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Nothing. Not one damn thing

Thursday, day after surgery. ICU. Horrible place. A machine breathes for him (BiPap), tubes drain his chest, and innumerable IVs, drugs, and monitors show his heart rate, blood pressure, and more. Constant beeping. Sometimes irregular. Not awake. Unaware. Out of it. Nurses in and out spending more time on the computer than interacting with him. Seeing me, but not. Doctors walk by room…but don’t come in. Where are his doctors? Please come in. Explain in real sentences.

Realize that I have to ask a question for the nurse to respond….but what should I be asking? Tell me. Tell me something. Tell me he will get better.

Nothing.

Scared and frightened I head home. No answers. Nothing.

Friday and Saturday more of the same. In and out of consciousness. So frail. How much weight has he lost? Learning about white blood count and oxygen levels. The infection not stopped by the surgery. Moved to the other lung. What now? Breathing tube and feeding tube.

Talked to the pulmonologist about Wiley’s infection increasing. Wants to do bronchoscope to pull out infection.

Almost two weeks and nothing. Only getting worse. No diagnosis. No explanations. Nothing. Not one damn thing.

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Loneliness

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bonaventure_Cemetery

I have been having a hard time lately. My sense of loss has not diminished and my loneliness is monumental.

In the days and weeks ahead I have a lot of decisions to make regarding my health and my future. I DO NOT feel comfortable nor confident making them alone. It seems un-natural.

We talked about everything. Most importantly we talked about “what if” situations.

Several years ago we discussed where we should be buried. Wiley did not believe in cremation, and I didn’t care. Neither one of us wanted to be buried in Atlanta, as we both considered Savannah home. We decided that Bonaventure Cemetery would be a good place for our family plot. On the hottest day of that summer we were shown some of the few remaining plots.

The one we picked was perfect (how morbid). It was next to the little dirt path one could imagine accommodating horses and buggies…so either one of us wouldn’t have to walk but a few steps to the site. Also it was under a beautiful old live oak festooned with Spanish moss (shade is important in the Savannah heat). Best of all, it faced the Intracoastal Waterway near the Thunderbolt bridge.

We felt rather odd buying it, but it was comforting picking our final resting place together rather than having to do it once one of us was gone. We were a team. We made good decisions together.

About a year before Wiley passed, we decided that our wills needed updating. Together we went to an estate planning lawyer/friend and felt confident that we had everything in place including health directives, powers of attorney etc., etc., etc….

Wiley…where are you? Are you here? Sometimes I see you (and when I do you look like you did the day we married and you can walk). Sometimes I hear you. The other morning I was awakened by your voice calling my name. Sometimes in the middle of the night I am stunned by the smell of cigar smoke…you knew how much I despised it!

We did not prepare for this loneliness…did we…where are you?

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Press On

VATS surgery day. I had convinced myself that this surgery was all that was needed for Wiley’s recovery to begin. After it, he was going to get better. He had to.

My dear friend Sandra came to spend the dreaded hours of waiting with me. We did not move from the ICU waiting room unless we informed the nurse. The anticipation added to my anxiety. Wiley’s doctor (“Mr. Thoracic Surgeon” whose picture is on a bunch of billboards in town standing with his arms crossed and looking like he could walk on water) was supposed to call me after the surgery was finished.

So we waited. And waited. Two hours, three, four. Nothing. Not one message. Nothing.

ICU waiting rooms are so depressing. Large families from different cultures gather there to “wait.” Some are very quiet and subdued and some are quite loud. But they all bring food. One family even set up chafing dishes to keep everything hot. The smell was nauseating…especially since I couldn’t/wouldn’t eat.

And the conversations! Oh my. With every person on this planet carrying a cell phone, we overheard wailing and crying full out, arguments which should have been handled in private, and regular old gossip about nothing consequential. We tried to get away and move to a different section of the waiting room…but we couldn’t get far enough.

