Grief, two years later

 

Grief:

            I am in different stage of grief since Christmas. It consists of the need to be alone and think about my husband’s death; not morbidly, but the aspect of death. His death and how it affects my life, our family and me. Most of all it is how it never stops forcing me to accept ownership of a life alone. Sometimes this is frightening. Being alone isn’t frightening, though it sometimes gets old. When you live with someone almost 51 years there is a oneness that only someone who has lived with someone that long can understand.  It’s like I have to finish something but can’t find out what it is.

 Grief? Maybe. Pity party?  Yes. Like you are in an echo cave, dark and alone. You shout out an awesome sound. Wait for the echo. It never comes. You know it won’t. You look around. You shout again. Maybe. This time just maybe it will. It doesn’t. Only the hollowness.

            This doesn’t happen all that much. My faith is very strong. I know where he is. Where I am. I see him. He visits. We talk. He comforts. I see him as his Spirit Guide the eagle, ((or the hawk,) every time I walk out the door or drive. It leads me as I drive the car. It is there when I arrive. The eagle comes home with me. Follows me around the farm.

            The kids say my eagle is a chicken hawk. I say OK by me. I smile. Look up and see the eagle that flies in a circle. I know what I see.

            This March was the second anniversary of his death. It was a hard year.. I think it is because the numbness has worn off. Shock is gone. Reality of loss has set in. Would I wish for him to be back?  No, his suffering was so ghastly horrific that I could not ask for that even as he was dying. He could not live like that. He is, I know, in a better place. I can picture him as the eagle flying above earth looking down at all the fields, rivers and land he hunted, fished and farmed. I can picture him going to all the different places he never got to see. I can picture his delight. I see him able to move his arms and legs. His eyes are clear, his earring intact. The brilliant mind, the reasoning, and the love he had of life, of the children, and the grandchildren flowing about him. The love for me; one of his eight passions: me, kids, grandkids, hunting, fishing, cars, guns and his truck. Maybe I’m not first on that list. He did love his guns, cars and boats.

In this stage of grief you become more selfish and think of yourself. I am alone. I must make the hard decisions, pay the bills, and figure out ways to make more money. Keep myself healthy. Set good examples for the kids of dignity, love, caring and support for them to follow as they go through life. I must give them twice the love I did before to help them with their missing of his love. That’s how I feel.

            Yet I know that all of that will not help them when they miss their dad, their grandpa, and their friend. I know, from talking to them, that they also feel him around.

            My children, grandchildren, friends, Quaker Meeting, clients, fellow writers, poets, Raeki, tarot clients, and the young man who helps me on the farm; all are my support. So is my belief in the Creator. The Great Spirit. The next dimension.

            I waver sometimes between thinking I did everything I could to make his last year or two the best I could do, and thinking of all the mistakes I made and everything I did wrong.

            Two things I think I could have done better. I am sure there are one billion more. But two are glaring to me now.

1.     One day, when he was really bad and could not speak, and had been trying to figure out something. A way to communicate? What he had been dreaming? Not to tell me but to physically do what he had been dreaming or thinking?

. He had been sleeping.  He turned over on his right side. He faced the wall with all the children’s pictures from birth to almost now. Because in some cases, the youngest daughter and grandchildren were still there as birth, young, walking, and running pictures. I never changed pictures after I got them up, just put up the older pictures somewhere else. Don’t ask.

            He reached both arms to the pictures. I was tired. I asked him what he wanted, rubbed his back. He tried to reach a couple of times, then stopped. At the time I had forgotten the pictures were there, as I had forgotten everything but how to take care of him.  It seemed to me he was reaching, stretching I was trying to find out what was wrong. It wasn’t until much later I realized he was reaching for the kids. He had regressed in time and I think believed that the pictures were the kids and he was back at the age when he was the father of the young ones that age. He wanted to hold them. He wanted them with him to say goodbye. Maybe he was lucid enough to want to go back in time to a better time. I didn’t know that then. I don’t know what I would have done had I realized that at the exact time; but it bothers me that I didn’t know.

He also didn’t’ recognize at my old age of 70, 71. He could tell my voice, but when he saw me he was confused. He thought every time one of our three daughters was there that it was I. Because he always saw me as young and beautiful even when I was old and not so pretty.  I was never beautiful, except to him.

