tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20824915196140979502024-02-07T09:22:34.304-08:00Munchkin MomIt hasn't been an easy life, but it's been an interesting one.Munchkin Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08391381488413735807noreply@blogger.comBlogger337125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2082491519614097950.post-17875401647934877992011-10-16T16:39:00.000-07:002011-10-16T16:50:09.370-07:00Ashes to AshesToday we scattered EG's ashes. We waited until now because Nita announced that this would be the month. I set the date with a minister friend of my sister's, who came to do the simple ceremony. <br /><br />Last spring, I stood at my kitchen sink and looked out over the far back yard, and I thought, "I'd like to see yellow out there." The morning he died, EG and I again discussed our wishes for our remains. I had always wanted to be scattered out in the "far back" with our pets from over the years, and he had recently decided he wanted to be out there, too. He said, "This is home." <br /><br />Earlier in the afternoon, my sister came, and in the rain, we planted fifteen forsythia, and we put in over fifty Prince Alfred daffodil bulbs. I should see some yellow out there this spring, and the plants should gradually spread. I would like to put a garden in the entire quarter acre, doing it gradually, over time, with maybe a bench so I can go and sit with him and the dogs and cats and rabbits. I might as well get used to being out there.<br /><br />The scattering ceremony was nicer and easier than I expected. The girls each did a reading. I had put ashes in seven paper cups, so each person distributed part of him. Once I spread my cup, I knew this was right. I took the rest of the ashes and tossed them high, watching them soar, and knew then that he was soaring, too.Munchkin Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08391381488413735807noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2082491519614097950.post-15067518806462753142011-10-14T04:09:00.000-07:002011-10-14T05:03:45.567-07:00Mary LibraryMy mother, even though she didn't finish high school, was a well-read person. She loved books and loved learning. I remember her teaching me to read before I went to school, and she passed her love for books down to me.<br /><br />Mom wanted to be around kids, so when we were in school, she got a part-time job in the school cafeteria, and went back to earn her General Equivalency Diploma at night. Math was her greatest challenge, and I vividly remember standing in the kitchen, holding the phone, and listening to her share her pride with me that she had passed her test and earned her diploma so many years after leaving high school. She had actually called from a payphone rather than wait to get home to tell us, and she told me she wasn't sure while she was taking the test if she had passed that math part.<br /><br />I think this was a great lesson for a young person, witnessing someone face a subject which was difficult and work at it.<br /><br />Mom had a plan. She applied for, interviewed for, and got a job as a teacher's aide at another school in the system, eventually working her way back to the school in our neighborhood. Then the library aide position opened up, and she applied for that; much to her delight, she was hired. <br /><br />The library was pretty sad when Mom took over. Some of the books which were on the shelves had last been checked out by me, and I was by then in my later years of high school. The room was plain and dreary. Mom had book sales and fund raisers, Buying new shelving and carpeting the space. She added to the collection, replacing John F. Kennedy's <span style="font-style:italic;">Profiles of Courage</span> with books on dinosaurs and monsters, replacing the dusty collections of poems by Joyce Kilmer with Shel Silverstein and Maurice Sendak. He theory was that, if you could get kids to read, they would discover how wonderful it was and gradually move on to the more serious stuff, but few kids would willingly start with the droner books. Those she culled mercilessly, giving them away to rummage sales or wherever else she could send them.<br /><br />While in art class in high school, my sister made a huge paper mache stork-like bird wearing crew socks and red tennis shoes. Mom took the bird to school, christened him "Word Bird," and hung him over the dictionary. Every week, she would hang a new word around Word Bird's neck, and open the dictionary to that page, and the kids would read the definition and learn to use a dictionary. <br /><br />Mom's eye doctor had her trifocals special made so she could comfortably read the numbers on the books to shelve them. Her days were spent doing what she loved, working around children and books. My sister said, "She hated Fridays and loved Monday mornings." She was useful and energized and enjoyed every aspect of her job.<br /><br />Dad retired, and mom would most likely still be in her library if it hadn't been for the attempt to computerize her. She retired after ten happy years, and the library was dedicated in her honor, with a plaque on the wall outside in the hall. When Mom passed away, we requested memorials be made to the school library, the place where she was most happy.<br /><br />In the past year, the library was moved to a new space in the new addition to the school; it is a big room with lots of light, laminate flooring, and a computer lab. Mom would have been delighted. The current librarian (my mother would approve of her, to be sure) held on to the memorial money to use in the new space. <br /><br />Last night, the school had an open house in honor of its fiftieth anniversary. It was a nice celebration. My sister and I received a special invitation from the current school librarian to view the items which were selected from Mom's memorial. There is now a welcoming corner with a pretty red and blue rug and red and blue beanbag chairs, a place for kids to relax and enjoy books. There are some new books. On the table there, was a sign describing where these items came from; Mrs. K described my mom as a "past librarian." In reality, Mom's job title was "library aide," as she did not have the paper credentials to be a librarian. However, in her heart, she was a librarian, and we appreciated her being referred to that way.