Okay, I am being tested. I mean, I think I am being tested. Why else would I find myself willingly sitting with someone who is dying, whom I don't know all that well?
Because I have seen in just the last two months what a fine person he is. And because no one should pass on without another human nearby.
There are several of us taking turns with Gene, of course. Gene is at Rachel's house, and has been there for five days now. He responded at first to glasses of fresh cabbage juice, supposedly to keep him from throwing up so much. But his strength has been leaving his body each day. We think it is a matter of a day or two, or three, before he finally lets go.
We are all there for him, to ease his pain and help his last days and hours be as gentle as they can. I am returning for a few hours later this afternoon. That enables Rachel to be present at one of the Lubec Landmarks artist's receptions, as she does every second Saturday afternoon in summer (when the gallery shows change ... she's the organization's president).
I'm not scared, and I'm not upset. Rather, I am honored.
Saturday, September 1, 2012
Sunday, August 26, 2012
Another friend is dying ...
I chose to move to Lubec after Frank died because of all the friends I have here. Rachel has been the best friend among many friends. I soon learned that Rachel is a dear friend to all. Her heart is as big and wide as her open door. Friends are in and out of her house, three doors up from me, constantly.
Circles of friends overlap here. In mid-June, Gene moved back to Lubec, where he had been living "off the grid" for more than five years. He spent most of his life in Delaware, working in carpentry. He discovered Lubec, as we all come to do, and stayed. Now 66, Gene is a kind soul who found in Lubec a place full of gentleness.
Two years ago Gene got stomach cancer. He returned to Delaware for treatments, until doctors said they couldn't do anything else. So he had hospice care ... until he decided he wanted to be back in the woods again.
First he got a campsite in Pennsylvania's Poconos. Hospice nurses looked in on him everyday for three weeks. Then he realized he really wanted to be home in Lubec -- where he has a small boat and a recreational license to fish for lobsters. He also has a small collie who goes everywhere with him. Back here, Gene has been on the water nearly daily, when he isn't visiting with friends around town. He brings them the lobsters he catches and the clams he digs.
I saw him a week ago, and he told me he's been sick lately. Rachel saw him more recently, and said that it's time for Gene to come live with her. This morning, Gene called her from his place in the woods of North Lubec. It really is time for Gene to move into Rachel's downstairs, and be nurtured and fed and loved by his friends. I think he realizes that.
Circles of friends overlap here. In mid-June, Gene moved back to Lubec, where he had been living "off the grid" for more than five years. He spent most of his life in Delaware, working in carpentry. He discovered Lubec, as we all come to do, and stayed. Now 66, Gene is a kind soul who found in Lubec a place full of gentleness.
Two years ago Gene got stomach cancer. He returned to Delaware for treatments, until doctors said they couldn't do anything else. So he had hospice care ... until he decided he wanted to be back in the woods again.
First he got a campsite in Pennsylvania's Poconos. Hospice nurses looked in on him everyday for three weeks. Then he realized he really wanted to be home in Lubec -- where he has a small boat and a recreational license to fish for lobsters. He also has a small collie who goes everywhere with him. Back here, Gene has been on the water nearly daily, when he isn't visiting with friends around town. He brings them the lobsters he catches and the clams he digs.
I saw him a week ago, and he told me he's been sick lately. Rachel saw him more recently, and said that it's time for Gene to come live with her. This morning, Gene called her from his place in the woods of North Lubec. It really is time for Gene to move into Rachel's downstairs, and be nurtured and fed and loved by his friends. I think he realizes that.
Thursday, August 16, 2012
Dashed by a dream
Frank doesn't show up in my dreams much at all. But when he does, it's a powerful dream. I'm not one who talks about dreams at all, but this one just struck at my heart. It went like this: I learned that Frank was "out there," that there was a chance that I could see him in three years. The dream vaguely had him in a prison, and that I came across an address for which he could receive my letters. That gave me hope that I could communicate, and he would be returning in three years.
Then I woke up. It was 3:41am. Frank's dead, I realized. He's not coming back. It was all a dream.
Then I woke up. It was 3:41am. Frank's dead, I realized. He's not coming back. It was all a dream.
Sunday, August 12, 2012
Benefit for a cancer patient
Few weeks ago, I saw a flyer in town: Benefit supper and auction for so-and-so, Sunday, Aug. 12, all afternoon. I marked it on my calendar.
Even better, I followed through and went. The parking lot was packed. Once inside, food was plentiful and people were left standing as the auction started. The older man with Stage 4 cancer, accompanied by his wife, was seated up close to the auction action.
I've seen these local auctions where a home-baked pie may bring $5, and the bathroom faucet donated by the local hardware shop may bring $8. Sometimes they can't give this stuff away. But this one seemed different. A blueberry pie went for $50. Some home-smoked salmon went for $40. And when the $10 gift card for Uncle Kippy's Restaurant came up, I won it for $20.
This wasn't a crowd with money. These people were the man's own extended family of cousins and everyone else who grew up alongside the family. This was a crowd filled with neighbors and friends, and lots of love.
The least I could do today was go and support the man and his family. It's just so easy to remember how wonderful and giving everyone else had been for Frank and me, back in January 2011 when our friends organized a benefit supper and auction for us. It was amazing to experience all that love and generosity back in 2011. It was amazing to see something like that all over again today, for another family in need.
Even better, I followed through and went. The parking lot was packed. Once inside, food was plentiful and people were left standing as the auction started. The older man with Stage 4 cancer, accompanied by his wife, was seated up close to the auction action.
I've seen these local auctions where a home-baked pie may bring $5, and the bathroom faucet donated by the local hardware shop may bring $8. Sometimes they can't give this stuff away. But this one seemed different. A blueberry pie went for $50. Some home-smoked salmon went for $40. And when the $10 gift card for Uncle Kippy's Restaurant came up, I won it for $20.
This wasn't a crowd with money. These people were the man's own extended family of cousins and everyone else who grew up alongside the family. This was a crowd filled with neighbors and friends, and lots of love.
The least I could do today was go and support the man and his family. It's just so easy to remember how wonderful and giving everyone else had been for Frank and me, back in January 2011 when our friends organized a benefit supper and auction for us. It was amazing to experience all that love and generosity back in 2011. It was amazing to see something like that all over again today, for another family in need.
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
The annual town meeting
Not a single thing happens that I don't relate to Frank.Take last night, for example. Lubec held its annual town meeting. I went by myself, as I'm having to do for all things these days. In the past, I've always gone to to town meetings (Machias, and Franklin before that) with Frank.
Frank never missed a town meeting, as long as I knew him, until his illness kept him from Machias' town meeting in 2011. He loved being part of a good public discussion. He always found a point, or two or three, to make. He took his town meeting responsibilities very seriously. The critical thinker in him emerged, and he made points that others hadn't yet considered.
Could not help myself thinking of Frank last evening in town-meeting mode.
Frank never missed a town meeting, as long as I knew him, until his illness kept him from Machias' town meeting in 2011. He loved being part of a good public discussion. He always found a point, or two or three, to make. He took his town meeting responsibilities very seriously. The critical thinker in him emerged, and he made points that others hadn't yet considered.
Could not help myself thinking of Frank last evening in town-meeting mode.
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Bought a lawnmower ...
Gee, nearly two weeks since my last post. You'd think I'd have run out of things to say, with respect to losing Frank and forging a life on my own now.
Nope. Frank is in my thoughts and in my heart every single minute.
Like, last weekend. Campobello was holding its first-ever, island-wide yard sale, with 27 families taking part. I justified my going by saying, "If Frank were here, he'd want to go, too."
The best thing I bought (only thing, besides a coffeemaker, which I needed to replace because my coffeemaker went missing in all the packing) was a lawnmower. A great, big, fancy push mower with bells and whistles. The retail price was $340 in the store (the old man told me), and I got it for $150.
I have to laugh, because Frank had a very strange history with lawnmowers. He was never a friend of yards and gardens, I don't think. I believe that during his 20 years in the Franklin farmhouse, he let his lawn grow high, "prairie-style." But -- once I met him and moved in, not my style.
I got him to buy a mower right before our wedding in June 2003. Actually, because it was the cheapest model you could buy, I don't think it lasted into the next summer, when we had moved into the Machias house.
So for all those Machias years, our lawn didn't get properly mowed much. We'd borrow the neighbor's lawnmower, or Frank would use the weed-whacker lawnmower-style. Or we would pay the neighbor to mow our yard. I kept threatening to go buy a proper lawnmower, but Frank would always say we didn't need one, or we didn't have the money for one.
Naturally, at the first sighting of a good lawnmower at a yard sale (last Saturday), I grabbed onto it. It's not here, yet, because I'm waiting for our friend Mike Shannon to turn up here with his pick-up truck, so we can go pick it up. But once I get it, my plan is to use it. Regularly, too, Frank. Just watch me!
Nope. Frank is in my thoughts and in my heart every single minute.