The wait was dreadful and interminable. No call. Sandra left for her long drive home. It was four. Then four thirty. I had to go home soon. As I checked his room one last time, he was being wheeled in. He looked so frail. Tubes were coming out, IVs going in, and he was on a respirator. Nurses were too busy to speak. I was in the way. Feeling that I had been kicked in the stomach by Rocky Balboa I left. Dismayed. Angry. Frightened. Shocked. I dragged myself through the sterile halls and into the endless parking lot. Once in the car, I permitted myself a good cry and I prayed. What would you have me do, Dear Lord?

His response: Press On.

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If necessary, SHOUT!

So with the week ending, someone (?) decided to transition Wiley out of PCU and onto a regular floor. A head scratcher for me. Was he improving?

At least he was going to get some nutrition and perhaps some kind of physical therapy…right? I was told that he would need to have VATS surgery, but they couldn’t do it until the Plavix had cleared out of his system. The infection in his chest was spreading. A lot.

https://www.google.com/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=3&ved=2ahUKEwidqvL1sermAhVSwVkKHZoPAwsQFjACegQIDRAG&url=https%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FVideo-assisted_thoracoscopic_surgery&usg=AOvVaw1Qoj_esEO379qWUEkwyHmq

The professionals had determined that he had a pleural empyema and this VATS surgery would allow them to biopsy and drain the mass. (Recently a friend recommended a good movie to watch was ‘The Big Sick’…Emily was hospitalized with a pleural empyema.)

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pleural_empyema

So different room. Same drill. He was sleeping all day and agitated all night. When awake the puppies and monkeys played on his bed, crawled on the walls, and there was no need for tv because there was a never ending kaleidoscope of patterns and places coming from the tacky painting on the wall.

A week in and I was exhausted. A zombie from the Night of the Living Dead. A pitiful lackluster character in a film noir. Routine is good. It is familiar. I created one for my self. There before 9. Sit. Wait. Watch. Wonder. Pray. And leave by 4:30. Dogs were waiting. What good was I even doing? I was overcome by a ball of stress that took over my gut. I couldn’t eat. Coke Zero. Wine maybe some cheese.. Repeat next day. On. And on.

To be clear, this is not an indictment of the medical community as a whole, but I did indeed meet some assholes. Most of the professionals who took care of Wiley were probably very kind caring humans…why else would one choose that profession? This is an indictment of the system. I found most individuals to be overworked and receiving ‘death by a thousand cuts’ due to paperwork, scanning, and everything connected with covering the backside of the hospital itself and the system.

I could start an endless litany of the hundred things that went wrong in those few days, but I won’t. I am writing to alert those of you who may have to be in the same situation in which I found myself.

Presently I am petrified of the possibility of having to be admitted to a hospital. Any hospital.

I had to give a loved one some advice a few months back when she found herself in a somewhat similar situation. I told her to make noise. Lots of noise. Lots and lots of noise. Don’t wait. Don’t be timid. She ended up hiring an attorney…and in less than 24 hours…she had a meeting with those professionals who were ignoring her pleas.

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Four Loves

Everyone who knew Wiley knew about the loves of his life: Me, Really good food, Good cigars, and Mediocre wine. He was least picky about the wine. When we first started dating, I didn’t drink much and had an untrained palette. He drank white Zinfandel. Later he switched to Merlot. Long before I met him he had given up hard liquor and always claimed that when he turned 70 he would start drinking scotch again. Upon reaching that lofty goal, he took one sip of scotch and spit it out…times do change things.

When we met he smoked cigarettes. That was almost a non-starter for me. But being so damn charming, he won me over. One year after our marriage he had a heart attack. A stent was placed in an artery and he was told to give up cigarettes. He did. That was wonderful! A smoke free environment. A year later we catered a large weekend party. It was very stressful but very successful. Once it was over he stopped at a local convenience store and bought a pack of cigarillos. Black and Mild. I was doomed. Overnight he was puffing on those big stogies. Don’t know how that happened. But it did, and his love affair with puffing and chewing those disgusting sticks began.