<br /><br />At the entrance to the library is a big rug which reads, "Welcome to our library." I like the use of "our," as Mom will always be a part of the library. But even more important, I like that a little part of Mom will be welcoming all those children to her wonderful world of books. She would be pleased.Munchkin Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08391381488413735807noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2082491519614097950.post-86279605574381910422011-10-11T17:32:00.000-07:002011-10-11T17:45:07.798-07:00TMI and the Single GirlNot too long ago, I was at the dentist's office with Kiki, and a woman who knows someone I know was there, and she asked me about dating again. Let me be clear: she did not ask me out; she simply mentioned that I would have to think about dating again.<br /><br />Let me be even more clear: I would rather tear my own leg off and beat myself in the head with it. A lot. First of all, two months is a bit soon for that. Second, the guys who are my age are interested in women in their thirties, and the guys who are ten years older are also interested in women in their thirties. I guess I would have to start cruising the retirement centers to meet someone. <br /><br />I have too much to process and attend to, so there is no way I want the drama and emotional chaos attached to dating right now.<br /><br />I was on a widow website tonight, and there was a post by a woman advertising her book which chronicled her love (and love life) with her husband, and then addressed how she met her physical needs once he as gone. Whoa. We are talking waaayyyy too much information, here, not to mention the sheer creepiness of reading soft porn about someone who is dead. The worst part,though, was that the writing was grammatically incorrect and choppy and could have used some serious editorial intervention. <br /><br />Perhaps the editor could have tossed it into the dumpster.<br /><br />It was just a thought.Munchkin Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08391381488413735807noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2082491519614097950.post-47535212090587139082011-10-11T03:19:00.000-07:002011-10-11T04:06:49.335-07:00It Makes Me WonderOne thing about the <a href="http://www.journeyofhearts.org/grief/grief_res.html">physical symptoms of grief</a> is that they make you wonder if it's grief or if you're getting sick.<br /><br />Or maybe you're getting sick because of grief.<br /><br />I have been waking in the night and crying. I think now that it is for two reasons. First, Rocky's court issues are more or less resolved, so my energy is not devoted to worrying about the worst possible outcome. Oh, and the neighbors involved in all this are gone on a vacation, so we have some peace; I didn't realize how invasive their presence really is. But mainly my renewed grief is because this weekend we will be scattering EG's ashes out back where he wanted them, with the buried pets.<br /><br />It is where I want to be put, too.<br /><br />The Catholic church (or a representative in the form of a priest), informed me EG needed to be placed in one place on consecrated ground. Consequently, I found a Methodist minister who will come out and bless the ground--and I can justify him being in one place by pointing out that he is in the back quarter-acre here and not scattered throughout the neighborhood or in Lake Erie (although I could argue that Lake Erie is one place).<br /><br />We will plant 15 forsythia and put in over 50 daffodils to naturalize, and we have already planted some black-eyed Susans around the pine trees out there. I have some daylilies, and I will add yellow sunflowers, which he liked, too. When I look out my kitchen window, I will see yellow, and I will put a bench out there, with some solar lighting, so I can go out there and sit. <br /><br />However, it is cold comfort compared to having the real thing.Munchkin Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08391381488413735807noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2082491519614097950.post-51779227585099774342011-10-10T16:52:00.000-07:002011-10-10T17:01:19.669-07:00Benadryl or Not, Here I ComeLast night, I took a Benadryl, and Harry woke me at 3:30 a.m. to be let out. Of course, I didn't get to sleep again right away, so when 5:20 and the alarm came around, I had a difficult time waking up. I finally turned the light on and forced myself to a sitting position, hoping that would propel me into the day.<br /><br />Unfortunately, the propulsion was too low level to leave the gravitational pull of the bed. I mentally orbited there all day, all during work, vetting an injured chicken, cooking food, and driving the taxi and all else that I did.Munchkin Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08391381488413735807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2082491519614097950.post-79939923385788318302011-10-09T18:03:00.000-07:002011-10-09T18:28:11.535-07:00WeekendYesterday morning I ran Rocky over to the fire station--he was volunteering at the fundraising lunch booth for the fire department's craft fair. Then I took Kii to get her temps, ran to the store for milk, and took cider and donuts to my sisters for a visit. Or, rather, we visited, and the cider and donuts were refreshments.<br /><br />On the way home, my lovely neighbor behind me called and asked if he could come over and weed whack my side of the fence at the back of his property. I, of course, said yes. When he showed up, he said he wanted to mow back there, too, and he would just use my tractor. However, we discovered that the tire on the mower had popped its seal, most likely by me smooshing into it with the bumper of the car. So, my sweet neighbor started to remove the tire, but it was stuck. I had to run kids to music lessons, so I left him there in the garage with a two-by-four and a rubber mallet, and drove off. <br /><br />It turns out that he took the tire home, which is about a half mile, as he has to go by the road. Then he finagled a new seal and blew the tire up with his compressor, brought it back, put it back on the tractor, and then proceeded to, ahem, "test it out" by mowing most of the acre of lawn. He then weed whacked while I finished mowing, including every tree, flower bed, and fence on the place. The yard looks gorgeous. <br /><br />While I was at the music lessons, Kiki's violin teacher told me her instrument was too big for her, and that she needed a three-quarters size violin. I priced them and nearly fainted. However, the owner of the music store (which is where EG worked), gave me a deal on the rental, extending their advertised special out indefinitely for us. <br /><br />Today Nita went with her friend and his family to a fall festival, and the older two and I went on the fall foliage tour here in the county, which had been a tradition with their dad and me for the past twenty years. It was hard, as I missed their dad today and felt lonely despite the kindnesses I had experienced, and to add to the bittersweet mood, we toured the County Home, where my mother had worked before she married my father. I had never been there until today. I was pensive as we walked to the door, focusing on keeping my feelings under control. Rocky poked me several times with his finger. "Mom," he said, and nodded toward an older man in a very small pair of curve-hugging flesh-toned shorts, reclined on his stomach on the lawn, apparently sunbathing.