Like, last weekend. Campobello was holding its first-ever, island-wide yard sale, with 27 families taking part. I justified my going by saying, "If Frank were here, he'd want to go, too."
The best thing I bought (only thing, besides a coffeemaker, which I needed to replace because my coffeemaker went missing in all the packing) was a lawnmower. A great, big, fancy push mower with bells and whistles. The retail price was $340 in the store (the old man told me), and I got it for $150.
I have to laugh, because Frank had a very strange history with lawnmowers. He was never a friend of yards and gardens, I don't think. I believe that during his 20 years in the Franklin farmhouse, he let his lawn grow high, "prairie-style." But -- once I met him and moved in, not my style.
I got him to buy a mower right before our wedding in June 2003. Actually, because it was the cheapest model you could buy, I don't think it lasted into the next summer, when we had moved into the Machias house.
So for all those Machias years, our lawn didn't get properly mowed much. We'd borrow the neighbor's lawnmower, or Frank would use the weed-whacker lawnmower-style. Or we would pay the neighbor to mow our yard. I kept threatening to go buy a proper lawnmower, but Frank would always say we didn't need one, or we didn't have the money for one.
Naturally, at the first sighting of a good lawnmower at a yard sale (last Saturday), I grabbed onto it. It's not here, yet, because I'm waiting for our friend Mike Shannon to turn up here with his pick-up truck, so we can go pick it up. But once I get it, my plan is to use it. Regularly, too, Frank. Just watch me!
Saturday, July 14, 2012
Frank's best friend has died -
Last week brought the news that Gordon McRae, Frank's best friend for about 20 years, died of a sudden heart attack. There wasn't a funeral, because Gordon didn't believe funerals are worth the expense. I can sure see Gordon saying that. Frank, on the other hand, planned his own funeral, down to the detail that Gordon would carry his urn of ashes. Gordon did that twice, first at the Catholic service for Frank in January, and then for his military burial at the Veterans' Cemetery in Augusta, in March.
I love what Gordon said more than once within my earshot over the years. Gordon had won a Purple Heart when he served in Vietnam, during the same years when Frank was a Seabee at Little Creek, Virginia. Gordon said that if he had to go into Vietnam all over again, he'd want no one else but Frank by his side.
So, Gordon is gone. Gordon and Amy had been very good friends to us in Frank's last year. Amy and I got closer, and more importantly, Gordon and Frank got closer. Frank was 61 when he died, and Gordon was 63. They had become friends since the early years of the 20th Maine. They had come to visit Frank at our house in November, in some of the last weeks that he was home.
I last saw both Gordon and Amy in late May, when the 20th Maine came to Cherryfield to dedicate a Veterans' Park by the river. Gordon and the rest of the 20th Maine fired Gordon's cannon ... he rarely went anywhere without his cannon.
It's comforting to think that Frank was "there" to welcome Gordon, wherever "there" is. Frank and Gordon are together again -- I know that. And no doubt they are talking about the Civil War and cannons.
I love what Gordon said more than once within my earshot over the years. Gordon had won a Purple Heart when he served in Vietnam, during the same years when Frank was a Seabee at Little Creek, Virginia. Gordon said that if he had to go into Vietnam all over again, he'd want no one else but Frank by his side.
So, Gordon is gone. Gordon and Amy had been very good friends to us in Frank's last year. Amy and I got closer, and more importantly, Gordon and Frank got closer. Frank was 61 when he died, and Gordon was 63. They had become friends since the early years of the 20th Maine. They had come to visit Frank at our house in November, in some of the last weeks that he was home.
I last saw both Gordon and Amy in late May, when the 20th Maine came to Cherryfield to dedicate a Veterans' Park by the river. Gordon and the rest of the 20th Maine fired Gordon's cannon ... he rarely went anywhere without his cannon.
It's comforting to think that Frank was "there" to welcome Gordon, wherever "there" is. Frank and Gordon are together again -- I know that. And no doubt they are talking about the Civil War and cannons.
Thursday, July 12, 2012
Days of sadness
Two weeks now, and no posts for days. I think about posting every single day - for I understand I have a readership out there, however modest. Thing is, I believe that each day's post would be more of the same. More of the same sadness that just does not seem to lift.
Next week will make it six months since Frank's passing, since January 17. I truly thought that I've been through the worst of this experience, particularly when four months came and went. But goodness, months 4-5-6 have been the absolute hardest to get through. What's with that, I wonder!
A handful of my older friends who have been widowed - who are my dear listeners these days - share their experiences with me. They say, "It will get better, but it takes time. It will take a year, and let it."
So, I'm just letting the sadness settle in and do its thing. I still cry tons. I suppose I was hoping to hasten the process of healing, but I just need more patience. And, apparently, more time, too.
Next week will make it six months since Frank's passing, since January 17. I truly thought that I've been through the worst of this experience, particularly when four months came and went. But goodness, months 4-5-6 have been the absolute hardest to get through. What's with that, I wonder!
A handful of my older friends who have been widowed - who are my dear listeners these days - share their experiences with me. They say, "It will get better, but it takes time. It will take a year, and let it."
So, I'm just letting the sadness settle in and do its thing. I still cry tons. I suppose I was hoping to hasten the process of healing, but I just need more patience. And, apparently, more time, too.
Sunday, July 1, 2012
Day by day by day
Gee, I try to keep a positive outlook on Life After Frank. But it's totally not the same, and this time a year ago, when we were traveling to Togus VA Hospital weekly for his chemotherapy, was totally not the same from the previous summer -- when we had no idea a tumor was about to take over, then away, his life.
So now I have moved on enough, to have moved houses. I'm still settling in this one, which is far smaller than the Machias one. I still have far too much stuff for one person, or for a solo life that has yet to reveal how it will unfold. As I unpack boxes, I come across too many things from Frank. And I tear up each time I see a note in his handwriting. It doesn't matter what he was making a note about; it's the handwriting that gets me. I have thrown away a lot of "stuff" -- but I can say that in these five months, I have yet to throw away any image of his handwriting. It's too soon, still.
So now I have moved on enough, to have moved houses. I'm still settling in this one, which is far smaller than the Machias one. I still have far too much stuff for one person, or for a solo life that has yet to reveal how it will unfold. As I unpack boxes, I come across too many things from Frank. And I tear up each time I see a note in his handwriting. It doesn't matter what he was making a note about; it's the handwriting that gets me. I have thrown away a lot of "stuff" -- but I can say that in these five months, I have yet to throw away any image of his handwriting. It's too soon, still.
Sunday, June 24, 2012
Didn't want to do it ...
Did not want to remove the "married" designation on my Facebook profile ... but today, I did, anyway. No way, however, will I remove my wedding ring anytime soon.
Thursday, June 21, 2012
The wedding anniversary
We married on June 21, 2003 -- nine years ago today. We had 175 guests at Fort Knox with all kinds of Civil War touches. It was a wedding so unique that we made Monday's Bangor Daily News with a color photo (and article). We also got 60 seconds on the Channel 5 local news, at both 6 and 11pm.
It sure was an occasion. Our matron-of-honor came from Scotland, and the bridesmaids all wore colorful hoop-skirt dresses that Mom spent months sewing. She also made my dress, complete elegance with lace and "lines." Frank wore his 20th Maine uniform, with the sky-blue pants that he didn't finish sewing -- on his treadle machine -- until the evening before. There was so much perfect about that day.
Frank and I continued to remark about our wedding for all the years ahead. Looking back, one of the ironies is that our marriage started by getting on the local TV news, and it ended that way, too. Just three days before he died, a Channel 6 television crew came to the VA hospice at Togus Hospital to film our love story ... when the UMM Ukuleles drove four hours in a snowstorm to play for him and the other patients and their families in the hospice.
I am saddened when I think too much about losing Frank far too early, even though we made that promise nine years ago, "til death do we part." But I know better. A friend from Eastport, who also lost her husband to cancer years ago, made a comment on Facebook, that it's better to think about what we had, than what I have lost. I have to agree. At least, I'm trying to think that way.
It sure was an occasion. Our matron-of-honor came from Scotland, and the bridesmaids all wore colorful hoop-skirt dresses that Mom spent months sewing. She also made my dress, complete elegance with lace and "lines." Frank wore his 20th Maine uniform, with the sky-blue pants that he didn't finish sewing -- on his treadle machine -- until the evening before. There was so much perfect about that day.
Frank and I continued to remark about our wedding for all the years ahead. Looking back, one of the ironies is that our marriage started by getting on the local TV news, and it ended that way, too. Just three days before he died, a Channel 6 television crew came to the VA hospice at Togus Hospital to film our love story ... when the UMM Ukuleles drove four hours in a snowstorm to play for him and the other patients and their families in the hospice.