Wiley always loved food. Good food. Lots of good food. One of his ways of expressing love was to feed you. And feed me he did. Within a couple of years I gained twenty pounds. I told him to stop with all the good food…but he couldn’t. He would plan and shop days ahead of time. He would buy enough food for an army. It was in his DNA. As evidenced by our restaurant, he loved really good food.

So, after a week in the hospital, I suddenly realized that this man whom I adore….WAS NOT BEING FED. I asked what was in his IV, because I figured nutrition was being pumped in that way. Nope. Nothing. So who was overall looking after his care? Definitely not the hospitalist, nor the neurologist, nor the thoracic surgeon, nor any other of these professionals….. no one. No one. Just me…and I knew nothing. Pathetic.

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Puppies and Monkeys

Weekends suck especially when you are stuck in the hospital. It becomes a ghost town. Parking lot is empty. Front lobby and halls are empty. No procedures done…unless of course emergency ones.

Waiting is the norm. While waiting, Wiley went in and out of a sleeping state. Cogent conversation did not occur because he was seeing people who weren’t there. He was describing the picture on the wall as it changed shape and scenery. Then puppies began romping on the bed and monkeys were cavorting on the wall. He began reaching for things suspended in midair. He was in an airplane flying to Atlanta…Oh my sweet Jesus. What was going on?

I was told some doozies about the cause of his behavior change – dementia getting worse…really? (Remember, he went to work on Monday.). Drying out….pleeez….Tobacco withdrawal..come on. What was being written in his chart?

I went home, researched, and found a possible cause. HOSPITAL DELIRIUM. Remember that.

It makes sense that someone who was in a weakened, septic state, who had been transported by ambulance to hospital, who spent hours in the emergency room, who was shot up with pain killers, antibiotics, anxiety medications, oxygen, IVs, and who changed rooms three times, be confused. Good gawd, I was conscious but I was gawd-damned confused. What next??

https://www.health.harvard.edu/staying-healthy/when-patients-suddenly-become-confused

Over time and many, many days and weeks, it became clear that every time his oxygen levels dropped and his infection spiked, out came the puppies and the monkeys. Not one of his hospital professionals seemed to know about it, offer it as a suggestion, or take me seriously when I mentioned it. Not one.

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Waiting

Tomorrow comes. No need for an alarm clock, because Brisket thinks it is his duty to wake me at 7. Don’t know how he does it. Must be a dog thing. Izzy has always slept on the bed and her little warm body gives me some comfort. Get up. Walk the dogs. Feed the dogs. Then my needs are met: shower, apply make up, dress, gather my electronics and I am out the door once again. Armed with my notebook and pen…I am ready.

Finding an available parking space is a bitch. I cheat and use W’s handicap hanger. Hey…I have two artificial knees…I am kinda handicapped…and my mental state is not so great either. No guilt.

It must be a half mile at least to the PCU unit. I arrive. Enter the room and it’s as if I just pressed the pause button. Nothing is changed. W is asleep. IV’s still dripping. Dear God….help.

The freaking chair is so uncomfortable…so petty of me to be thinking of my comfort. But really? I wonder if any of those administrators ever had to sit in this chair? I busy myself with my notebook trying to recall what has happened the last few days. I begin using second person pronouns, so that when W reads it, it will make more sense to him. The writing calms me down. It gives me focus and allows me one simple thing to control…as the rest of my life appears to be totally out of my grasp. Kinda like the bumper cars at the amusement parks…except my car can’t bump into anything. I just drive around and…whap…I get hit…straighten up and whap again…a hit from another direction…whap…sideswiped, turned around, and out of control.