<br /><br />I stopped dead and stared, not certain what I was seeing. "Waughk," I finally croaked out. Rocky, pleased with himself at getting this reaction, smirked and said, "Well, at least he isn't on his back." I shuddered. At that point, Kiki lost it and literally choked on her own laughter. Once we were safely back in the car, the two of them hooted with laughter at my reaction to Shorts Man. <br /><br />Tonight I took the kids out to eat at a Chinese restaurant. The food was mediocre, but we all sat in the booth and talked comfortably with one another, and I felt less lonely. I realized that I really do like my children, and I think they like me, too.Munchkin Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08391381488413735807noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2082491519614097950.post-9547534434086856152011-10-08T18:46:00.000-07:002011-10-08T18:47:39.287-07:00Milestone number twoToday Kiki passed the written test for her temporary learner's driver's license. <br /><br />Another thing her daddy missed witnessing.Munchkin Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08391381488413735807noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2082491519614097950.post-73510932654021804042011-10-07T03:12:00.000-07:002011-10-07T03:27:36.193-07:00He is only awayOne of my least favorite expressions about grief is "he is only away." <br /><br />Yeah, like in another dimension? This is supposed to give me comfort? Apparently, this maudlin expression was written by some sap who didn't have a clue about loss.<br /><br />Kiki has been struggling the most with the loss. She alternates between screaming and being hateful and lecturing all of us in the nicey-nice, insincere tone of voice used by my neighbor who professes to be Christian but lied outright to my face. Three times. <br /><br />Anyway, either mode is accompanied by incessant, head pounding chatter. <br /><br />Last night, she exploded again just as I was leaving for yoga with her staying home to be in charge. I told the younger two that I would take Kiki with me, but if they did ANYTHING they weren't supposed to do, I would leave there alone with them the next time she was like this. <br /><br />They were amazingly good.<br /><br />While we were in the car, once Kiki stopped shrieking at me, I had a revelation. "You have been in denial about Dad being dead, haven't you," I asked.<br /><br />She told me she had been telling herself that he was just away on a long trip, and he would be coming home eventually. We talked about how that was harmful, and she cried and cried. I told her about how she had to move through the grief, no matter how much it hurt, but that she could control the rate and intensity. This morning, she woke up bleary eyed and puffy faced, but I think she feels more hopeful about her journey.Munchkin Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08391381488413735807noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2082491519614097950.post-60204079722762455222011-10-06T03:19:00.000-07:002011-10-06T03:26:09.626-07:00FeralAccording to the experts, I am doing everything right, I have the right perspective, and I have found outlets for this grief.<br /><br />However, it is like a feral creature, apparently domesticated, but still skulking around the house. Instead of it learning to live in the presence of humans, we have learned to live with it. <br /><br />I know it can't kill me, but it has left scars. Right now, though, I fear for my children. <br /><br />One sleeps a lot, staying where it is safe and denying the creature is out there; one talks incessantly to keep the creature at bay; and one becomes aggressive out of defense.<br /><br />Everyone is still vigilant about the next attack.Munchkin Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08391381488413735807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2082491519614097950.post-54497135675897035052011-10-05T04:05:00.000-07:002011-10-05T04:11:41.388-07:00Um, now that you mention it...Now I am getting the thoughtless comments. <br /><br />A friend called me and complained about her husband for twenty minutes. After she had wound down, I said, "To put things in perspective, I am sitting in the parking lot of the funeral home; I have just finished making a payment on EG's cremation."<br /><br />Oh.<br /><br />The woman who talks incessantly about her husband found out that I sleep in the same room and in the same bed EG and I shared. "Oh," she said, "I don't think I could do that after all that has happened. I'd have to find somewhere different to sleep." <br /><br />Like where? The dog's bed? The neighbors' house? Some other man? Seriously?Munchkin Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08391381488413735807noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2082491519614097950.post-83107988352318702562011-10-04T19:11:00.001-07:002011-10-04T19:19:40.206-07:00The doorRocky's grief counselor gave him an assignment last week to take a picture of a doorway.<br /><br />I kind of like the message of a door, opening to another place or dimension, one where we can find those we have lost.<br /><br />Tonight, I was washing my face, when one of the bunnies started banging around in his cage. From where I was, the noise was exactly like EG unlocking the door at the end of the day, coming home. It was about the time he would normally be coming home, too. Harry must have agreed, as his ears pricked up, and he trotted toward the sound. For just the slightest portion of a nanosecond, I believed it really was EG coming through that door, and all this had just never happened. I was not alone to take care of the house and the kids, Rocky's situation with the neighbors and court never happened, and it would all be as it was. <br /><br />But of course the feeling passed. Harry started sniffing the floor, the rabbits started moving around again, and I started brushing my teeth. Maybe, just maybe though, the door had opened to another dimension.Munchkin Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08391381488413735807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2082491519614097950.post-57196329779293528602011-10-04T03:16:00.000-07:002011-10-04T03:27:30.255-07:00Grief plungeFor me, grieving is like I am one