I am saddened when I think too much about losing Frank far too early, even though we made that promise nine years ago, "til death do we part." But I know better. A friend from Eastport, who also lost her husband to cancer years ago, made a comment on Facebook, that it's better to think about what we had, than what I have lost. I have to agree. At least, I'm trying to think that way.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
How Katie Couric did it
I wish I knew, actually. The TV anchor and newswoman lost her husband to colon cancer in 1998, when she was 41 and he was 42. She also was (and still is) a very famous person, so all of her readjusting had to take place in public view. Someone who appears to have an otherwise charmed and perfect life also had to go through all the grieving -- so I really feel for her. I read her Facebook page for inspiration.
Weeks before Frank died, I read an interview with Katie Couric about her husband's death. She wasn't afraid of her husband dying, she said, but she was afraid of "the loss." I'm not sure I understood that sentiment then, and I'm sure I still don't understand that. But, I do think about being afraid of, in Katie Couric's words -- "the loss" -- in my own context, and yup, it's something to be feared. So, I sort of understand what she was saying.
Getting through "the loss" seems both extraordinary and endless just now. Life is completely, entirely changed. I don't really like all these changes (living without Frank), but they had to happen, and I may as well pile them on all at once. Absolutely everything down to my inner self has been rattled. I can make the practical, visible changes on the outside (such as selling the house and moving), but I'm still very much working on the changes on the inside. That's where "the loss" really touches home. And it's still not a good feeling, just now.
Weeks before Frank died, I read an interview with Katie Couric about her husband's death. She wasn't afraid of her husband dying, she said, but she was afraid of "the loss." I'm not sure I understood that sentiment then, and I'm sure I still don't understand that. But, I do think about being afraid of, in Katie Couric's words -- "the loss" -- in my own context, and yup, it's something to be feared. So, I sort of understand what she was saying.
Getting through "the loss" seems both extraordinary and endless just now. Life is completely, entirely changed. I don't really like all these changes (living without Frank), but they had to happen, and I may as well pile them on all at once. Absolutely everything down to my inner self has been rattled. I can make the practical, visible changes on the outside (such as selling the house and moving), but I'm still very much working on the changes on the inside. That's where "the loss" really touches home. And it's still not a good feeling, just now.
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Five months, already
January 17 to June 17 is five months already. Five months without the love of my life. Sadness still consumes me.
Sometimes I think of how widows have managed for hundreds of years before me. I should be so lucky, to at least still have options and opportunities to remake my life, even if Frank can't be part of it. Widows in history, and even today in other cultures, haven't had the chance that I've got to rebuild and go forward on a new path.
With widowhood comes a drop in social status and a new personal identity that we never asked for. I know I've got the ability to work my way through both of those -- though neither will be easy. At least I am surrounded by an emotional safety net of fabulous family and friends. Widows in other countries and cultures don't necessarily get even that much, and dispair fills their lives instead.
I still cannot imagine how the rest of my life will unfold, but I feel fortunate that I am "just" 52. If all goes well, hopefully I've got a robust 30 years still ahead. Rather than internalize that "Woe is me," I have come to realize that I still am in charge of the rest of my life. I also don't have the limitations that widowhood at an older age might bring.
Right now I am still working through the day-to-day priorities of getting resettled into a new house in a new town. I have deliberately piled on top of all this first-year stuff the responsibilities of getting through a Master of Leadership Development degree, as well as running for the Maine House of Representatives. Meeting with success in both endeavors is the plan, but neither will happen without daily diligence. Meanwhile, remembering Frank with fondness is the best part of every day.
Sometimes I think of how widows have managed for hundreds of years before me. I should be so lucky, to at least still have options and opportunities to remake my life, even if Frank can't be part of it. Widows in history, and even today in other cultures, haven't had the chance that I've got to rebuild and go forward on a new path.
With widowhood comes a drop in social status and a new personal identity that we never asked for. I know I've got the ability to work my way through both of those -- though neither will be easy. At least I am surrounded by an emotional safety net of fabulous family and friends. Widows in other countries and cultures don't necessarily get even that much, and dispair fills their lives instead.
I still cannot imagine how the rest of my life will unfold, but I feel fortunate that I am "just" 52. If all goes well, hopefully I've got a robust 30 years still ahead. Rather than internalize that "Woe is me," I have come to realize that I still am in charge of the rest of my life. I also don't have the limitations that widowhood at an older age might bring.
Right now I am still working through the day-to-day priorities of getting resettled into a new house in a new town. I have deliberately piled on top of all this first-year stuff the responsibilities of getting through a Master of Leadership Development degree, as well as running for the Maine House of Representatives. Meeting with success in both endeavors is the plan, but neither will happen without daily diligence. Meanwhile, remembering Frank with fondness is the best part of every day.
Saturday, June 16, 2012
"Surviving joint tenant"
It's the smallest of things that occur, that make that knot in my stomach as if I'm going to cry. They happen in moments when I'm trying to hold things together, anyway. This time, I'm referring to the legal phrase, "surviving joint tenant."
This awful phrase surfaced on June4, during the closing on our Machias house. The words came from the lawyer, who is a lovely person and well-respected for her 30 years of practicing real estate law in this area. She walked her dog by our house daily, and even stopped in to visit with Frank twice in the last month that he was home, last fall.
She did my closing. Through the whole process of deciding to sell the house, and then getting it fixed and ready for the sale, I had done well with the emotions. I knew I could sell the house and move on, because the house was always more loved by Frank, than by me. I knew I could sell off much of the furniture, because I could choose to keep the very sentimental items. I knew I could say goodbye to the house, because I would get to relocate in Lubec, a town which has always attracted me.
But there was a moment that I was entirely unprepared for, amid all the formalities of the closing. "Now sign here to convey the deed as the surviving joint tenant," the lawyer told me. That was it; the tears broke through, after a month of mostly holding them back.
That wasn't our plan, back when Frank and I closed on the Machias house as newlyweds in December 2003. We were going to live happily ever after, together, always. As joint tenants on the warranty deed, we never imagined that one of us would survive the other. Not just eight years into the marriage, anyway.
Tomorrow makes for five months since Frank died. I think about the awfulness of his illness and cancer journey, constantly. Then again, I also realize how lucky I was to know Frank and have him in my world for 10 years. And quite amazingly, that's the realization that I may be starting to focus on, instead of the incredible loss, five months after.
This awful phrase surfaced on June4, during the closing on our Machias house. The words came from the lawyer, who is a lovely person and well-respected for her 30 years of practicing real estate law in this area. She walked her dog by our house daily, and even stopped in to visit with Frank twice in the last month that he was home, last fall.
She did my closing. Through the whole process of deciding to sell the house, and then getting it fixed and ready for the sale, I had done well with the emotions. I knew I could sell the house and move on, because the house was always more loved by Frank, than by me. I knew I could sell off much of the furniture, because I could choose to keep the very sentimental items. I knew I could say goodbye to the house, because I would get to relocate in Lubec, a town which has always attracted me.
But there was a moment that I was entirely unprepared for, amid all the formalities of the closing. "Now sign here to convey the deed as the surviving joint tenant," the lawyer told me. That was it; the tears broke through, after a month of mostly holding them back.
That wasn't our plan, back when Frank and I closed on the Machias house as newlyweds in December 2003. We were going to live happily ever after, together, always. As joint tenants on the warranty deed, we never imagined that one of us would survive the other. Not just eight years into the marriage, anyway.
Tomorrow makes for five months since Frank died. I think about the awfulness of his illness and cancer journey, constantly. Then again, I also realize how lucky I was to know Frank and have him in my world for 10 years. And quite amazingly, that's the realization that I may be starting to focus on, instead of the incredible loss, five months after.
Thursday, June 14, 2012
Donating Frank's clothes
In my previous life -- before Frank died -- there was one thing I thought about widows, if I even thought about them at all. And that thought was: "It must be hardest thing, to get rid of his clothes." It was a strange aspect to think about, for sure. But now that I have had that experience, I can see why it's a point of wonder.
I have made two trips to Goodwill in recent weeks. Both times I dropped off huge bags of Frank's clothes -- 13 bags total. Certainly more than would fit in the car, in a single trip. And both times I cried. It's kind of like a final goodbye, all over again.
It's not that the husband's clothes are the "last thing" to go out the door, but they may as well be. In Frank's case, he loved dressing well. He dressed distinctively, too -- three-piece suits, suspenders and bow ties for the courtroom. For days around the house, he liked jeans and LLBean flannel shirts. Or a variety of T-shirts that he had collected through the years, many from the Gilbert and Sullivan productions that his family had roles in, in Ellsworth in the 1990s.
The clothes added up to 13 bags largely because he had so many. There were jean, T-shirts and more from the years before we lived together, when he never threw away anything that still fit him. But, I confess, we added plenty of new clothes, or at least new-to-him, during our marriage. When I found some of his fancy suits for $3 at a local thrift store with ties to Bar Harbor, he said, "Someone my size who dressed well must have died."
Frank's older clothes never made it to Goodwill, as they were well-worn and went the way of good riddance, instead. But the bulk of those 13 bags should well-outfit any other men who stand 5-7 and weigh 150 pounds. Now, I can say with a smile that -- someone who wants to dress well, who is Frank's size, can do that, because of this donation. And with all the suits and suspenders, comes some quite fancy dress shoes, too.
