grief and peeking around the edges. I can't say I've accepted it yet, but I believe I can accept it.

During his last months, Bob's spirits were low so much of the time, until the last couple of months, when he knew what he was facing. I think he was willing to put up with so much, but it just got to be too much. Still, he didn't want to leave us--not only did he love life, he wanted to spare us the pain of losing him. Finally, he accepted both his death and the pain that it would cause, and he was able to let go. I'm still working on that acceptance because, for me, it also means I have to make a life without him. Until I accept the finality of his death, a tiny bit of hope persists that he'll come back, and I dread the loss of that hope. But little by little, I'm getting there, and I know that is what he wants. I can see him holding his arms out to me the day before he died, when he couldn't really make speech anymore, but his eyes were so sad. He dreaded leaving me to go through this alone. He was sadder for us than for him. He just couldn't stay, just to take care of me. And I have to accept that. I just don't want to.  ¶ 11:17 AM 0 comments

  I went to Unity Center yesterday morning, and it helped me. I was very happy to see Vicki, Bob's Hospice nurse, and to be part of the affirmative spirituality practiced there. It fed me, the way Science of Mind fed me--until I got too involved with the structural aspects of the congregation. But I'll bring with me what I learned from that experience--and it fills in for what I miss about Science of Mind. So much of the service and the relationships felt familiar and right to me.

And I'm happy to hear talk about "transitions" and about life as a continual experience through which imperishable spirit moves through corporeal states and non-corporeal states. It makes me feel closer to Bob--and closer to the possibility that I may be able to accept his transition with tranquility. Perhaps even serenity.

On Saturday I was reading in bed, with the kitty curled next to me, and I was facing Bob's side of the bed. The sensory memory washed over me of the hundreds of afternoons when I had read while Bob napped, with a kitty in between. I could imagine him very solidly--but his absence brought me such pain. As I cried from my longing for him, I felt a sensation of calm and of his presence, on his side of the bed, turned to me, with his hand on my waist, and I cried harder for it being only a memory. Then I felt his knees against my knees--and that sensastion was authentically and precisely the way it would feel if he were there--I could feel the denim knees of his jeans against my legs. And I felt that he was comforting me--evoking the physical as much as he could to assure me that he is here, still caring for me, and trying to help me through. My crying calmed as I developed the sensation of Bob lying next to me, pulling details from memory--smell and sound and breath and feel--and the "realer" I made it, the more I was comforted.

As Dr. He said, "Bob is here."  ¶ 12:55 PM 0 comments

  I have had the feeling that Bob "gave up" when his disabilities got to be too much for him. But I feel disloyal for thinking that, since he was such a fighter--he kept his spirits up until the pain got bad last fall--and even then, he tried so hard to keep going. I guess what I'm saying is that I feel resentment that he "gave up"--that is, that he died--and yet I can't imagine that I would have fought for so long against so many limitations. I think it's my grief that holds this against him--some resentment that I've been abandoned. It's not the first time I've noticed that a part of me interprets the loss as abandonment--and I think that's common with grief. It's really odd that I find so many ways to fault myself for the grieving process, which is probably very "natural"--the way that vomiting is a natural way to rid the body of something harmful or distracting.

I have one of his hats and a kerchief that he wore that have his smell on them. I can catch a whiff of his scent and it takes me back. And in the days after my first therapy appointment on July 21, I had strong memories of him being beside me. A couple of weeks ago it fooled me completely because I had drifted off to sleep in my chair, which is right beside his chair. I had left a magazine in his chair and the cat jumped up on it and settled down. The rustling of the magazine awoke me and I woke to the idea that Bob had turned the page on his magazine. I thought for a second that these past months had been a horrible dream, but even as I opened my eyes I knew that it hadn't been a dream--that he had actually died. Still, I had to look at his chair to be sure that he wasn't there. And I had a couple of other times in the those days when I thought I heard him in another room--and it was the cat--or thought he was lying beside me on the bed. I guess it's a phase of the greiving process that I'm moving into. In general, I like these strong memories, although I was very sad when I thought he was sitting beside me. I think the therapy has ushered in a new wave of sadness, and it's good to go through the sadness--it has to be the way to healing.  ¶ 8:09 AM 0 comments

  Bob had advanced adenoid cystic carcinoma. He was diagnosed with ACC in his right parotid in 1996 at the age of 50. It had already invaded the facial nerve. He had parotid removal and nine weeks of radiation. In 2000, new disease was found at the skull base, in the cavernous sinus and along the trigeminal nerve. At that time he was referred to M.D. Anderson in Houston. The MDA doctors did not recommend surgery because of the location and because of the poor prognosis, given the perineural spread--essentially they said "it doesn't get much worse than this." They did prescribe two rounds of chemotherapy, but to no effect, nor did anyone really expect any effect. He decided then against anymore such "comfort" treatments. In 2004 he was diagnosed with lung mets, and he was given Iressa, an oral chemotherapy with minor side effects, but the disease continued to progress. The disease invaded his brain, in particular the brain stem.