of those cartoon characters who went off a cliff. <br /><br />First, I padded the air with my feet, thinking I was going to be fine and this was all a bad dream. When I realized that I really was going to have to plunge to the ground below, I began grabbing at branches, rocks, large blades of grass, whatever I could get. <br /><br />I periodically can find a branch which will hold me for a while, and while it gives me respite from the terrifying plunge I am taking, it also delays the inevitable. Sometimes people will reach out to me, too, and I grasp their hands, relieved to feel safe or protected but also loathe to wear them out or, worse yet, pull them down with me. Of course, they don't want to take that plunge either, so they pull away. While it is understandable, I feel deserted and less safe. <br /><br />So I bounce from rock to rock, becoming more battered as I continue down to the inevitable. I am getting used to the wounds, but they still happen.Munchkin Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08391381488413735807noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2082491519614097950.post-26933234916522222302011-10-03T04:19:00.000-07:002011-10-03T05:03:56.243-07:00The New NormalI love words, love crafting them into sentences and thoughts, making people think or laugh. <br /><br />However, some words or expressions simply annoy me. For example, this weekend, Kiki was babbling, which she does when she has something on her mind which she is processing or trying to suppress. We were in the store, and she was looking at snowpants. She kept talking about the snowpants, and I tuned her out, but the word snowpants kept drilling itself into my subconscious. It went like this, "Blah blah blah blah snowpants. Blah snowpants blah blah blah blah, and snowpants blah blah blah blah. Blah blah blah, snowpants blah. Blah, snowpants, blah, blah, and blah." I said, "If you say snowpants one more time, I think I will cry." Of course, she didn't hear me.<br /><br />Nita turned to her and said, "Say snowpants." <br /><br />"Snowpants," Kiki said. "Blah blah blah blah blah." <br /><br />I pretended to sob, much to Nita's amusement. <br /><br />When it comes to annoying expressions, "we are praying for you" can have a double intent. Some people, graciously, have told me that in an effort to make me stronger by having God really paying attention to my situation. Please let me add that I have been demanding so much from God lately that perhaps praying for those whom I have shoved to the intervention sidelines might be better for those who are praying. What annoys me about the "we are praying for you" statement is when it is used in an effort to make a person see the errors of their ways. My neighbor, one evening, told me, "My entire family prays for you every night." Visions of cult-like behavior notwithstanding, I think I dumbfounded her by saying, "Thank you. We can use all the prayers we can get." <br /><br />I then added, "We pray for you every night, too." She was offended. I think that she would have been more offended to know that we didn't pray FOR her, but instead prayed ABOUT her--more specifically, that she would move away. I figured while I will likely have double penance for double lying about prayer, it was totally worth it. <br /><br />And, before I leave this subject, let me add that, in my opinion, the most gracious way to handle this is to simply pray for people and not advertise it.<br /><br />Anyway, my latest detested expression is "the new normal." Around here, with adopted kids and their issues, my parent's sequential battles with Alzheimer's, and my brother-in-law's grace-filled fight with a terminal illness and subsequent death, there was never any "old normal." We have had an ever-evolving normal. And I am tired of adjusting, adjusting, adjusting. It would be really sad but also a relief if this "new normal" stayed consistent, but somehow I have the feeling that we're not done here.Munchkin Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08391381488413735807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2082491519614097950.post-80691711805951991292011-10-02T04:33:00.001-07:002011-10-02T05:06:47.093-07:00Hard to be around meI imagine it is hard to be around me. <br /><br />Some people feel like they need to tiptoe, probably, for saying the wrong thing and causing me pain.<br /><br />Some people feel like they need to be kind, to make sure I'm okay, to say the right thing to make me feel better. (News flash--there is no right thing to make me feel better. It's okay. It's not your job to take care of that pain for me.)<br /><br />Some people don't want to be around me because this makes them aware of the potential for their own pain.<br /><br />Some people don't want to be around pain because they just want nothing to do with it. (That would be my choice right now, too.)<br /><br />Sometimes this loss seems so unreal. I think that I'm going to wake up and it will be a bad dream, and I'll tell EG all about it, and he'll commiserate and maybe comment that he feels like I'm trying to kill him off and get up and let the dogs out and make me coffee like he used to do. <br /><br />Yesterday was a hard day. First, it was so incredibly dreary. Then, it rained, just a steady, dumping, ground saturating rain so insistent that I never let the chickens out into their run. Nita had spent the night with a friend, Rocky was hiding out in his room, Kiki did homework, and I made 20 pounds of apples (which had been unsprayed and therefored needed to be trimmed) into a big pot of applesauce. We ran over to music lessons, I stopped for dog food and groceries, and then I came home to thoroughly clean the refrigerator and prepare a big spaghetti dinner, complete with meatballs. <br /><br />Just as I was preparing to serve, Rocky, who was pretty droopy, showed up and parked himself at the table, waiting to be served. I said, OH, NO, and sent him to feed the dogs. This became a ten-minute production of the Frantic Barking Dog Chorus while Rocky blundered around with the container while looking for food bowls. He then spilled five pounds of dog food all over the kitchen, including into the refrigerator and freezer. I had him clean counters, wipe the stove, and sweep up the food on the floor and pick through it to remove the floor debris. Meanwhile, Kiki "accidentally" glanced into Nita's purse to discover a lip gloss which the two girls proceeded to argue belonged to each of them. Kiki started screaming, slamming kitchen chairs, and flinging her textbooks. I sent her to bed without supper. That left Nita and Rocky and I with the spaghetti dinner. I told Nita that she needed to return the lip gloss and apologize, and she backtalked me, so off she went, too. Rocky started to gobble his food, noodles flapping on his chin; I guess he figured the odds were against him. In five minutes, he left the table, putting a food covered plate into the fresh dishwater and not asking to be excused. Kiki reappeared, saying that she needed a Pamprin (I wisely refrained from suggesting she take the rest of the bottle) and muttered about her sister until I told her to stop and go upstairs. She voiced her opinion of my parenting (sotto voce, but, from what I could/was supposed to glean from her comments, apparently she has the meanest, least understanding mom of anyone she knows and she hates me) and stormed back to her room, where she did a forte reprise of the past few minutes. I changed the dishwater, cleaned the kitchen while drinking a glass of wine, and mopped the floor. It was then 7:30, and everyone was in bed, asleep.