As for Frank's collection of more than 100 bow ties, most of them hand-sewn by himself -- that didn't go to Goodwill. That stays with me ... until I figure out what to do with them, creatively.
I have made two trips to Goodwill in recent weeks. Both times I dropped off huge bags of Frank's clothes -- 13 bags total. Certainly more than would fit in the car, in a single trip. And both times I cried. It's kind of like a final goodbye, all over again.
It's not that the husband's clothes are the "last thing" to go out the door, but they may as well be. In Frank's case, he loved dressing well. He dressed distinctively, too -- three-piece suits, suspenders and bow ties for the courtroom. For days around the house, he liked jeans and LLBean flannel shirts. Or a variety of T-shirts that he had collected through the years, many from the Gilbert and Sullivan productions that his family had roles in, in Ellsworth in the 1990s.
The clothes added up to 13 bags largely because he had so many. There were jean, T-shirts and more from the years before we lived together, when he never threw away anything that still fit him. But, I confess, we added plenty of new clothes, or at least new-to-him, during our marriage. When I found some of his fancy suits for $3 at a local thrift store with ties to Bar Harbor, he said, "Someone my size who dressed well must have died."
Frank's older clothes never made it to Goodwill, as they were well-worn and went the way of good riddance, instead. But the bulk of those 13 bags should well-outfit any other men who stand 5-7 and weigh 150 pounds. Now, I can say with a smile that -- someone who wants to dress well, who is Frank's size, can do that, because of this donation. And with all the suits and suspenders, comes some quite fancy dress shoes, too.
As for Frank's collection of more than 100 bow ties, most of them hand-sewn by himself -- that didn't go to Goodwill. That stays with me ... until I figure out what to do with them, creatively.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Counting the days
There are as many reasons why I haven't posted anything since May 20, as there are days from then until now. Mostly I have been immersed in moving both heaven and earth. That is, the process of fixing, packing, cleaning and moving from the Machias house to a house in Lubec, has just taken not only forever, but huge amounts of emotional and mental energy. We had the closing for the Machias house on June 4, but we are still waiting to close on the Lubec house -- all for the lack of a clear title to the deed. That will be resolved in time, but it all detracts from what I had hoped to be a clean-and-swift move from one town to the other.
And, I am hardly finished with the practical details of the move still consuming most of my days. There simply was no time to stop and reflect, and make a blog post, on the whirlwind of everything that has occurred since May 20. Frank was foremost in every thought and every decision. Mostly I'd think: "I wish Frank were here for this."
That's been my thinking every day, all along, moving between houses or not. On May 19, for the Walk for Life in Addison, the biggest fundraiser for the Beth C. Wright Cancer Resource Center, I was asked to "tell my story" about our cancer journey. I got through it, but not without tears and emotion in public. And that was okay.
Afterward, I mentioned to Center director Michael Reisman that, four months after Frank's death, I was feeling as raw and emotional and drained by losing Frank, as ever. His response was most interesting. He said that Hospice of Hancock County volunteers told him that they have found that "six months after the loss" was the time when clients felt the biggest need for comfort and conversation. I guess we arrive at a transition point, a reality in our lives, that our loved one is not coming back; that we are on our own now, forever more.
I know that I am back to blogging regularly, beyond today. There is just too much to share, that I experience every day, about this very strange journey alone in this world, that I never wanted.
And, I am hardly finished with the practical details of the move still consuming most of my days. There simply was no time to stop and reflect, and make a blog post, on the whirlwind of everything that has occurred since May 20. Frank was foremost in every thought and every decision. Mostly I'd think: "I wish Frank were here for this."
That's been my thinking every day, all along, moving between houses or not. On May 19, for the Walk for Life in Addison, the biggest fundraiser for the Beth C. Wright Cancer Resource Center, I was asked to "tell my story" about our cancer journey. I got through it, but not without tears and emotion in public. And that was okay.
Afterward, I mentioned to Center director Michael Reisman that, four months after Frank's death, I was feeling as raw and emotional and drained by losing Frank, as ever. His response was most interesting. He said that Hospice of Hancock County volunteers told him that they have found that "six months after the loss" was the time when clients felt the biggest need for comfort and conversation. I guess we arrive at a transition point, a reality in our lives, that our loved one is not coming back; that we are on our own now, forever more.
I know that I am back to blogging regularly, beyond today. There is just too much to share, that I experience every day, about this very strange journey alone in this world, that I never wanted.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Sunday, May 20, 2012
Frank's friends
There were a dozen familiar faces that I could not have been happier to see on Saturday. They were members of the 20th Maine, all attending the dedication of Cherryfield's new Veterans Park by the river.
I knew that May 19 was the date, but I also knew I was planning to be elsewhere that morning. Actually, I managed to be elsewhere-and-done in time to get to Cherryfield for the dedication event, complete with cannon fire.
I loved the 90 minutes I spent with all of the 20th Maine members. He was even recalled by Kathy Upton, a 20th Maine civilian member and organizer of the park dedication, in her opening remarks. I arrived too late to hear that, but others told me as soon as they saw me.
"Frank would have been here," I told Paul Dudley, the group's president who had raised his sword to me when he saw me turn up. "I know," Paul responded.
Frank rarely missed a 20th Maine occasion in his 20 years with the group. Being among the other members was something he could always count on. Sometimes I went with him, over the 10 years we had together. But more often, he went alone to his weekends away.
This time, yesterday, it just felt as if Frank was back among his friends.
I knew that May 19 was the date, but I also knew I was planning to be elsewhere that morning. Actually, I managed to be elsewhere-and-done in time to get to Cherryfield for the dedication event, complete with cannon fire.
I loved the 90 minutes I spent with all of the 20th Maine members. He was even recalled by Kathy Upton, a 20th Maine civilian member and organizer of the park dedication, in her opening remarks. I arrived too late to hear that, but others told me as soon as they saw me.
"Frank would have been here," I told Paul Dudley, the group's president who had raised his sword to me when he saw me turn up. "I know," Paul responded.
Frank rarely missed a 20th Maine occasion in his 20 years with the group. Being among the other members was something he could always count on. Sometimes I went with him, over the 10 years we had together. But more often, he went alone to his weekends away.
Friday, May 18, 2012
It gets better? Really?
Then how come today was my teariest day yet?
Maybe because it's late May, and I drove into New Brunswick. Maybe because Frank and I used to go into Atlantic Canada every June, very deliberately. If we didn't go to Canada on his birthday, June 9, then we went on our anniversary, June 21. We just always made sure that we were celebrating something, whenever we crossed the border.
Can't say we ever went the same place twice, in our eight years of Canada-gazing every June. On our first anniversary, we went on a late-afternoon whim to Grand Manan. We felt lucky to catch the very last ferry of the evening out of Blacks Harbour.
We also went, through the years, to Saint John, Campobello, St. Stephen, St. Andrew, Prince Edward Island and Fredericton. We'd go for either dinner or an overnight, or both, or even longer. And last year, when Frank was sick and we were on our long trip across the country, our last overnight before returning to Maine in mid-June was at Helen and Larry LeDuc's cottage in Gananoque, Ontario. See? Canada in June, again.
Separate of anniversary or birthday trips, Frank and I also crossed the border at Calais three other times -- twice for Ukulele trips to Liverpool, Nova Scotia; and once more to Liverpool, Nova Scotia, for an exploratory trip for Ukuleles-planning. Someone's got to check out Nova Scotia over a four-night Labor Day weekend, and Frank and I made sure it was us.
Today I had a meeting with a marathon organizer in Saint John. Route 1 from St. Stephen to Saint John is just rolling in beauty. So, the tears started, and carried me all the way to Saint John. Then they hit me on the return trip, too. Always in June, New Brunswick would be blooming with lupines. But there weren't any lupines on this trip, and no Frank, either.
Maybe because it's late May, and I drove into New Brunswick. Maybe because Frank and I used to go into Atlantic Canada every June, very deliberately. If we didn't go to Canada on his birthday, June 9, then we went on our anniversary, June 21. We just always made sure that we were celebrating something, whenever we crossed the border.
Can't say we ever went the same place twice, in our eight years of Canada-gazing every June. On our first anniversary, we went on a late-afternoon whim to Grand Manan. We felt lucky to catch the very last ferry of the evening out of Blacks Harbour.
We also went, through the years, to Saint John, Campobello, St. Stephen, St. Andrew, Prince Edward Island and Fredericton. We'd go for either dinner or an overnight, or both, or even longer. And last year, when Frank was sick and we were on our long trip across the country, our last overnight before returning to Maine in mid-June was at Helen and Larry LeDuc's cottage in Gananoque, Ontario. See? Canada in June, again.
Separate of anniversary or birthday trips, Frank and I also crossed the border at Calais three other times -- twice for Ukulele trips to Liverpool, Nova Scotia; and once more to Liverpool, Nova Scotia, for an exploratory trip for Ukuleles-planning. Someone's got to check out Nova Scotia over a four-night Labor Day weekend, and Frank and I made sure it was us.