A male nurse enters the room and starts injecting stuff into his IV line. What’s going on? He mumbles that they will be bringing W to the “Bronch” lab to do a bronchoscopy…to remove more fluid from his lungs…I think. Brakes off and he’s wheeled out the door….in a flash he is gone. Maybe he will be better when he returns?

This place is so depressing. I get up and do a walkabout. It makes me more depressed. All these sick people…machines making noises. I try not to stare. Families, friends, loved ones, all showing signs of stress, anxiety, even grief. Shit. Where can I hide? I want to run away.

Back to the chair. Wait. Wait. 2 hours. 3 hours. 4 hours.

Finally W is wheeled back into the room…asleep. Wheels locked. Machines hooked up. IV dripping.

What just happened? Who can tell me? Doctor? Nurse? Someone? God…please…please…

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A Plan

Tomorrow came. I needed a map to find his room in PCU (Progressive Care Unit.) I was so optimistic. He had to be “Better” didn’t he? What was this place? Where was his nurse? He’s asleep. He doesn’t do that. Why is he here? Again there was a frenetic movement in this place like the emergency room. Hey, I am here. Talk to me. He is my husband…the love of my life. Why does he look so frail? He drove to work on Monday and today is Wednesday…what happened.

His nurse, I think, ignores me. She looks frantic and overworked. I think she hates her job…perhaps her patients, too? Practiced eyes ignoring my silent plea – stop…talk to me…explain what is going on…why does he have an IV…what is in it…how is it helping…please. I just want to know. Don’t I have the right to know? We both signed those papers that let us make decisions for each other…does that matter?

Wait. She is walking toward us. Is she really going to come in the room? Talk to me? Us? He just woke up. Groggy and not sure what is going on. That makes two of us. She is quick. Her eyes were cold. Her heart, too? Procedure done this morning. Fluid in chest. Worse than pneumonia. Procedure tomorrow. Broncho….what? To do what? She has to go….after two minutes tops? Really? That’s it. Wait…a doctor…who is his doctor….please. Gone.

W starts talking crazy talk. I think he is seeing people who are not in the room. What’s with that? He goes in and out. Doing a lot of dozing or crazy talk. Today is Wednesday. He drove himself to the restaurant on Monday. Yes his driving had been a little sketchy lately, I think his red truck found the restaurant for him, but he made every shift.

And by the way…his problems up until now had to do with neuropathy, vertigo, kidneys…but lungs? No. What do I do?

Wait.

Wait.

Wait.

Time passes. Nothing happens. Who will talk to me? No one. Wait some more. He is asleep. Dogs have been home all day. Must go. Want to stay. Tired. Stressed. Anxiety overload. Go. Stay. Go…the dogs need you.

OMG. The car. Where is it. Parking lot is so big and confusing. Remote beeps the horn. At least I am thinking…a little.

Home. Dogs taken care of. Phone calls made. I don’t know….REALLY…I don’t know. Cry. Wine. Whine. What do I do?

I seem to have no control or ability to ask for answers. But I can write. I can keep a journal so when he gets “Better” he can read what went on. We can open a good bottle of wine and say…remember when this happened.

A journal. No need for a big one because tomorrow will be better. I go to bed with a plan.

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I don’t know…

May 29, 2018, began like any other day. I got up, walked the dogs and came in to read the paper. W struggled to get into the den to sit at his desk. He complained that his side hurt. My logical side suggested that he probably broke a rib because he had been coughing a lot all night.

I asked him if he could make it to the car and he said he couldn’t. I called 911 and helped him get on some jeans and put a baseball hat on his head to cover his messy hair.

We waited a short time. The efficient EMS crew arrived and took over. They asked me a fateful question…which hospital did I want him to be taken. I said the name of the one that had the nicer emergency room with the usually shorter waiting time. He had a broken rib…right?

I finished buttoning up the house and making sure the dogs were ok before heading off to the hospital. When I arrived, he was already in a private room in the emergency department and his nurse was very busy.