<br /><br />Or so I thought. I fed the rabbits, got them and the dogs water, cleaned the bathroom, and then went into my room, and finally started to relax. About nine, Kiki, who doesn't know how to turn a doorknob, began prowling around upstairs, opening and closing the closet, her bedroom, and bathroom doors. Repeatedly. I hollered at her to settle, and she came down and reported to me that she was missing six of the candy bars which she was selling for orchestra and had hidden in her drawer. After a loud dissertation about how there was a thief in this house, and my cross examination of her sister, Kiki explained her bookkeeping system, which was so convoluted that I finally just told her that she had to suck it up and pay the missing funds, as who could tell how much she should have had. Of course, that went over well and she graciously acquiesced and apologized. Not.<br /><br />When Rocky came home from the hospital, his psychiatrist gave him a prognosis of "fair." My sister pointed out that "fair" would be a pretty accurate diagnosis for most teens, as many parents consider killing them. I would say after last night, that the prognosis for all of us would be fair.Munchkin Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08391381488413735807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2082491519614097950.post-7090700518303057612011-10-01T03:09:00.000-07:002011-10-01T03:54:56.302-07:00A Primal WoundHaving raised other mothers' kids, I understand the primal wound of being ripped from the one who carried you, to know that this person didn't/couldn't love you enough to care for herself and/or you well enough that you could stay, and to realize that you weren't really, truly loved or protected because of the mother's issues--in fact, sometimes mothers chose themselves or their boyfriends over a child. <br /><br />To know that your "real" mother wasn't your real mother after all is an awful way to start a life.<br /><br />This wound is more subtle than what we experienced here this summer. It seems funny to look at EG's sudden death in the past, but that is where it is slowly sliding. What the kids and I (and EG) had happen was so sudden, so intense, that it left us raw.<br /><br />And we reacted to that trauma. There's the word I wanted--trauma. I never realized how that shock, that trauma, could affect people. However, time and space are giving me a little perspective, so I can see where I was. <br /><br />Nash is a funny dog. He has a thing for chairs and prefers to sit in them over the sofa or floor or even a bed. He sits in lawn chairs, folding chairs, even kitchen chairs. When he was a pup, he loved to sit in one of the Adirondack chairs in the back yard. One afternoon, he got his paw stuck between the slats of the chair and screamed. I went to rescue him, and he bit me, operating from that place of pain and sheer terror at what had suddenly happened to him. I took a bath towel, put it over his head, and pulled his foot loose. He shook for the rest of the day and cried in his sleep that night. The next week, he avoided the chair.<br /><br />This morning, I woke up to the realization that I have been in that place of terror and pain. I was worried about our finances, and I was terrified about raising these kids alone: would I have enough time, resources, and wisdom to get them to adulthood. I also didn't want to go on without my partner--after having the richness of his companionship, support, love, and protection, I had a huge, gaping wound in me. Like Nash, I was coming from a place of fear and agony. <br /><br />People mean well, but those who have not experienced this primal wound cannot understand the mental state of someone who has. Even though I have had this experience, I cannot speak for others who have lost their spouse, as each situation is different. What I can do is realize that I can't relate and not try. Even our priest doesn't get it--I went to him for guidance about an insipid letter which was sent to my children, and he said, "That's the one thing about mail. You can throw it away." He didn't understand that I wanted these people to know that they were behaving thoughtlessly and that they shouldn't do it again to anyone and to tell them that they did not have all the answers where they were in their safe lives, intact marriage, safe kids.<br /><br />In fact, they had no clue that there were questions. I have come to the conclusion that these people have so removed themselves from the possibility that this might happen to them that they can't even begin to entertain how they might feel or react. <br /><br />What impresses me are the people who do understand. I have a co-worker who is a very, very nice woman. I am training her for her new job, and this woman <a href="http://munchkinmom.blogspot.com/2011/09/wednesdays-child-is-full-of-woe.html">talks incessantly about her husband</a>. Initially, it hurt, but I have become numb to it. Thursday, a male co-worker, who is single and not even thirty yet, mentioned to me that he noticed that this woman does this. He said, "I want to say to her, 'Hey! She's just lost her own husband. Don't you think talking about your husband all the time might hurt her?'" I told him that I wanted to say something, too, but I didn't want this woman to apologize for two hours. It was easier to shut down emotionally and get through it. I did add that I was so touched and impressed: this man accepts he doesn't have any answers, knows he doesn't know all the questions, and is willing to see the pain someone else is feeling. <br /><br />That can't be easy. I can see that now.Munchkin Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08391381488413735807noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2082491519614097950.post-43122909840555732402011-09-30T16:30:00.000-07:002011-09-30T16:44:02.973-07:00A Glimmer of HopeSometimes, sometimes, there is a glimmer of hope in even the worst situations.