Today I had a meeting with a marathon organizer in Saint John. Route 1 from St. Stephen to Saint John is just rolling in beauty. So, the tears started, and carried me all the way to Saint John. Then they hit me on the return trip, too. Always in June, New Brunswick would be blooming with lupines. But there weren't any lupines on this trip, and no Frank, either.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Four months, already
" I don't know how you do it," the woman coming toward me in the grocery aisle said. I had greeted her with a smile and a hello as we angled our carts out of each other's way. I don't know her name, but she knows mine. She is one of the bank tellers at the Machias Savings Bank. We chit-chat when I see her every week or two, but I've never actually told her all about Frank and me. But she knows my story, as I suspect hundreds of other local people know, too. From the first day of the awful, terminal diagnosis, we made a decision to be very public about how we would deal with it.
"It's four months tomorrow (meaning, since he died on January 17)," I tell her. "And I don't know how I'm doing it, either."
I really don't. I have no answer for "how you do it." You just go through the day, one moment at a time. You get from one meal to the next, one meeting to the next, one message to the next. When the day is done, you're relieved, because you got through it without a meltdown or a crisis. If such a thing were either public or private it wouldn't make a difference. One would be as hard to cope with, as the other.
You don't have a choice in doing any of this. You just make up your days as they go, hoping not to get too unbalanced. You hope you are pulled together enough to be in others' company.
If today marks four months since the evening I held him as he died, I can't say it feels any better than it did at the three-month, or two-month, or one-month point. The day Frank died is as vivid as ever. And I hope it stays that way.
"It's four months tomorrow (meaning, since he died on January 17)," I tell her. "And I don't know how I'm doing it, either."
I really don't. I have no answer for "how you do it." You just go through the day, one moment at a time. You get from one meal to the next, one meeting to the next, one message to the next. When the day is done, you're relieved, because you got through it without a meltdown or a crisis. If such a thing were either public or private it wouldn't make a difference. One would be as hard to cope with, as the other.
You don't have a choice in doing any of this. You just make up your days as they go, hoping not to get too unbalanced. You hope you are pulled together enough to be in others' company.
If today marks four months since the evening I held him as he died, I can't say it feels any better than it did at the three-month, or two-month, or one-month point. The day Frank died is as vivid as ever. And I hope it stays that way.
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
A place for everything ...
... and everything in its place. That's certainly how my mother in Maryland lives, and it's what Frank strived for, too -- neatness and orderliness.
So I have had to struggle all these months with a very pressing and personal question: What do I do with Frank's collection of Civil War books? He had a fair number when I met him. But he also was a life-long user of libraries, so he had read far more Civil War books than he owned. And once my family knew about his love for anything Civil War, he was given many more through the 10 years.
As a 20-year member of the 20th Maine Co. B regiment of re-enactors, all of Frank's colleagues also had every Civil War book ever published. When he was dying, he said several times that he wanted his buddies to have his books. Some of them visited toward the end, and Frank always asked them to take away some books. But they were polite and declined.
The estate sale happened too fast, before I had a solution about Frank's book collection. To cope, I simply put up the sign: "Civil War books not for sale." I still didn't know what I'd do with all of them ... until yesterday.
Two of the members of the 20th Maine group, Kathy Upton and Cara Sawyer, are both librarians at the Cherryfield Library. They joined up as civilian women in September 2009, when they and the Cherryfield Historical Society organized "Living History Day" in the town. The 20th Maine was invited, and Frank took part, I remember.
In a few days, Frank's Civil War collection will have a new home at the Cherryfield Library. I knew I just needed time to figure out the right thing to do.
Cherryfield is also home to Peter Duston, a dear friend who appreciates Civil War history, too. Peter is the one who played Taps on his bugle at Frank's military service in Augusta on March 27. And Peter knows Cherryfield's own Civil War history by heart, because twin brothers from Cherryfield who served are buried in the town's cemetery. And on May 19, members of the 20th Maine are returning to Cherryfield for a re-dedication of the graves of those special Civil War soldiers.
So I have had to struggle all these months with a very pressing and personal question: What do I do with Frank's collection of Civil War books? He had a fair number when I met him. But he also was a life-long user of libraries, so he had read far more Civil War books than he owned. And once my family knew about his love for anything Civil War, he was given many more through the 10 years.
As a 20-year member of the 20th Maine Co. B regiment of re-enactors, all of Frank's colleagues also had every Civil War book ever published. When he was dying, he said several times that he wanted his buddies to have his books. Some of them visited toward the end, and Frank always asked them to take away some books. But they were polite and declined.
Two of the members of the 20th Maine group, Kathy Upton and Cara Sawyer, are both librarians at the Cherryfield Library. They joined up as civilian women in September 2009, when they and the Cherryfield Historical Society organized "Living History Day" in the town. The 20th Maine was invited, and Frank took part, I remember.
In a few days, Frank's Civil War collection will have a new home at the Cherryfield Library. I knew I just needed time to figure out the right thing to do.
Cherryfield is also home to Peter Duston, a dear friend who appreciates Civil War history, too. Peter is the one who played Taps on his bugle at Frank's military service in Augusta on March 27. And Peter knows Cherryfield's own Civil War history by heart, because twin brothers from Cherryfield who served are buried in the town's cemetery. And on May 19, members of the 20th Maine are returning to Cherryfield for a re-dedication of the graves of those special Civil War soldiers.
Monday, May 14, 2012
Back to blue
As far as estate sales go, this one was fabulous, from my perspective. Of course, I'm supposed to be the weepy widow who can't let go of memories and things. And moving out of the home we made together is supposed to be a most difficult transition.
But -- nah. It's all been good. Stuff sold, I got money, tons of people walked through, tons more came back for Sunday's continuing sale.
After most of the selling took place on Saturday, I realized that some things -- some blue things -- hadn't left the house in the rush. Blue had been the reigning color in the farmhouse in Franklin, where Frank had lived for 20 years before our lives came together. So we made blue our decor from the start, and received many blue things from my wedding shower nine years ago. Blue towels, blue sheets, blue bedspreads, too. But when we moved to Machias, the interior was already cranberry, so I found a wallpaper that made our home-lives work around a cranberry-and-gold combination. Our blue stuff wasn't featured in any way. (Meanwhile, people continue to comment on my choice of cranberry-and-gold wallpaper, as recently as the weekend sale).
Once I shift to Lubec, I'm bringing back everything blue. I snatched out of the sale items all the leftover blue tablecloths, placemats, napkins, dishes and serving ware that hadn't sold on Saturday. Blue is back in my life again, in a way that I can remember Frank and all the blue touches in his farmhouse when we first met. I love that.
But -- nah. It's all been good. Stuff sold, I got money, tons of people walked through, tons more came back for Sunday's continuing sale.
After most of the selling took place on Saturday, I realized that some things -- some blue things -- hadn't left the house in the rush. Blue had been the reigning color in the farmhouse in Franklin, where Frank had lived for 20 years before our lives came together. So we made blue our decor from the start, and received many blue things from my wedding shower nine years ago. Blue towels, blue sheets, blue bedspreads, too. But when we moved to Machias, the interior was already cranberry, so I found a wallpaper that made our home-lives work around a cranberry-and-gold combination. Our blue stuff wasn't featured in any way. (Meanwhile, people continue to comment on my choice of cranberry-and-gold wallpaper, as recently as the weekend sale).
Once I shift to Lubec, I'm bringing back everything blue. I snatched out of the sale items all the leftover blue tablecloths, placemats, napkins, dishes and serving ware that hadn't sold on Saturday. Blue is back in my life again, in a way that I can remember Frank and all the blue touches in his farmhouse when we first met. I love that.
Friday, May 11, 2012
Stuff
It's all so strange, getting rid of stuff.
Tomorrow I am poised to get rid of all kinds of stuff. It's all the furniture and stuff that filled our home for the last nine years. Frank was living in a huge, rambling farmhouse in Franklin when we met in 2001. We had to pare down much of that, including the contents of a barn, when we moved in 2003. But with our 1860s, 12-room house in Machias, we couldn't fill it fast enough with the things we gathered together.
We were auction-goers. He had an eye for pocket watches, wall clocks, mantle clocks and, later, standing clocks. They all are wound with keys. I doubt that Frank ever owned any timepiece that used a battery. Me, I liked to leave an auction with little things that ended up on shelves. That, and globes. I have at least 14 big-sized globes.
Much of our stuff is going in our estate sale, set for Saturday and Sunday. Some things are simply not being sold, and those will travel with me to my pending new home in Lubec. But very strangely, I am okay with most of our stuff walking out the door -- and likely mostly to strangers.
Having a 12-room house filled with furniture and things that we enjoyed finding and bringing home together -- those are the memories that I'll take with me. The stuff can go to others.
