As I was waking up, Elsa moved; I thought Mike! Oh, boy. On our walk his morning, Elsa ate poop. This was a first, at least the first I've seen her do it. She passes up dog, turkey, and pheasant poop regularly. This must have been cat poop.
I was such a good girl today. I called Rodney, the gardener, and Karin to get Sam's social security number. I also called the electrician, who was supposed to come yesterday afternoon but didn't show. He never called. I called him to ask him what's up. I did three kettles of water for the weeds and trimmed the bougainvillea on the back lanai. I took a shower and did MELT for my feet and my hands. I continue to pass on the Tiger Tail.
I contacted the teachers at the school and asked if there was any point coming to school today, the last day. One of the teachers said 11:30 to 12:45 would be a doable window. The student I had been working with the most was there. The student, overwhelmed by fear, was not. That wasn't a big surprise. Today was filled with unusual activities: the songfest and something with water. He would have been terrified by both events. I had two minutes to work on reading with the student I had worked with the most for the last week. Then the teachers came out and said they were told the students were to go to the water event early. I went off to Safeway to get my multi-grained baguette (I think I'm addicted), a package of California rolls, and sour cream in anticipation of eating the burritos in my freezer.
I napped, and then I called the electrician again. He forgot me because he had an emergency. Karin called back. We talked about the baby and life with the baby. She said she was concerned about reading the blog because I didn't seem to be sad. I don't know that I am very sad. There are moments when I miss him. For me, the energetic connection was the most valuable. I open my heart and let his love in and smile.
I'm slowing down. I don't want to do daily entries to the blog anymore. However, I'm concerned for my welfare. Is this depression setting in? Am I getting to the point where all movement hurts? It doesn't feel that way. This is an old pattern that predates Mike, B(efore) M(ike), avoiding doing something because I'm afraid I won't be able to do it right, or it's too hard. I hear others offer that excuse for dealing with change. It's too hard. What does that mean? I don't think it is really too hard. I know I can do it; I've proved that over and over and over. It means I'm not sure how it will turn out beforehand. It means having to deal with uncertainty. Maybe I won't do it correctly. I certainly won't do it perfectly on the first try. I may never be able to do it perfectly. Why should that be a problem?
For me, my mother's constant criticism is certainly a possible cause for this fear. My father didn't yell; he sighed in disappointment. He was good with small errors. His frustration with me is that I couldn't solve the world's problems and come up with a 'new' solution to man's cruelty to man. I came up with some old ones, ones Christ or Buddha had offered up. Obviously, those weren't effective. We needed something new. He thought my child's mind, unpolluted by social values, could come up with something. That's right up there with the experiment the King of Scotland tried in the 12th century. He believed that children raised unexposed to language would automatically speak Hebrew. Surprise! They remained mute, spoke nothing, nada. Like the King of Scotland, my dad would sigh in disappointment when I came up with an idea and say, "Ah, Buddha thought of that, or Christ or whoever." Not too heavy a set of expectations to place on a child.
My friend Carolyn sent the following quote from the Poetry Foundation Site:
Mary Oliver quoted in Brain Pickings.
"I don't mean it's easy or assured; there are the stubborn stumps of shame, grief that remains unsolvable after all the years, a bag of stones that goes with one wherever one goes and however the hour may call for dancing and for light feet. But there is, also, the summoning world, the admirable energies of the world, better than anger, better than bitterness and, because more interesting, more alleviating. And there is the thing that one does, the needle one plies, the work, and within that work a chance to take thoughts that are hot and formless and to place them slowly and with meticulous effort into some shapely heat-retaining form, even as the gods, or nature, or the soundless wheels of time have made forms all across the soft, curved universe — that is to say, having chosen to claim my life, I have made for myself, out of work and love, a handsome life."
I do feel that I have work left to do, work I can do. I also have my book I would like to finish writing. It is much easier to focus on projects for Mike: getting his book published and making sure his books get distributed to any seminary that would like them.