<br /><br />My neighbor, she who <a href="http://munchkinmom.blogspot.com/2011/08/i-have-only-two-cheeks.html">made our lives miserable</a> when we were trying to cope after EG's death, sent a letter to the court asking that Rocky not be prosecuted. That would have been a nice gesture, if only she had let it stop at that. Unfortunately, she editorialized for about 250 words in the middle of the letter about how they still didn't know Rocky's intent, how they were still so traumatized about what happened that the children wouldn't sleep in their rooms, and how Rocky still hadn't apologized. <br /><br />(There's a story there, as the neighbor called me up, told me I was to bring Rocky over to their house so he could sit down with them and explain what had happened and then apologize. She and her family would offer him their forgiveness, and then "there are some things he needs to be told." Right after that, when I reminded her that Rocky had lost four of the six adults in his life over the last five years, she informed me that "this type of loss is normal in adolescents." Let's just say I was unpleasant, but one of my employees, who had been scheduled for an evaluation that day but had been rescheduled, commented that she was delighted that her appointment had been changed.) <br /><br />Anyway, we have court on Monday, so I drove to the psych hospital and asked for copies of Rocky's admission and discharge documents. There, on page 3 of the discharge summary, the doctor commented that my neighbor was exhibiting "irrational behavior," and it was "causing him to be concerned for his safety." Plus, (and this is where I was trying to think of something just this side of self-sacrifice to show how grateful I was), the doctor added that the neighbor had called the facility to speak with the doctor about her concerns, which he added was "certainly inappropriate." <br /><br />And the best part is that this document has future treatment recommendations, so it will most likely be admitted into evidence. Including page 3. <br /><br />This whole time, I have tried to take the high road and be gracious and try to understand how this woman's own issues were affecting her behavior. However, I was frustrated at how she had made herself the victim and center of all the controversy, portraying herself as a sympathetic character to the neighbors, the court, and all who would entertain her drama. Today, though, I have documentation from a professional as to how erratic this woman can be, including his own experience with her. Hallelujah. Maybe what goes around eventually will come around.<br /><br />And when I told Rocky, he smiled for the first time in weeks.Munchkin Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08391381488413735807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2082491519614097950.post-43415610783294392562011-09-28T03:15:00.000-07:002011-09-28T03:30:51.262-07:00Suspenders and a BeltMy uncle used to wear suspenders and an belt; my sister commented that he was a "safety man."<br /><br />Since EG had lost weight, his jeans had a tendency to slip down too far. The belt was going with them, so he moved on to suspenders. However, he still wore a belt with shorts. The belt he wore most commonly was made of thick, soft leather, and it had a simple buckle which made its own distinctive sound when he put it on or took it off. I heard that sound at least twice a day. <br /><br />I always teased him about wearing suspenders and Chuck Taylor All-Stars, but at least he didn't wear suspenders and a belt.<br /><br />The other night, I was sorting through the hamper, and I found the shorts he had worn before he went out to mow, with the belt still attached. The belt made that familiar sound, and it was like a stab to the chest. I put the belt and shorts back into the hamper. <br /><br />For the next couple of weeks, I would go through the dirty clothes and hear the sound of the belt, not wanting to make a commitment about one more thing of his, so leaving the belt there in the hamper still attached to the shorts. Finally, I took the belt out of the loops and washed the shorts. <br /><br />I don't want to get rid of the belt, as the sound is such a familiar one, one which I heard morning and evening, but I can't bear to keep it around, either. The same with the suspenders. They were such a part of him, yet it hurts too much to know they are still around.Munchkin Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08391381488413735807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2082491519614097950.post-10808882940476091102011-09-26T16:35:00.000-07:002011-09-26T17:02:09.335-07:00Were you thinking?Today we got a letter from a couple who attend our church. The couple wanted the children to know some things about Dads and God. They told the children "God was so pleased with what EG had accomplished in his life and with his family that dad could serve Him better and serve you better by being with Him in heaven, and more over (sic) deserved to be with Him." <br /><br />Really? So their point is God felt EG deserved being in Heaven so much that He was going to take EG in a violent manner while the kids were there? A benevolent God couldn't find a kinder, gentler way to take someone to their eternal reward?<br /><br />I have issues with the fact that this is a couple, part of an intact family, who is delivering platitudes to a no longer intact family. I have issues with the husband deciding he could speak for EG (who is probably banging around in that plastic box on my closet shelf), based on how much they had in common because they were both dads. And I have issues with them telling the children that their dad would be their guardian angel, then telling the children that their son's grandfather was his guardian angel, but they suspected that Grandpa was distracted at times playing cards or bowling up there because periodically their son will run into things. Oh, that's comforting--Dad will watch over you unless he has something fun to do.<br /><br />I read the letter to Nita, in all her eleven-going-on-thirty wisdom. She leveled her gaze at me. "Were they thinking when they wrote this," she asked. Um.<br /><br />So, I wrote a long, angry letter to this couple. I cried out of anger. I went to the church and talked to the priest, who said, "You can throw it away--that's the joy of mail." <br /><br />I realized then that I didn't want to let it go. These people needed to pay for their sanctimonious, we-have-all-the-answers attitude. They needed to be told that they weren't so wonderful.