2.     The other thing that I regret was the last time he was very clear and spoke certain words to me.

When he was sick, I never slept or ate right. I lost weight so fast that I had wrinkles and sagging skin where I didn’t before. He never recognized me. That broke my heart then and now. He was always looking around wondering where I was. I would talk; he would smile when he heard my voice. I would walk toward him and he would look puzzled sometimes; looking around for me. Occasionally he would recognize me.

Sometimes he would be himself and we could talk and laugh. That was a good day.

            This last time he was coherent he said “Susie”,

“Yes.” I would respond.

“I love you.”

He said it over and over several times. Each time clearer and with more emphasis.

I responded, “I love you too.”

I was exhausted and falling asleep.

I don’t know how long this went long. I don’t know if I responded every time. I only got up and went to him once. I wrote about that in a previous blog. I picked him up and held him so tight like holding him would keep him safe and not let this terrible disease, a spinal infarction, take him from me.

It was his last clear words and thoughts and actions.

The next day I called the children, grandchildren friends and told them they had better come now to see him while there was this spark.

That is what I keep remembering. I think that is a part of my grief. Why did he have to endure that agony? A man who loved to hunt, fish, drive boats and cars, and play with his grandkids had to be given what he hated the most; lost of limbs.

That is why I cannot grieve for his death. Instead must celebrate his life. The adventures we shared, the family shared.

We kept him home with the help of Care One and his doctor. We fed, bathed, and did what the Doctor, Care One, nurse, the rehab folks told us to do until he died.

He didn’t want a nursing home. He didn’t want a funeral home. He didn’t want    to have his body viewed. He hated funeral homes. He wanted to be cremated.

We did what he wanted. The children, the caregivers and I. We took the best care we knew how. Frustrated at our ineptness, frustrated sometimes at his sickness. We did our best.

 We had him cremated. We had a huge carry in picnic in the summer in the yard he loved, with most of the friends he loved there to express their love and support for us. So my grief is not there. We had a goal. His goal and we did it.

Now we are in recovery. Could we have done better? Did we miss something? Yet we feel his love. Know where he is. Still are trying to complete the goals he set for us.

I feel his presence around me, hear his words, get his guidance and sometimes see him standing there. This is the second year. The numbness of his death has worn off. A friend whose husband died about the same time mentioned it was harder for her this year also. Grief is a strange partner.

So our family grief, at least, my grief is still in that dark echoless tunnel that will never return my sound.

I messed up

If you want to view other blogs. Go to upper right under picture, where it says view profile and hit that and I think you can go to the other blogs. If not I give up

Hopewell Meeting: Words have meaning.

Today I felt led to share this with you. I write a report for our Quaker Quill every three months. I was led to share this one with you. Also, in my blog commentary, if you go up to the left, under my name and picture(?) you click and read books reports, tarot readings, my poetry is in the blog yet.

             The Labyrinth at Hopewell lies under deep snowdrifts waiting for spring so we can walk on it and remember the wonderful events of this year. In this walk we must hold in the Light the horrible events of this past year. We are with everyone holding the city of Tucson in the Light. We hold the grief of those lost and the joy of those who were wounded and are now healing. We remember those who were ordinary folks who showed such courage and bravery that saved lives. We rejoice in the population of that city coming together to love, support and care for one another.

            To me it is a lesson in the power of the words. My five- year- old granddaughter is an attender at Hopewell. She is in First Day School. She attends Friends Memorial pre-school in Muncie, IN, where she is a collector of words. She carries a pencil and paper everywhere she goes. She asks your name and how to spell it. Then she puts it her list.

            Once she asked my 35-year-old grandson his name. He told her Mike, which she already knew. She took her pen and paper and said, your must spell it for me. That is important.” So he spelled MUD. Which she wrote down carefully. Then she took it to school as she did everyday with her list of names and words to give to the teachers.

            They gently explained that she had Mud instead of Mike. She was devastated.

            She came home from school in tears and furious. “Words are important. They mean something. They all have a meaning. Each one. Names are important because they are words and tell who you are and what you are. This is all wrong, he is not mud. Words are important. You must use the right one. Not a wrong or bad one.”

This discussion went on a while. My point being; even she knows that words can hurt, describe, and fan flames that cause pain.

            Quakers center of belief is a peaceful settlement of issues. We are taught to use words of comfort, peace and positive inflection.