Tomorrow I am poised to get rid of all kinds of stuff. It's all the furniture and stuff that filled our home for the last nine years. Frank was living in a huge, rambling farmhouse in Franklin when we met in 2001. We had to pare down much of that, including the contents of a barn, when we moved in 2003. But with our 1860s, 12-room house in Machias, we couldn't fill it fast enough with the things we gathered together.
We were auction-goers. He had an eye for pocket watches, wall clocks, mantle clocks and, later, standing clocks. They all are wound with keys. I doubt that Frank ever owned any timepiece that used a battery. Me, I liked to leave an auction with little things that ended up on shelves. That, and globes. I have at least 14 big-sized globes.
Much of our stuff is going in our estate sale, set for Saturday and Sunday. Some things are simply not being sold, and those will travel with me to my pending new home in Lubec. But very strangely, I am okay with most of our stuff walking out the door -- and likely mostly to strangers.
Having a 12-room house filled with furniture and things that we enjoyed finding and bringing home together -- those are the memories that I'll take with me. The stuff can go to others.
Thursday, May 10, 2012
What I told the cat
This morning, I told the cat, "It's getting to be okay."
Did I really say that?
I am sure I was talking only about getting ready for the furniture and house-decor sale ...
Did I really say that?
I am sure I was talking only about getting ready for the furniture and house-decor sale ...
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Sorting through
There are so many things that I never thought I could do with respect to Frank's illness. How would it feel, I wondered, to come to the point where he would be so sick, that he could die any day? How would it feel on the day he died, or how would it feel to plan his funeral? How would I manage in the days and weeks after the funeral, after everyone had gone home, and I had no one but myself to talk to?
I'm still having those thoughts: How would it feel to be three-and-a-half months into Life Without Frank? It feels lousy, to be honest. Every day has an emptiness.
Now I've arrived at something I also never wanted to do, getting rid of his stuff. All of his clothes remain upstairs, his many three-piece suits still on hangers in the walk-in closet. His bureau drawers are as full as ever, with all his T-shirts and handkerchiefs and socks all folded as neatly if he'd be wearing them tomorrow. And his shoes are all lined up in a row, just as if he'd chosen to wear a different pair today to match his suit -- the brown versus the black, for example.
The clothes are one matter and, I understand, perhaps the last thing a widow wants to take care of.
In the meantime, I am working through taking care of much of the rest of Frank's things. From his 30 years in Maine, and in the 10 years before that, starting with his Navy years, he kept most of everything. The most meaningful of his things have gone back to his family. But still, there's more. And, even though I'm having a two-day sale for most of our furniture, and most of what we acquired together, I'm not ready to part with everything. Not yet, anyway. Not yet at all.
I'm still having those thoughts: How would it feel to be three-and-a-half months into Life Without Frank? It feels lousy, to be honest. Every day has an emptiness.
Now I've arrived at something I also never wanted to do, getting rid of his stuff. All of his clothes remain upstairs, his many three-piece suits still on hangers in the walk-in closet. His bureau drawers are as full as ever, with all his T-shirts and handkerchiefs and socks all folded as neatly if he'd be wearing them tomorrow. And his shoes are all lined up in a row, just as if he'd chosen to wear a different pair today to match his suit -- the brown versus the black, for example.
The clothes are one matter and, I understand, perhaps the last thing a widow wants to take care of.
In the meantime, I am working through taking care of much of the rest of Frank's things. From his 30 years in Maine, and in the 10 years before that, starting with his Navy years, he kept most of everything. The most meaningful of his things have gone back to his family. But still, there's more. And, even though I'm having a two-day sale for most of our furniture, and most of what we acquired together, I'm not ready to part with everything. Not yet, anyway. Not yet at all.
Monday, May 7, 2012
The moments we never expect
Someone I barely know told me this morning that her husband died of leukemia two years ago.
So I opened up some more, and listened. And she knew all about the last months of Frank's life, because we had been so public about his illness from the start.
She shared that she had known Frank a little before his illness, too. She had been part of a knitting group, and the other women had talked about Frank's pattern for double-knit mittens. So she approached Frank, and very freely, Frank gave her the pattern, too.
That was Frank. He loved to knit for others, and he loved to share his patterns with others. It was unexpected this morning, then, that someone else I barely knew could remind me of something so wonderful about Frank.
So I opened up some more, and listened. And she knew all about the last months of Frank's life, because we had been so public about his illness from the start.
She shared that she had known Frank a little before his illness, too. She had been part of a knitting group, and the other women had talked about Frank's pattern for double-knit mittens. So she approached Frank, and very freely, Frank gave her the pattern, too.
Sunday, May 6, 2012
"Souvenirs," the song
Mike Shannon, Frank and I had about three months of a morning ritual about five years ago. Mike was living with us while he and Kathleen looked around for the perfect house. We'd sit together in Frank's office for coffee and conversation, while Frank read the paper and mused about the world.
Mike brought me coffee this morning. Still in Frank's office, we had a good time talking about old times and new times. I told him about my "widows-to-windows" thoughts, and he pointed out a great line in a Steve Goodman-John Prine tune: "Broken hearts and dirty windows make life difficult to see."
Here's the full song, "Souvenirs." Mike, who has had some amazing experiences in his lifetime, says that Goodman and Prine sang this song in his living room in Edinboro, Pennsylvania, while he prepared supper, in spring of 1977.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aOTbg39-I5Q
Mike brought me coffee this morning. Still in Frank's office, we had a good time talking about old times and new times. I told him about my "widows-to-windows" thoughts, and he pointed out a great line in a Steve Goodman-John Prine tune: "Broken hearts and dirty windows make life difficult to see."
Here's the full song, "Souvenirs." Mike, who has had some amazing experiences in his lifetime, says that Goodman and Prine sang this song in his living room in Edinboro, Pennsylvania, while he prepared supper, in spring of 1977.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aOTbg39-I5Q
Saturday, May 5, 2012
Appearances
Even though I am smiling and laughing and getting things done on the outside, I am crying on the inside. Then, when no one is around, I get to cry on the outside, too.
Just the right words
I have been keeping family and friends apprised of my "Life After Frank" with emails now and again, as the days and weeks turn into months. Yesterday I wrote about the quick sale of the house and my intended relocation to a rental in Lubec. A very dear friend, 92-year-old Shura, provided just the right words in response.
Shura was Frank's former mother-in-law. I do not suppose she would mind if I make her words public here. When Frank knew he was dying, he reached out to her, even though he had not been in touch for more than 30 years. She (and Frank's ex-wife Jennifer) responded immediately, and those long-ago relationships were renewed and cherished both ways, for the last nine months of his life. Frank and I got to see Shura and Jennifer four or five times, during 2011. And I visited them in New York just last month as I drove back from Indiana, to see through the house sale.
Yesterday, Shura wrote me just the right words:
Shura was Frank's former mother-in-law. I do not suppose she would mind if I make her words public here. When Frank knew he was dying, he reached out to her, even though he had not been in touch for more than 30 years. She (and Frank's ex-wife Jennifer) responded immediately, and those long-ago relationships were renewed and cherished both ways, for the last nine months of his life. Frank and I got to see Shura and Jennifer four or five times, during 2011. And I visited them in New York just last month as I drove back from Indiana, to see through the house sale.
Yesterday, Shura wrote me just the right words:
"Katherine- I am not astonished but deeply impressed at the way you are going about rebuilding your life. You are a doer. You are helping yourself immensely by recognizing the emotional dimensions, as well as the practical and future-oriented ones, in which you are engaged. We take our lives with us as we go forward on these difficult laps of the journey- and our self-awareness, as well as that of others, is a tremendously positive and helpful factor- both in the "healing" (which is another concept that takes thought and adaptation) and the planning processes.
You are a DOER- and I'm filled with admiration. Love ya,baby! Shura"
Friday, May 4, 2012
Changes, continued
ESTATE SALE
May 12-13, 10am to 3pm only
5 Free St., Machias
Downsizing 12 rooms of furniture and household decor, hostess and kitchenware. Good taste, good stuff (including four sofas, new recliner, etc.) Clothes, books, bedding, basement discoveries, too. Nearly everything goes. Prices firm on Saturday. 263-4838.
That's going in the local weekly in time for the next issue, out on Tuesday.
All seemed fine as I wrote the ad and emailed it, except for the moment when I went out to the deck to chat with my friend working on the roof. The song on his radio? "Me and Bobby McGhee." Yes, the one with those words, "Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose." Ordinarily, I love that song, and so did Frank. But this morning, it put me into tears again. Just gotta get used to all these changes that I'm living through.
May 12-13, 10am to 3pm only
5 Free St., Machias
Downsizing 12 rooms of furniture and household decor, hostess and kitchenware. Good taste, good stuff (including four sofas, new recliner, etc.) Clothes, books, bedding, basement discoveries, too. Nearly everything goes. Prices firm on Saturday. 263-4838.
That's going in the local weekly in time for the next issue, out on Tuesday.