Along the way, the cancer chipped away at him--loss of sensation on the right side of his face, starting with numbness on his lip (2000) and progressing up past his forehead (2004); loss of eye muscle control on the right (in 2004) and, at the end, on the left (2006); paralysis on the right side of his face (2004) resulting in the suturing of the left eye lids to compensate for lack of blinking and to prevent the double vision resulting from the loss of eye movement; loss of the sense of smell (2005); and, in his last weeks, a declining sense of taste.

On the other hand, he worked full-time until the fall of 2005, running his own business, dealing with customers, and being very active in the heart of his family. He dealt with this disease with great dignity and grace. His daily mantra was "Something wonderful will happen today." It's a wonderful self-fulfilling prophesy, because all you have to do is look for it and you find that wonderful something. Even his hospice workers seemed to find peace and comfort around him.

Bob considered himself lucky. He was radiated, as a toddler, for enlarged adenoids in the late 1940s before scientists fully understood the dangers of medical radiation. He had mixed-cell cancer in the left parotid at age 7. Doctors performed a radical resection then, and that seemed to have dispensed with the disease on that side. He had no other cancers until he turned 50, so he proclaimed himself a very lucky man. But he always felt he would die of cancer, and that he wouldn't live to be an old man.

In August 2005, Bob was discharged from MDA because they had nothing more to offer. He consulted a local cancer doctor, looking for someone to monitor the end stage of the disease, and was offered the opportunity for chemotherapy. He declined the chemo, feeling that the doctor was offering false hope--and perhaps looking for cha-ching--and chose instead to enjoy the quality of the time he had left. And we felt if MDA had nothing to offer, the local cancer treatment center was probably not offering anything with a worthwhile expectation of success.

I really enjoyed Alice Neely's perspective on the loneliness of this disease. It's so true. People don't understand the "indolent but relentless" nature of this cancer--people confuse the indolent path with "remission." As Alice Neely points out, the slow progress makes this a "good cancer," but that's a very ironic benefit. Bob said that the good thing about dying slowing is that it allows you to die with grace.

We married in high school, in 1966, and we had a strong partnership in this life. What we realized in 2000 when the doctors at MDA presented us with the prognosis of doom--no treatment, no cure--is that we needed to live in the present--the here and now--and that's what we endeavored to do. And we found that joy is abundant in the present. I'm having trouble with that now.  ¶ 3:27 PM 0 comments

  Today is Wednesday, August 9, 2006. It has been 20 weeks and 3 days since Bob died. And it seems like the pain is worse. I can look back at the first couple of weeks and see that I was in shock. I was sad and I cried a lot, but the sadness had to do with his dying, with his loss of strength and thought, with my loss, with the ending of our marriage, with the briefness of that sweet Indian Summer. Now I hurt from the pain of missing him, and I cry because the enormity of "forever" is slowly seeping into my consciousness. When I try to wrap my brain around the idea that he is gone forever, my heart tears apart, and I'm afraid that I can't survive it. And I'm afraid that I will survive it, but I will never heal. Or that I will heal, but I don't know who I'll be.

I thought I would be better by now, that the grieving would have brought me some comfort and that the healing would have begun. But I've been overly optimistic. The grieving process is still early--shock has carried me this far--shock and the caring companionship of my friends and family who have filled my summer with visits and activities. Now it's nearly time for school to start, and just as always, that means less time for social contacts. Now I see how much I depended on Bob for my easy companionship--someone to speak with and to share with, but who would leave me to my work when I needed to work. I miss the wordless companionship--so easily meshed, so easily understood. What a horrible loss.

I just don't see much purpose in the rest of my life. I've always been such an optimist, always believed that everything works out for the ultimate benefit. But this just doesn't seem to hold any promise of gain. I suppose I'll get better and I'll give back, perhaps volunteer for Hospice Austin, and, as I've always known, teaching writing is good and necessary work. But I can't say that I'm looking forward to anything in the future. And this is a side of me that I have only known for certain periods--Baby Jessica in the well--not for such a prolonged and unrelieved period. I've always had Bob to haul me out of the well--maybe that's overstating it--but I counted on him to be there when I hauled myself out. He was my cheerleader, urging me to face the work to be done and stay at it. How I miss him. I can imagine him--but I want his physical self. Here. Now.

I feel like a small child, crying that I don't like it this way. Complaining that this isn't what I signed on for. And feeling like nothing will ever change--life will always feel just like this. I hope it doesn't. The adult part of me knows that the only constant is change, and that means that I will change. I will learn a new me, a new normal. I just don't want it. I am not resigned and I do not approve.  ¶ 12:17 PM 0 comments