            This past election surpassed all reason and civility. I believe enough negative and hateful words can hurt, wound and fester in some people’s minds.  I do not think our countrymen and women can think these inflamed words or speak them aloud if they believe, as we believe, that we are part of God and see God in everyone. I am not clear how we can implement this to the political world. Therefore, I believe we should make it a ministry to hold all people in the Light to find some peace within themselves to disagree with a sense of Peace, Justice, Civility and Honor.

            Our Meeting suffers through cold and snowy rides, keeping the furnace running, and the pipes from freezing. Peace descends on us as we gather in the Silence and wait for the Messages we need.

            Our Christmas Project was to buy Christmas presents for a family that is near and dear to us. One of the members attends our Meeting. The Meeting had fun buying toys and wrapping them. Getting the right sizes. There was so much laughter as we did this.  There is so much joy in giving that I think we sometimes forget that the giver of gifts receives the greatest blessing.

            Now, more than ever, we hold all of those people who work, pray, are wounded and sometimes die to bring peace to others. Our hope and prayers are with them and all of us who try. May the Spirit Bless and may she/he bring spring as fast as possible.

Alan Garinger

Today when I went out to get the paper, I grabbed a jacket because it was cold. It turned out to be my husbands old sweat shirt. It still smelled like him. I hugged it tight and thought of him and our life together and how I was struggling to live up to our goals together when he was alive, how I missed him, but how he was with me always in spirit. His scent lingers on sweat shirts, when the hawks or eagles fly over, or I think I can't do something and I hear his voice saying I can. Or telling me how. Sometimes I feel his presence, hear his voice or see him standing somewhere. ( I don't want to hear about crazy people folks, if I am it's wonderful)
     My dad said that as long as the mind held the memory of a person who had died they live. When you told others about that person they lived. The image of the person could always continue. So it is with my parents, my husband and Alan Garringer.
      Anyone in our town and probably Indiana and the whole USA who was a struggling writer, or an accomplished published author knew Alan. He was and is the patron saint of writers, teachers, environments, thinkers of everyone who knew him.
      He died this past week of cancer. He suffered. It was unfair. To him. To us.
      He would not lie for us to even think in those terms. In his mind he is beginning a wonderful new adventure. That's what he told his wife just before she died. Alan and his wife Kathleen loved adventures.
      That is what I shall remember all the adventures he told us about. The excitement of his tales and stories. His search for truth, understanding. His attempts to save the world from its own destruction by all of his attempts at recycling, solar heating inventions, raising chickens in a solar chicken house he made himself. His remodeling. His joy of life and of people. His love of children and of teaching children and adults.
      He taught adult education for years. He wrote the Adult Education TV Program. He inspired me to go work, (the last thing I wanted with a 5 year old,)and teach people to read.  He did this thousands of others. He was a teacher of children, a principle, a problem solver, a math genius, an inventor, a scientist. A Renascence man. He was there when anyone needed him. And a story teller supreme.
       That is my memory. After a writer's conference, we would all sit around and talk. Then the stories would begin. At first I would listen in rapt attention to the story. It would end up a pun. I would scream, laugh, bang my fist, "Alan." He would laugh.
        Then I got smarter. When he began his story, I would say, "no, Alan, I will not listen, because it is one of those pun stories. "No," he'd say, "it isn't" Still I would hum, stare at the window, write in my journal. I would tell myself not to listen.
        Alas, as you know if you have ever been in the presence of a Master Story Teller, there is no defense. Soon I would be not only listening, but begging him on, "then what did he say, Alan." Or "What happened then, Alan."  Sometimes I would become so overwhelmed my head would be laying on the table resting on my doubled up fist, eyes big and wide. Then would the last line. The pun line.  I would give him a dirty look and say, "never again, Alan." But I did listen, time and time again.
          Now because of my dyslexia, I could never, ever, remember the darn pun. I'd have to call people right in the middle of me trying to tell it. And I can only vaguely remember one, about Roy Rogers and The Chattanooga Shoe Shine boy. Which several people came up after the memorial service and told me the pun line. I still can not remember.
           I shall always remember Alan. His smile, his hugs when someone was in pain, his laughter, the twinkle in his eye, his strange writing projects and research projects he gave me and others. I shall remember after my husband died and Alan would come out of nowhere, across a room and give me hug and ask, "are you doing all right?" He looked after everyone he knew and tried to find people he didn't know to help.
           There is no death, just an absence of physical being. I truly believe that. We go on in spirit, however you view that spirit. The image, the good, the love a person left behind is always in our hearts. The way they lived their life gives us hope. I only know if if everyone lived their life as Alan Garringer did, we would truly have heaven on earth. There would be peace, love and understanding for the whole world. Of course, there would always be the that wonderful sense of humor, those stories and puns to keep us pure and honest.  With love and honor to the most wonderful friend we all had.

