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| The scene the day of Joe's Celebration of Life |
I’m sitting alone in my cozy apartment on the lower level of the house and for the first time in nearly two weeks, it’s quiet; a kind of quiet I’d almost forgotten. All the sounds of my familiar neighborhood (cars passing, dogs barking, children playing) are muffled by the blanket of snow that remains on the ground.
The house is
still. The last of our out-of-town
relatives departed this morning. They all have headed back to their homes, jobs
and schools. Within days they will be
back in the groove, slipping easily into the rhythm of their lives, as it
should be.
A groove, a
rhythm, a routine…what is mine? What
should I be doing?
For nearly
four years I’ve had a routine. I counted
on a groove to guide me through days of caregiving and living with Alzheimer’s
in the house. I knew my place, and it
was with Joe. There was no time to
ponder what else I could be doing.
Besides, I was doing what I wanted to do and that was to take care of
the man I loved. Caregiving drove
me. It centered me and gave my life a
richer meaning than what I’d felt after the children were grown and I’d
retired.
I thought of
my dear mother today. She was my father’s
caregiver for almost four years as well.
It wasn’t until her death, after sorting her things and reading her diary
that I understood how lonely it was for her.
She was
introverted, very different from my temperament. She lost herself in her art, disappeared
into a private world she created for herself. I tried many times to get her to engage, to
come and stay with us, but she would always decline with some excuse, some
reason for not coming. I wish now I had
persisted and helped her rediscover a life she could have lived without my
father.
After the
initial shock of Joe’s passing, there was much to do. I plowed head-first into the planning of his
Celebration of Life. I waded into and wound up the legal affairs of his death
(at least I think I did). I painfully sorted
his precious belongs, deciding what to keep and what to pass to those who would
treat them with care. In short, I stayed
busy.
Oh boy, how
does one start over? How do you pick up
the pieces of a broken heart and move forward?
Are there steps I should be taking?
Is there some survivor’s guidebook I should be studying? I don’t want to be introverted.
A quick
search on Amazon tells me there are literally hundreds of books written on the
subject. There’s The Essential Guide to
Grief and Grieving, The Courage to Grieve, Grieving Mindfully, I Wasn’t Ready
to Say Goodbye, The Widow’s Journal, the list goes on. A search on Google for “survivor grief” shows
643 thousand results.
From my
way-less-than extensive research it seems to me the old adage “time heals all”
is at the center of most grief practitioners’ processes and there seems to be
solidarity around the importance of allowing yourself time to get through a
grieving process. But my impatience
tells me to get started, find the mind tools I need and bust through. I want to feel normal again (whatever that
is). I want to catch up with the parts
of life that may have passed me by.
Because meticulously arranging my closet by colors, polishing my counter
top to a high-gloss shine or making long to-do lists (all of which I have done)
is not my path back to a rich full life after Joe. There needs to be something else, something
meaningful, a reason to wake up in the morning and feel pride in
accomplishment.
Of course, I
don’t want to forget Joe. I want to feel
him in everything I do. My tribute to
Joe is to help fight Alzheimer’s because I know Al didn’t go far. He’s somewhere near, unpacking and moving
into someone else’s life and they may not even know it yet.
I’ll seek
help from one of the many grief support groups and counselors in the area, make
time to go visit with friends who have graciously offered help, and contact the
local Alzheimer’s Association Chapter. That’s a start, anyway.
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| GOODBYE DEAR JOE |