<br /><br />But I needed to take the high road. So I sent a short letter stating, "While I am sure that you had the best intentions when you sent your letter, but I will not be sharing it with the children. Please continue to pray for them if you feel the need, but do not try to contact them again."<br /><br />Let them wonder.Munchkin Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08391381488413735807noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2082491519614097950.post-28510085503240319292011-09-25T04:43:00.001-07:002011-09-25T04:59:52.113-07:00Black-eyed SusansMy sister called me yesterday and told me she had some plants for me, and asked if she should bring them over. I told her yes and invited her to stay for soup and muffins for supper.<br /><br />We have a near back yard here, which is about sixty or seventy feet, then a middle back, and then a bit of a crest and the "far back" slopes gently downhill. Last spring, long before anything had started blooming, I decided I wanted to put forsythia in the far back. The tree outside the kitchen sink window usually covers much of the view, but in early spring when there are no leaves, I look out at a dull, brown vista, so I decided some early blooming yellow would make me feel hopeful. <br /><br />EG wanted his ashes scattered here at home, so we decided to put them in the "far back." I then made up my mind that we would supplement the forsythia with some daffodils, which my sister suggested letting naturalize. The yellow flower project expanded to include some day lilies and some black-eyed Susans. My sister was thinning hers yesterday; thus, the arrival of our first plants.<br /><br />I thought putting the flowers under one of the trees out there would be nice. Eventually they could choke out the buckthorn which grows under there by default, and I would have less to trim under the trees. We dug the wet earth, and then I tenderly tucked the plants into the soil.<br /><br />Then we discussed other plans for the planting, and I mentioned that the one apple tree back there was slowly dying, mostly due to the deer. I said it was going to have to go in the future. My sister started to rock the tree, and next thing we knew, we were ripping it out of the ground, leaving one large root intact. Rocky, intrigued by all that "girl power," apparently, ran back to us, and we sent him for a series of tools. Pretty soon, he was providing muscle power, and the tree was out. Rocky and my sister sawed parts of the tree off to provide manageable portions, and we dragged them off into the wood stack EG had started in the weeds. <br /><br />Then, since we were on a roll, my sister took a shovel and smacked the tenderly placed black-eyed Susans into the ground. "Now their roots will take," she explained. "They're pretty hardy." <br /><br />This morning, I reflected on two things. First, there is a certain irony in these plants being called "black-eyed Susans." And second, I guess we're pretty hardy, too.Munchkin Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08391381488413735807noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2082491519614097950.post-60214089531732494562011-09-24T18:00:00.000-07:002011-09-24T18:17:17.410-07:00I have been to a couple widow/widower websites in the past few weeks. First, let me point out that I have issues with the term "widow," as it brings to mind some wizened, old, dried up crone or someone like Granny on The Beverly Hillbillies. Or, perhaps, someone like <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stephanie_Plum#Grandma_Mazur">Grandma Mazur</a> in the Stephanie Plum novels. <br /><br />Now that I think about it, it is rather depressing to be closer to Grandma Mazur than the young bounty hunter, Stephanie Plum.<br /><br />Anyway, when I go to these boards, I feel deeply sad. Not for me, but for some of the people who post on there. I read posts which say, "It has been one year, three months, six days, five hours, twenty-two minutes and four seconds since he left me." Imagine wanting to know that, let alone having the time to figure out where to get that information. I also read posts by people who report that it has been nearly a year, and they just want to curl up in a ball and stay in bed all day. <br /><br />My sister pointed out to me that we were fortunate that we were at the age where our bladders didn't allow us to sleep in too late each day, and once we were vertical, the dogs would ask to have their bladders attended to, and by then, we were moving anyway, so why not just get on with it and get the kids up and off to school and go to work. <br /><br />I have more non-crying days than crying days lately. I have turned that corner. I miss him, his touch, the companionship, his conversation, his support. I am sad sometimes at what we will miss. However, the pain is not so searing as it was, even a week ago, and I know I can go on. In fact, the one thing I can do is keep on going, and I know now I can handle whatever happens. I may not want to handle it, but I can. <br /><br />So I will.Munchkin Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08391381488413735807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2082491519614097950.post-57740909117388598102011-09-23T15:23:00.000-07:002011-09-23T17:37:23.987-07:00AcknowledgementsToday I finished the thank you notes from the funeral and calling hours. Under the stack of envelopes and little notes was a card which provided etiquette guidelines for writing these notes. Why the card was on the bottom is beyond me, as I found it AFTER I was finished with the notes.<br /><br />One of the first points on the card was that the thank you notes should be written and sent within two weeks of the funeral. Seriously? Find nice paper with matching envelopes, buy stamps, locate addresses (or at least be cognizant of the fact that the addresses should be in the guest book), compose complete, coherent sentences, and remember to mail the things, within two weeks of the funeral?<br /><br />Two weeks after the funeral, I was still doing things like walking out of Walgreens to find that I had parked the van eight feet from the curb, with the back end hanging out in traffic. Or I start supper and heat the green beans and make the mashed potatoes, only to discover that I had forgotten to cook the chicken. <br /><br />So, the thank you notes are done, but they aren't timely. However, I wrote clear messages, addressed the envelopes, remembered the stamps, and actually took the notes to the post office, so I would think that should count for something.Munchkin Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08391381488413735807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2082491519614097950.post-89463193182607083942011-09-21T17:12:00.000-07:002011-09-21T17:19:20.525-07:00FrustrationRight now I hate everybody. I'm not weepy or sad, nor do I have PMS.