He really wanted the whole Collection, all 3000, sent to the Josephinum where he taught. They would have to add on another room to accommodate his books, the Ross wing. I knew the answer before he died. "No! Please, no! Don't send your books here." But I told Mike that I was in touch with the rector about the books, which was true, so he wouldn't worry about it. Now that I'm working on cataloging them every night and looking forward to finding the books seminaries select, packing them up and hauling them off to the Post Office and paying to have them shipped to the recipient. I hear him feel bad about how hard I'm working on his behalf. It is more than all right. It provides me with a goal. I'm more concerned about what will happen when the work is done and the library is empty of all the books. Ow!
Yvette stopped by with a stash of chocolate bars and replaced one shelf of books and took down another set. There are 8 sets of shelves that go up to the ceiling. I can't safely reach the books on the top two shelves. Yvette stops by, gets up on the stepstool, and passes the books down to me. I catalog them, and the next time she stops by, we replace those books and take down another shelf.
I walked Elsa. At the far corner of the block, I saw a large metal object. It's a wheel frame and axel on something smaller than a car. I have no idea. But I know it's too heavy for my brown paper bag.
I ate the California rolls, my limeade, and 2 chocolate bars for dinner. I cataloged more books. At some point, I saw that I had posted 33 books on the Wish List rather than the Collection. No, no. I don't wish to get these books, I have them. I want them posted under Collection. I will have to check if they have been placed under Collection or only under Wishlist. Damn! Thirty-three books to check. That's double the work. I was over 1800 before I started cataloging tonight. Is it all the work I've done to waste?
I walked Elsa, washed my face, brushed my teeth, got in bed, and said, “Goodnight, Elsa. Goodnight, Mike.
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Musings: I’m putting this separately so those who are not interested can choose not to read it.
CS Lewis's phases of grief started with his personal devastation over his loss. Next was his sorrow over all his wife would miss by not being alive, all the opportunities that will no longer be available. His third phase interests me. He writes;
". . . bereavement is not the truncation of married love but one of its regular phases- like the honeymoon. What we want is to live our marriage well and faithfully through that phase too. If it hurts (and it certainly will) we accept the pain as the necessary part of this phase. We don't want to escape them at the price of desertion or divorce. Killing the dead a second time. We were one flesh. Now that it has been cut in two, we don't want to pretend it is whole and complete. We will still be married, still in love. Therefore, we shall still ache. But we are not at all - if we understand ourselves- seeking aches for their own sake. The less of them, the better, so long as the marriage is preserved. And the more joy there can be between the dead and the living, the better." P.64
He wrote of feeling a great relief from despair when he adopted this point of view. He was afraid that others would think he no longer cared about his beloved, or worse than that he had retreated into his unfeeling shell again.
I can relate to his idea of the grief being a phase of the marriage. When Mike decided to get his second Ph.D., he was concerned about the impact on me and our marriage. My first response was, "It will make my heart bigger." But once he had everything lined up, he had been accepted, signed up for classes, and found a place to live in Washington D.C., his guilt overwhelmed him again. I said, "If you do each moment for God, for yourself, for me and for our marriage, we will be fine." He thought that was a ridiculous idea. Fortunately, we were with a friend when this discussion came up. As Mike dismissed what I had to say, she said, "No,, no. She's right." I had full confidence that I would feel like part of this process if he so included me.
Likewise, I have been asking him to do this with his death, his absence, for God, himself, me, and our marriage. It gives me a greater sense of purpose when I think of it that way.
But I have given myself a surprise. I have been sitting here thinking, "I will do my bereavement for God, myself, you (meaning Mike) and our marriage." Only I am having a terrible time listing myself after God. Now, why am I having this problem? Is it because I'm so used to hearing it from Mike's point of view, or is it that I can't think of putting myself before Mike. When I mention experiences like this to Jean, she says, "You're a woman. He was a man." Is that the reason? I have no idea. But, you can be sure I will explore it with my therapist in my next session. Sounds fascinating. In the meantime, I will focus on doing everything for God, myself, Mike, our marriage, and all those who are currently present in my life.
