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.
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