Very sick, she said. What? It’s a rib, I said. His oxygen levels were really low. The little things that go into the nostrils were not giving him enough air, so she was setting up a portable machine that would push air into his lungs.

And so it began… He looked at me with wondering eyes over the mask attached to that very loud machine and I just stood there completely dazed, with no idea what was going on or what was going to happen.

In that instant we stopped being responsible professional adults who were capable of running a restaurant and capable of making reasonable decisions and we became onlookers in what seemed to be turning into a bad made for TV movie.

Sit down and wait until you are spoken to. Lie there and breath. You are sick…very sick. Wait here. He leaves…wheeled down the hall loud machine and all. Gone. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. He returns. What just happened? Too busy to explain. Sit there and be quiet.

I become timid. Me? Yes. I am in the inner sanctum of this world that I know nothing about…have we been abducted by aliens? The vocabulary is different. Who are all these people coming in and out of the room? With practiced eyes they avoid me. Sit. Be quiet. Stay out of the way.

My eyes meet W’s ….he is scared. Why can’t I just tell him it’s a broken rib? I feel terrified. But I wink and smile and pretend it will be alright. It will be, won’t it?

A man in a lab coat comes in and attends to W. Poking, prodding, listening…He speaks to both of us, introducing himself as the “Hospitalist.” What does that mean? OK. I’ll pretend I know. He is going to admit W. to PCU. What is that? Very grave condition. What? It’s a broken rib, isn’t it? Tests…more tests…Why don’t you leave now so we can get him into a room?

Dutifully I kiss him on the forehead and find my way to the exit. I drive home somehow. Walk the dogs. Feed the dogs. Sit on the couch. Is this what shock feels like? What do I do now? Phone calls. Call B. Other calls. All I can say is, “I don’t know.” I don’t know. I really don’t know. I am not prepared for this. What do I do now? The house is so quiet. The dogs know something is wrong and cuddle closer. Alone. Scared. Frightened. My mind can’t shut down. How can I fix this? We always fixed things together…he will expect me to fix this, too.

Tomorrow will be better.

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90 Lbs of Chocolate Love

I have lived very few years without a dog in my life.

As an adult, it all began with a hand me down dog from my brother…a bat shit crazy cockerpoo.  That dog didn’t last long after he took a chunk out of our neighbor’s leg and then threatened the pastor that had just baptized Ben.

Luckily the official Baptism went off without a hitch, but the party after was one for ages. At that time I was not much of a drinker…but I have certainly made up for that deficiency lately…so I decided to have as the centerpiece for our post Baptismal celebration a huge bowl of punch with an ice ring decorated with maraschino cherries…quite the Martha Stewart!

It was a grand effort and would have been highlighted with its own Pinterest page…if Pinterest was around in 1975. Looking back, there was one slight problem with the punch – it was 100% booze….Cold Duck (omg), Curaçao, Rum, and I don’t know what else. I think the frozen cherries were the only non-alcoholic item. Unfortunately, being a new mother and not much of an entertainer, I did not educate my guests that the magnificent centerpiece was alcohol on steroids, nor did I offer an option. Who knew?

Problems began after all our male guests decided to go out to the front lawn to play a raucous game of touch football. (Think the Kennedys) The dog went wild and tried to get the ball. Our neighbor Steve, a shitfaced dog hater, tried to kick Simon the dog. The crazy cockerpoo leapt into the air and literally latched onto Steve’s thigh…through his pants…like he was a police dog. The other merry makers succeeded in releasing Simon from Steve’s leg. Luckily society was not as litigious at that time and we remained friends without a major law suit.