All seemed fine as I wrote the ad and emailed it, except for the moment when I went out to the deck to chat with my friend working on the roof. The song on his radio? "Me and Bobby McGhee." Yes, the one with those words, "Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose." Ordinarily, I love that song, and so did Frank. But this morning, it put me into tears again. Just gotta get used to all these changes that I'm living through.
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
Changes
The advice for widows we hear at every turn is largely: "Don't make any major changes for the first year."
Well, I've gone against all that advice. In the last 33 days, I have
-- arranged to have a new roof put on my house and take care of some interior fixes;
-- put my house on the market, priced to sell;
-- got an interested buyer in the first person to walk through; and, today,
-- signed a sales agreement.
I haven't even left myself any time to breathe between now and June 4, when we have a closing. By then, I need to locate a new place to rent (in a town I like very much, 30 miles from here). I also need to downsize from 12 rooms of furniture, to a one-bedroom lifestyle.
Amazingly, I am okay with all of this. The biggest change in my life -- losing Frank forever -- has already occurred. I am now in a position to plow through the next set of changes and challenges. Selling the house has nothing to do with "too many memories" here. It's all about realizing that I no longer have Frank's income. Changes this dramatic have to happen. I just have to learn to live differently now, in so many ways.
Well, I've gone against all that advice. In the last 33 days, I have
-- arranged to have a new roof put on my house and take care of some interior fixes;
-- put my house on the market, priced to sell;
-- got an interested buyer in the first person to walk through; and, today,
-- signed a sales agreement.
I haven't even left myself any time to breathe between now and June 4, when we have a closing. By then, I need to locate a new place to rent (in a town I like very much, 30 miles from here). I also need to downsize from 12 rooms of furniture, to a one-bedroom lifestyle.
Amazingly, I am okay with all of this. The biggest change in my life -- losing Frank forever -- has already occurred. I am now in a position to plow through the next set of changes and challenges. Selling the house has nothing to do with "too many memories" here. It's all about realizing that I no longer have Frank's income. Changes this dramatic have to happen. I just have to learn to live differently now, in so many ways.
Monday, April 30, 2012
Passing it on
Purple is the color of pancreatic cancer. A friend in Eastport gave me this gentle bracelet several months ago, after his wife had died. They had been our first source of support when we let the greater community know of Frank's diagnosis in November 2010. He said, simply, "Pass this on to the next person."
On Saturday, that moment happened. I sat down with a friend, who lives locally and whose husband also has pancreatic cancer, and passed it on. I hope I can provide some comfort and support for both of them in the months ahead.
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Points of "ouch"
Ouch. A box of checks that I recently ordered has arrived. I chose to take Frank's name off of our checks. We had the shared checking account more than eight years. Now, the checks read my name, only.
I am having a harder time with Facebook. I show "Married" in my profile, and I have no interest in changing that. To remove "Married" from there, is going to take me a long, long time.
I am having a harder time with Facebook. I show "Married" in my profile, and I have no interest in changing that. To remove "Married" from there, is going to take me a long, long time.
Cancer in a small town
It occurs to me how fortunate Frank and I were to live where we lived, and that I still live here. "Here" is Washington County, Maine, and specifically in the county seat of Machias. Small town of about 2,500 people. I was always better with recognizing faces and remembering names than Frank was.
That ability comes in handy, and gets tested often, these days. I'm very glad to use it, to run into friends and acquaintances who know about Frank's journey and my loss. Now that I am getting out and about more, three months after his death, I am running into those who greet me with a hug and, "I'm sorry." Many I haven't seen in months, just because our worlds became so private and personal during Frank's 14 months of illness.
A year ago we visited my brother and his family in their New York City apartment. Nice place and all, but they are on the fifth floor of a high-rise building. Their balcony is separated by the next one by a waist-high wall. They could say hello to their neighbor if, say, they were both barbecuing outside at the same time. But in their then-year of living there, my brother and his neighbor had said hello, once.
If someone had cancer in New York City, we all surmised at the time, there would not be an outpouring of community support, the way Frank and I experienced in Maine. There would be a family's love and concern, but it wouldn't extend beyond the balcony separations.
That's why having cancer in a small town, was a good thing.
That ability comes in handy, and gets tested often, these days. I'm very glad to use it, to run into friends and acquaintances who know about Frank's journey and my loss. Now that I am getting out and about more, three months after his death, I am running into those who greet me with a hug and, "I'm sorry." Many I haven't seen in months, just because our worlds became so private and personal during Frank's 14 months of illness.
A year ago we visited my brother and his family in their New York City apartment. Nice place and all, but they are on the fifth floor of a high-rise building. Their balcony is separated by the next one by a waist-high wall. They could say hello to their neighbor if, say, they were both barbecuing outside at the same time. But in their then-year of living there, my brother and his neighbor had said hello, once.
If someone had cancer in New York City, we all surmised at the time, there would not be an outpouring of community support, the way Frank and I experienced in Maine. There would be a family's love and concern, but it wouldn't extend beyond the balcony separations.
That's why having cancer in a small town, was a good thing.
Friday, April 27, 2012
The flag is out
It's not all bad. There is good amid all my days. Late into Frank's illness, we decided that we would put our American flag outside our front door on our "good" days. It was a sign to all who passed, in car or on foot, that we were home, healthy and happy. And that visitors could stop by. There also were plenty of days when we didn't put the flag out, because Frank was having a bad day.
For most of the first 100 days, when I was home, I didn't put the flag out. I just didn't feel like having drop-ins, or talking about my new life, or my old life, either.
But, I can put the flag out again. It doesn't mean that I'm in the happiest of moods or times. It just means that -- I'm okay, and I would invite you in, if you knocked on my door.
For most of the first 100 days, when I was home, I didn't put the flag out. I just didn't feel like having drop-ins, or talking about my new life, or my old life, either.
But, I can put the flag out again. It doesn't mean that I'm in the happiest of moods or times. It just means that -- I'm okay, and I would invite you in, if you knocked on my door.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
100 days
It's been 100 days from Frank died. There really is no significance I can attach to that, other than it's been 100 days of waking up without him. And 100 days of not having him here to talk to. And 100 days of knowing it will be just like this, for the rest of my life.
I always think of "100 days" as the time a new US president has to go to work, to show what his agenda is and make some inroads on that. What can he show, for his first 100 days?
I know that, for my first 100 days without Frank, I'm still as sad on Day 100, as I was on Day 1. That tragic sadness hasn't eased any. I am as teary as ever in private, and as close to tears in conversations, as ever. Just reaching 100 days, doesn't change that.
I can only wonder what tomorrow will bring, aside from Day 101.
I always think of "100 days" as the time a new US president has to go to work, to show what his agenda is and make some inroads on that. What can he show, for his first 100 days?
I know that, for my first 100 days without Frank, I'm still as sad on Day 100, as I was on Day 1. That tragic sadness hasn't eased any. I am as teary as ever in private, and as close to tears in conversations, as ever. Just reaching 100 days, doesn't change that.
I can only wonder what tomorrow will bring, aside from Day 101.
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Where is Frank when I need him?
With Monday's all-day rain came some realizations. Frank's absence has left a huge hole in this house. Not simply a huge hole in my life.
The sump pump in the basement came on in early afternoon. Start, stop, start, stop, about every 25 seconds. Upstairs, I heard it, not realizing its on-off-on-off noises were just what happens normally. Once in the basement to check it out, I saw there was a serious leak in the plumbing. Every 25 seconds, big water would spray across the furnace and all over.
I'm not a basement gal, and never have been. That's always been Frank's domain. But Frank's not here to fix things, so I felt useless and helpless.
I called on Mike Shannon, the friend who built our deck five years ago. Frank and Mike became good friends through that deck-building process, which they did together. Mike was helpful to Frank in his last month here at home in particular.
Actually, Mike was helping Frank fix things on the very last day before Frank went to the VA Hospice Unit for the very last time, in early January. Frank had been saying for months that he had some things he wanted to get done in the basement, before he died. And Mike was there to help. They joked and laughed through the work, as usual. But it must have been weird for Mike: How does it feel to be helping a friend, who you know is going to die within a few days?
Three months later, Mike is now doing more tasks around the house for me, including putting on a new roof. That's the big thing, and we've got a list of other inside things he's working on.
But yesterday when I called Mike, it was for something completely new -- a sump pump leak that I didn't know how to handle. Was there anything I could turn off? Make it stop? When Mike arrived, we figured out an easy fix, for now. We put a plastic bucket over the leaking part, then topped it with a piece of scrap iron. Easy. We'll deal with the real problem later.
"What do I do when I need something done, and Frank's not here?," I asked Mike yesterday.
"Call me," Mike said.
I appreciate that, of course. And I know that Mike will turn up as needed. But yesterday, I really knew that Frank was gone. And Mike's availability and compassion notwithstanding, it just didn't feel very good, to not have Frank when I needed him.
The sump pump in the basement came on in early afternoon. Start, stop, start, stop, about every 25 seconds. Upstairs, I heard it, not realizing its on-off-on-off noises were just what happens normally. Once in the basement to check it out, I saw there was a serious leak in the plumbing. Every 25 seconds, big water would spray across the furnace and all over.