Working together to publish a book. Sisters In Crime

Saturday our Sisters in Crime held our second book launching. We meet once a month to critique our short stories, revise them.  Hear a speaker explain new writing ideas, have a book review and talk about writing and getting published. It bonds us together as women writers even through there are Mister Sisters who attend and speak at our meetings, so we learn to bond with all writers. Sort of we learn to work well and play together and write well and publish together.
      This our second anthology.  It made it so clear to me how we have grown as writers and as a group that can work together to complete all the details of publishing. We have terrific editors, fact checkers, researchers, and compilers. They sought out a terrific publisher, Blue River Press in Carmel. We had an excellent public relations person who has help get our names out there, articles in print about the book. We have contacts now all over the state to speak about our book and hopefully sell them.
      All of this of course took time, energy, trust, learning and understanding of each others needs. It was not easy. It was not work we were all suited to. Writers like to write. Period. All that other stuff, booking people to speak to us, booking us to speak. Articles, promotions that's for someone else, not so artistic to do. But dear hearts, writers and gentle reader we learned all those skills. And how to sell books. Did we learn how to sell books. To listen to each other when we were sure our own ideas were  the very best . We learned to push ourselves to the limit and beyond of what we thought we knew. We stuck together and worked it out. We learned to take and understand critiques of our short stories and novels. We listened and learned from publishers, agents, researchers, book sellers and most of all the most important THE READER.
      So June 12 was success for us in skills coming together, having a great and large audience and knowing how to work to succeed.  Thanks to everyone in Sisters in Crime who worked hard for that.
      Now we are ready for the next challenge. To write with more discipline. To listen better to the critiques. To search for more writing markets and share them with the group. To start thinking about the next book.
       We thank our PR person for all the work he did to get the news about the anthology in the media. To our two editors who check and rechecked every single word in our work. Our publisher who was not satisfied until the cover was perfect and our stories were perfect. To the compilers of racing statistics and the fact checkers of those statistics. To each one of us who wrote, tore up pages, and went for long walks screaming into the wind everything from "I can't write this, I won't write this" to "I damn well am a writer and I will write this" I am proud of Sisters in Crime, Speedcity Chapter and invite all interested writers, fans, publishers, agents, booksellers to come and join us at meetings the fourth Saturday of every month at Barnes and Noble at Greyhound pass Mall in Carmel. Speaking of them. They were so great to us. Buy a book from them, especially "Bedlam at the Brickyard," or "Racing Can Be Murder."
        Next blog, how we started. Then maybe back to oil and energy or not. I shall hold you all in the light. Sherita