Simultaneously our hammered pastor decided to take his leave from our happy little event. He opened the front door and turned around to say goodbye to the “hostess with the mostest.” Unfortunately he did not remember that our 200 year old colonial was still being renovated and the front door was over 18″ above the ground. Our beautiful front stairs (an old millstone cut in two) was not in place. He landed with an ungracious thud and Simon decided it was time for new blood. He charged the bewildered cleric as the band of drunken athletes tried to help the Father to his feet. He was last seen stumbling to his car. Fortunately there were no DUIs in force at that time.

img860_original

Simon was quickly rehomed to a retired couple living on Cape Cod and lived out his days free from crime.

I remained dog free for many years until Tucker came into our lives. She was actually a bribe given to Ben for uprooting him from Newburyport, the idyllic community north of Boston,  to the central Illinois wasteland we called home for seven years. She was supposed to be B’s dog, but as I have found out, dogs bond with their food source. She was mine. A sweet golden retriever who had an excellent pedigree of obedience champions. I learned that there are two parts to being a dog champion with the dog being only one half of the equation. I failed miserably, but Tucker was a wonderful loyal family member. She lived a long happy life in spite of W trying to overfeed her daily.

tucker

Tucker was even agreeable when W decided he wanted a German Shepherd. We adopted Mars (after the planet). It’s too long a story but we ended up adopting his litter mate Pluto. We changed his name to Radar and he was definitely my dog. He adored me. Why can’t all males show that kind of devotion? All threedogs got along really well and when Tucker went to the Rainbow Bridge, we all mourned her loss.

The Boys

After moving to Savannah Mars developed German Shepherd mylopethy (like ALS in humans) and had a slow sad couple of years. Radar lived on for a while and developed bone cancer. Their passings were sad and W said he never wanted another dog. But I did!

I wanted a little white fluffy dog that did not shed and could sit in my lap. A few months later I adopted Izzy who was the best little girl and did want to sit in my lap 24 – 7. I called her Tonto sometimes…my faithful companion…like Tonto on the Lone Ranger. Izzy’s life changed when we opened the restaurant and she had to stay home. When I did bring her, and locked her in my office, she was not compliant and would bark, whine and scratch as the BBQ smell and tidbits were too much for her.

izzer

Over the next few years we “rescued” several other dogs including Misty an American bully whose owner committed suicide. She didn’t like females and would just stare at me and growl. But I was her food source. She developed diabetes and I had to administer her insulin twice a day. The blinder she became, the better she tolerated me. We developed a detente and lived in peace. I even cried when we had to put her down.

misty

4 years ago Brisket came into our lives. W liked big dogs. He never felt Izzy was a real dog…he actuaally called her a poor excuse for a dog. (He finally did come around.) Brisket was a rescue and pulled out of Animal Control…he was pretty sad and appeared to have been left on his own in the country for a year or more. At 40 lbs he was filled with every bad thing a dog could have. After the rescuers cared for him, he arrived on our doorstep. W loved him. From the minute he saw him, I could tell he thought he was a real dog. But Brisket quickly grew to 90 pounds. W could not handle him…but guess who could? Me.

Brisket Ray Charles

Izzy went to the Rainbow Bridge almost a year after W left us. So now it is the two of us. Brisket spends 24 hours worrying about his belly. How is he going to get the next bit of food? He is not picky…he has an intestinal tract made of steel. Some of the items he has ingested, and then expelled, include a half a box of latex gloves, batteries, wax pillar candles, a bag of 100 tea lights leaving the metal behind,  a half bottle of chewy vitamins, Advil, red velvet cupcakes and I can go on and on….

Presently we are living with certain a understanding. He has two collars. One I put on him every morning. It is like an outdoor invisible fence…with four costly discs located in no-go zones around the house. I do a military drill before I leave the house. Are doors shut? Counters clear? Anything that can possibly have a smell of food eliminated? Done. The other is for the time he forgets he is 90 pounds and wants to get in my lap. For this he gives me 100% unconditional love. He is blind now, only 5 1/2 years old, but it does not stop him. I even found a ball online that has a bell inside, so he can still play fetch. We walk every day and he follows me without a leash…his sense of smell and hearing are amazing…but his devotion has no bounds.