I'm not a basement gal, and never have been. That's always been Frank's domain. But Frank's not here to fix things, so I felt useless and helpless.
I called on Mike Shannon, the friend who built our deck five years ago. Frank and Mike became good friends through that deck-building process, which they did together. Mike was helpful to Frank in his last month here at home in particular.
Actually, Mike was helping Frank fix things on the very last day before Frank went to the VA Hospice Unit for the very last time, in early January. Frank had been saying for months that he had some things he wanted to get done in the basement, before he died. And Mike was there to help. They joked and laughed through the work, as usual. But it must have been weird for Mike: How does it feel to be helping a friend, who you know is going to die within a few days?
Three months later, Mike is now doing more tasks around the house for me, including putting on a new roof. That's the big thing, and we've got a list of other inside things he's working on.
But yesterday when I called Mike, it was for something completely new -- a sump pump leak that I didn't know how to handle. Was there anything I could turn off? Make it stop? When Mike arrived, we figured out an easy fix, for now. We put a plastic bucket over the leaking part, then topped it with a piece of scrap iron. Easy. We'll deal with the real problem later.
"What do I do when I need something done, and Frank's not here?," I asked Mike yesterday.
"Call me," Mike said.
I appreciate that, of course. And I know that Mike will turn up as needed. But yesterday, I really knew that Frank was gone. And Mike's availability and compassion notwithstanding, it just didn't feel very good, to not have Frank when I needed him.
Monday, April 23, 2012
"Three-to-six months"
Just a year ago, we heard those words from a doctor, that Frank had "three-to-six months to live."
That was April 20, 2011. He died on January 17, 2012.
On the day Frank was scheduled to have the life-extending Whipple Procedure, the doctor looked inside him ahead of what would have been a six-hour surgery. Just 20 minutes was all she needed to know that his cancer was inoperable. We experienced heartbreak all over again.
By the doctor's reasoning, the cancer was spreading so fast that he could be dead by July. Or, October at the latest. Three-to-six months. Those horrible words that you otherwise hear only in the movies. Those horrible words that you never want to hear in real life.
We didn't care for that prognosis, and we didn't count out the months ahead. We cried a lot, sure. But in the end, Frank lived for 14 months with pancreatic cancer. Most who get this cancer live for three-to-six months from the beginning. From his diagnosis in November 2010, to that April day when we learned his cancer was inoperable, we had hope. And then, for nine months more, we had each other.
That was April 20, 2011. He died on January 17, 2012.
On the day Frank was scheduled to have the life-extending Whipple Procedure, the doctor looked inside him ahead of what would have been a six-hour surgery. Just 20 minutes was all she needed to know that his cancer was inoperable. We experienced heartbreak all over again.
By the doctor's reasoning, the cancer was spreading so fast that he could be dead by July. Or, October at the latest. Three-to-six months. Those horrible words that you otherwise hear only in the movies. Those horrible words that you never want to hear in real life.
We didn't care for that prognosis, and we didn't count out the months ahead. We cried a lot, sure. But in the end, Frank lived for 14 months with pancreatic cancer. Most who get this cancer live for three-to-six months from the beginning. From his diagnosis in November 2010, to that April day when we learned his cancer was inoperable, we had hope. And then, for nine months more, we had each other.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
"No tears!" -- and no, thank you
There is something you may hear for the first time in your life, once someone close to you dies. It's the most annoying phrase in the world: "No tears! No tears!".
I suppose it is said with the best intentions, but it just doesn't sit well with me. Lately I have been running into friends and acquaintances whom Frank and I knew together over the years. Many haven't seen me in months, or even a year, since our last year was very intense and mostly private in our parallel quests for treatment, nurturing and simply time alone together.
So when I see an old face, I am comforted when they say, "I am sorry you lost Frank." Time after time, even this morning, I well up with tears. Can't help it. They see this, and we both acknowledge my sadness.
But this morning at church, when one husband hugged me, his wife jumped in to say, "No tears! No tears!". She meant well, but to my ears, it sounded all wrong. Tears, and my response when someone mentions Frank, are right for me, for now.
I first heard the "No tears!" refrain last August, when I attended the memorial gathering of a friend who had died -- also of pancreatic cancer -- months earlier. The room was filled with loving friends who talked about her. There was a "Chin up!" attitude in the air. "No tears!" was the phrase in play that afternoon, and I guess that was okay, for that family.
But, it's not okay for me, for now.
I suppose it is said with the best intentions, but it just doesn't sit well with me. Lately I have been running into friends and acquaintances whom Frank and I knew together over the years. Many haven't seen me in months, or even a year, since our last year was very intense and mostly private in our parallel quests for treatment, nurturing and simply time alone together.
So when I see an old face, I am comforted when they say, "I am sorry you lost Frank." Time after time, even this morning, I well up with tears. Can't help it. They see this, and we both acknowledge my sadness.
But this morning at church, when one husband hugged me, his wife jumped in to say, "No tears! No tears!". She meant well, but to my ears, it sounded all wrong. Tears, and my response when someone mentions Frank, are right for me, for now.
I first heard the "No tears!" refrain last August, when I attended the memorial gathering of a friend who had died -- also of pancreatic cancer -- months earlier. The room was filled with loving friends who talked about her. There was a "Chin up!" attitude in the air. "No tears!" was the phrase in play that afternoon, and I guess that was okay, for that family.
But, it's not okay for me, for now.
Saturday, April 21, 2012
I didn't go
Weeks later, it's Day 95.
I have stayed busy. It's easiest that way.
There was a 15-hour Relay for Life here last night through this morning, the American Cancer Society fundraiser. I understand there were 220 participants, including 75 who walked during the special lap for survivors and caregivers. Best of all, they raised $37,000 in just their fourth year. And some of the luminaries were in honor of Frank.
I couldn't bring myself to be there. This evening I'll spend some time with the main organizer and three Massachusetts friends who came up to support her, and who organize the Relay for Life in Worcester -- where their event in June will bring out 1,000 people.
But ... I could not have coped with yesterday. Too soon. Maybe all this being-busy works to keep me from feeling too much about losing Frank. It all feels too close, too soon and too uneasy.
I have stayed busy. It's easiest that way.
There was a 15-hour Relay for Life here last night through this morning, the American Cancer Society fundraiser. I understand there were 220 participants, including 75 who walked during the special lap for survivors and caregivers. Best of all, they raised $37,000 in just their fourth year. And some of the luminaries were in honor of Frank.
I couldn't bring myself to be there. This evening I'll spend some time with the main organizer and three Massachusetts friends who came up to support her, and who organize the Relay for Life in Worcester -- where their event in June will bring out 1,000 people.
But ... I could not have coped with yesterday. Too soon. Maybe all this being-busy works to keep me from feeling too much about losing Frank. It all feels too close, too soon and too uneasy.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Beginnings of a blog
It's Day 68 for me. That's 68 days since my beloved Frank died. He died, at 61, of pancreatic cancer in the VA Hospice Unit at the Togus Veterans Hospital in Augusta, Maine.
It's been 68 days of sameness. Get up, shower, get dressed. Eat something, try to do something. Watch the hours pass. Eat some supper, go to bed early. Cry. Cry more.
I am a widow now. and it doesn't feel very good.
I hope to become a window. A window with lightness and openness. A window with clarity, not fog. Something that helps me see more easily, and something that others can see into more easily, too. A window that doesn't block things, but allows things.
I never thought this way about who I am, and who I can become, before today, before Day 68. I lived Life With Frank like a blizzard -- living and loving well, but allowing little time for reflection. Now, Life Without Frank is like a relentless rainstorm. You can't see much through a relentless rainstorm.
But ... a window. This widow can become a window. Remember how windows shine?
We'll just build a blog out of that thought, Widows to Windows. I hope this gentle place can become a place for other widows, far beyond my small town in Maine -- full of stories, resources and support. Becoming a widow sets us on a journey, alright. We are bound to become windows. We can travel that journey together, okay? Day, by day, by day.
It's been 68 days of sameness. Get up, shower, get dressed. Eat something, try to do something. Watch the hours pass. Eat some supper, go to bed early. Cry. Cry more.
I am a widow now. and it doesn't feel very good.
I hope to become a window. A window with lightness and openness. A window with clarity, not fog. Something that helps me see more easily, and something that others can see into more easily, too. A window that doesn't block things, but allows things.
I never thought this way about who I am, and who I can become, before today, before Day 68. I lived Life With Frank like a blizzard -- living and loving well, but allowing little time for reflection. Now, Life Without Frank is like a relentless rainstorm. You can't see much through a relentless rainstorm.
But ... a window. This widow can become a window. Remember how windows shine?
We'll just build a blog out of that thought, Widows to Windows. I hope this gentle place can become a place for other widows, far beyond my small town in Maine -- full of stories, resources and support. Becoming a widow sets us on a journey, alright. We are bound to become windows. We can travel that journey together, okay? Day, by day, by day.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)