Book Lauching:"Bedlam at The Brickyard", SISTERS anthology #2

June 12 was the date of Sisters In Crime, Speed City Chapter, the only Indiana chapter of Sisters, book launching.  It was an amazing event. A true book launching, with a party atmosphere. We kept busy for three hours talking about writing and our book.  Big ego trip. Barnes and Noble at Greyhound Pass in Carmel was full of folks who loved books and writing. All of the people who came to the signing were just as excited as we, the writers, were. We had great refreshments furnished by our hosts and sat and talked for almost an hour after the signing was officially over and went out to supper and talked more about writing and books. This of course caused us to get caught in a little bit of the storm. We all got home safe. Thanks to every single person who attended the signing and bought books or who just came.
      To keep bookstores open, authors writing; we all need to support local book stores and artists, writers and publishers. I've watched two of the bookstores I loved and supported close down. Both were independent book stores. One in Muncie one in Carmel. They were important to me because they were owned by one proprietor and not corporations. Barnes and Noble is a chain, and I suppose a chain,  but it is still trying to sell books that are as important to the community readers and writers market as well as speak to the conditions of the places they are located. They offer books by local authors, music, games, magazines, children's books, food, computer space, conversation, and live authors to speak and sign books. SUPPORT THEM. Border's does this also. I now shop at both, have their cards. I never did that while my local independent book stores were open. Not often anyway. Now I shop there.
      I would like you to pay attention to the fact that this anthology is Indiana written, supervised, edited and published. Indiana authors, some lived here and moved. The rest live here. The editors live here. The publisher is in Carmel, Ind. Jim Thom who wrote the foreword lives in Southern Indiana. We are all Hoosiers.
      The big NO NO is the chain department stores and discount stores which I wisely shall not name. Why? They do not push local authors, local publishers. Yes, they sell the books at a discount, but authors, printing houses, publishers get left hanging out to dry a bit with this process. So visit local bookstores. If they don't have the books you want they will order. If they can't get them, try another book store. Writers aren't just given money for the heck of it. It is a business. If the publisher makes a buck, then so do we. We get better contracts because they sell lots of books. It isn't so with the discount stores. The buy for less, cut prices more and it doesn't always filter down. And never, ever buy a book with the front cover cut off.  If you can't afford to buy a book at a local bookstore, go to your local library and check it out. If they don't have it you can fill out a form for them to order it from inter-library loan or order a request for them to buy it. This is not a fast process always but an excellent alternative.
       Watch your local book store for sales and discounts. Join your local bookstores discount club.
       Anyway the authors and the fans and family members had a great time at Barnes and Noble June 12. I thank every one who came or who ordered books from the book store or a Sisters in Crime member. I love you.
      I would like to thank our anthology editors, Brenda Robertson Stewart, Wanda Lou Willis , our publisher, Blue River Press, located in Indianapolis/Carmel. Jim Thom of "Follow the River" fame for writing our forward. He is not only a great author and historian, but one of my favorite authors.
    Our publicity person was M.B. Dabney, who also edited the fact insert sheets, which were compiled by Mark Zacharias. A special thanks to our officers of Speed City Chapter, who worked so hard on the publication and publicity, and all the authors in the book who wrote and rewrote and rewrote and at some time swore as Miss Scarlet would have said, "I swear I'll never be a writer again." I thank the publicity people on the local papers that carried our announcement and stories of our authors. You were wonderful. More about what it takes to create an anthology and why Sisters is an important organization both for fans and writers. Yes, we have Mister Sisters, we are not sexist.  More tomorrow, about that also.  Love to all and I hold you in the Light. Sherita

Sisters IN Crime Book Launch!

From The Riverside Writer's blog:

Sisters IN Crime Book Launch!

Hey everybody, come on out to the Barnes and Noble Bookstore in Carmel, IN on Saturday for the Indiana Chapter of Sisters in Crime book launch. The group's second anthology is coming out on Saturday, June 12 and the authors will all be there for signing!

Can't wait for this exciting event and I hope to see you there!!!

Here's the info:
Saturday, June 12, 2010
2:00pm - 4:00pm
Barnes & Noble 14709 US 31 N Carmel IN 46032

To oil or not oil, that is the question.

This is still on transformation and saving the planet. I wonder if you have suggestions to help us go Green. Can our growing our own gardens, creating new fuel, maybe, building our own cars really help us? Can we create a public transportation system that is local and national that does not use fossil fuel? Or are we doomed? And if we are doomed is that what 2012 is all about? Were the Mayans more knowledgeable about using up the resources of the world?
The Mayans, according to articles I read, went in cycles and when Spirit spoke or they had this feeling they should stop doing whatever they were doing and just let go. Was that what was meant by the 2012 date?
Give me ideas of recreating the best use of resources for us and the rest of the world. How can we help ourselves?
I don't want off shore drilling. I want off oil and gas. How? Like I said. I've cut way back on their use. I felt led by my Spirit Guides. The Tarot is leading me to find a solution, at least, for me. It is not easy the ideas, the visions I receive. I have much work to do to include myself in an energy force that does not pollute the earth. What are you doing? Or not doing that helps Mother Earth?
Like I said before. We are raising cane about the oil spill. There are not many ways to collect spilled oil. The people who work in oil rigs want the jobs. Need the work. Those of us who heat with fuel oil, gas or coal want to keep warm. And we want to drive our cars. Are we all working to get off fossil fuels or is it a myth that we can. I think we need to shut up about the oil spill unless we have a solution. Because we are still part of the problem. Sherita