W would be happy. It’s just the two of us…taking care of each other.

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Changing Habits

It was “our” day. Once we opened the restaurant Sunday was the only day we closed…so we could do anything we wanted. Our conversations usually began with W saying, “What do you want to do today?” My response was always, “Whatever you want!” I was never much help. But being foodies, we always began with brunch. When walking was easier for him, we tried all of the available options. Yes, we had our favorites, but W would research, especially Trip Advisor, and decide what new place we should try. Off we would go…never helping my waistline… always a willing participant. When walking became too difficult for him, we would do the dreaded fast food drive up window. But we went out.

Once he left me, I knew that Sunday mornings would quickly become the worst of the week. What the heck was I going to do? The rest of the week I could manage.

We had always talked about returning to church but he was raised a Baptist and then became an evangelical. I was raised a Roman Catholic. Nothing ever seemed like a good fit for both of us. We “auditioned” some churches. Even talked to a few pastors…but the perfect match never presented itself. God was never far though, and when we talked about being buried…after our “family plot” was purchased…W said he wanted to be buried with two things. One of which was his Bible. (More on the other item later.)

Almost immediately I decided to spend my Sunday mornings at church! Not just any church…the cathedral! And what a place it is! http://www.savannahcathedral.org/about

I am inspired every time I enter the space…it rivals churches I have visited in Europe. And the music is sublime. Its beauty surrounds me and gives me peace. I feel part of a community…not that I have joined any groups, because I haven’t…But for that hour I am fully present and I leave able to face the day and whatever comes along.


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The (very) Important Book

I’ll get it out of the way right now. I am an organized person. A bit on the obsessive/compulsive side. Always have been. About five years ago, I started wondering what would W do if something happened to me and I was unable to let him know where all the important stuff is located. Then I projected out to our son B…what a mess I would have left for him to sort through. I had already seen snippets of this playing out with the loss of our parents. I didn’t share this concern with W as I didn’t want his feelings to be hurt….but he would have been wicked lost. So I created this bright pink 3 ring notebook that will be noticed in any bookshelf. It contains all important items…or notes on where those items would be found. For instance, our life insurance policies were too big to place in the notebook, so I put the most recent receipt for them in the plastic insert and then left a note on the receipt explaining where the insurance policies were kept. Creating this record allowed my anxiety to get below the raging point. (We will discuss my anxiety later.)

Since W’s passing, I have updated all items and have it ready for whatever comes along…evacuation, plague, pestilence, incapacitation….all sorts of wonderful topics. I know a lot of readers may think this a morbid occupation of my time, but it has given me a great deal of satisfaction and comfort knowing that I won’t have left a disaster for my son to sort through. Trust me. Grief is tough enough without having to figure out where “the hell” is the will, the insurance policies, the health directives….It is a hard conversation to have even with yourself, but listen to the Boy Scouts and be prepared.

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Fa la la la blah

My Christmas decorating is complete! Yeah! I even have the 4 foot lighted tree-in-a-box in the attic. It’s a no go for me. The wreath is it. I guess it is a metaphor for how I am feeing these days. This will be my second Christmas without W. The outer pain/agony has been replaced with a dull heaviness. Externally I am decorated…but internally not so much. We loved the holidays and made them grand. Christmas Eve Open Houses for friends and fam showing off our culinary skills to the delight of our guests. One present each to open when all the revelers left, then a quiet Christmas morning with holiday music and the delicious aroma of country ham and biscuits. He was a great gift giver. Then his illness started affecting how we proceeded.

I need to cherish the moments from the past, but allow the joy of the present enter my soul and fill it. Life will never be the same. But life goes on. Is that the first chapter in the Idiot’s Guide to Grief, Heartache and Despair? Perhaps. Maybe. I don’t know. I’m not a philosophical sort. I am a let’s get it done and move on to the next sort.