<br /><br />I just hate everyone.<br /><br />What kind of God would trust me so much with these three hormone-riddled teens, two of whom are special needs, let alone turn them loose on me when they are grieving at the same time I am.<br /><br />Once I bought a plaque with a saying by Mother Theresa: "I know God won't give me more than I can handle. I just wish he didn't trust me so much."<br /><br />If Mother Theresa were still alive, I would most likely hop a plan to Calcutta, risk leprosy, be detained because I had no luggage and an immediate return ticket, take transportation to Mother Theresa's convent, and smack the living snot out of her. Hard. Then I would come home and burn the plaque.<br /><br />So don't feel bad if I am angry with you--I'm angry with Mother Theresa and God, too.<br /><br />You're in good company.Munchkin Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08391381488413735807noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2082491519614097950.post-78179377313999234112011-09-20T16:47:00.001-07:002011-09-20T17:09:15.897-07:00The kindness of strangersWhat has amazed and touched me through this grief journey was the kindness of strangers. One woman who goes to my sister's church made us a meal, including lunchbox treats for the kids. Nita's teachers, Kiki's friends from church group, the kids' music teachers, former girl scout friends, and some of my former employees showed up at the calling hours. And we received sympathy cards and notes from our vet, the bank, the orthodontist, the pharmacy at the corner, and the "girls" (as they called themselves) who cut our hair. My friend Kevin sent a Honeybaked Ham. People brought meals, including the wife of our handyman, neighbors, Kiki's confirmation sponsor, and one dear friend of mine who made a breakfast casserole. <br /><br />However, one woman apparently read the obituaries and then sent a form letter stating that her church's Bible study could provide me with the answers I've been seeking. (I didn't know that churches answered "<a href="http://munchkinmom.blogspot.com/2011/08/seriously-what-hell.html">What the Hell</a>?" I was offended, as the obituary clearly stated that EG was a man of strong faith and that there was going to be a funeral Mass. However, this woman apparently believed that the Jehovah's Witnesses had the corner on healing. <br /><br />After a while, once the shock of the whole situation had mostly subsided, I wrote back to this misguided woman, telling her that I understood that she most likely saw this as a mission, but she didn't know where people were in their grief, and she might cause more pain with her letter-writing campaign. I ended the letter by telling her that I was going to have a Mass said for her soul. I figure that she would most likely be somewhat taken aback at that, and maybe it would help her related to how others might feel.Munchkin Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08391381488413735807noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2082491519614097950.post-90018563364362784532011-09-19T14:20:00.001-07:002011-09-19T14:34:23.027-07:00The MallSaturday, Nita had a party at a mall, with every guest getting a gift card so she could shop, followed by cookies and then a movie at the mall theater. <br /><br />I drove her there, and I waited with her for the other guests to arrive. I remembered EG and I going to the mall one night on a "date," and both of us wondering what all those other couples were doing there, walking around. Probably the same thing we were: just getting out of the house. <br /><br />Unfortunately, those other couples were again walking around the mall, holding hands, looking happy, and chatting with one another. Yet another gut punch. <br /><br />Then on Sunday, we went to church early because the two younger kids were serving. For some reason, every kid participating in CYO was in attendance, along with the cheerleaders, coaches, and parents. I sat by myself, and I was okay until the man in front of me put his arm around his wife's shoulders, a simple gesture EG used to make every church service. I started to cry. I asked for so little, yet I was blessed with so much, and for whatever reason, it was taken away. And I had no chance to prepare.<br /><br />Someone said, "It is all part of God's plan." I don't agree with that. What God would play such a cruel prank on my sister and me after the onslaught of our parents' Alzheimer's disease taking first one and then the other? <br /><br />It happened. I may never know why. And again I am challenged to rise up and meet my remaining days with grace. So I will.<br /><br />And, in case this is some part of a great karmic plan, so there.Munchkin Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08391381488413735807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2082491519614097950.post-46186115203279596412011-09-18T02:55:00.000-07:002011-09-18T03:08:42.374-07:00Forty days and forty nightsIt has been six weeks since EG died, and I spent forty days and forty nights in the wilderness of grief, with pain so raw that I struggled to get through the days, let alone function with any semblance of "normal." I felt like that scene in <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uuapyExYJBI">Alien</a>--shock and grief were a monster which burst from my vital organs and took over my entire life. <br /><br />The photographer at graduation last weekend took a shot of me standing against a wall, waiting for the processional, having a quiet moment after getting my students prepared to process in to the ceremony. My features looked like they were all huddled together in the middle of my face, trying to stay safe. I thought I looked pretty good, but the effects of the stress are there.<br /><br />After the family drama Friday night, with all its attendant backlash here, I was surprised that I felt different on Saturday. The rawness was gone. I was still sad, especially when I went to the mall to drop Nita off for a birthday party and saw couples holding hands and spending time together or when I started up the VW and drove it to keep it running, but it was like a turned a corner in my grieving. My perspective had shifted somehow. <br /><br />However, I doubt that alien grief has gotten very far. There's the potential for a sequel, I am sure. But for now, I will enjoy the relative peace.Munchkin Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08391381488413735807noreply@blogger.com0