Change of Plans

    I received a planner as a gift from David this past Christmas. It was actually one of the items on my wish list. After 20 years of marriage, we were finally learning how to buy gifts for each other without beating ourselves up about it. The holidays are stressful enough, amiright?

    The day after Christmas, I stayed up late into the night filling out an entire years' worth of things including softball tournaments, birthdays, appointments, etc. This particular planner even has a place for weekly, monthly, and quarterly goals, time management, gratitude, mind maps, etc. It basically had all the bells and whistles that could appease the overwhelmed neurodivergent hot mess that typically am, at least for awhile anyway. I was going to start my year off RIGHT. 2023 was going to be the year I completed my master's degree and began working, as well as the start of the senior year of high school for our youngest daughter. I knew I needed to be more proactive and organized if I didn't want to end up feeling like I was drowning in the details. 

    Four days after Christmas, David passed away unexpectedly and the world just sort of stopped. Time was suddenly a social construct I couldn't care less about. The planner was in my purse, ready to help me navigate the new year, but I couldn't even bring myself to look at it. In fact, that planner's very existence made me angry. Three days after I filled that planner out with all the hope and excitement for the year to come, none of it seemed to matter anymore. The person who filled out that planner no longer existed and there was no way in the world I felt like I could relate to her. That woman seriously had no clue. 

    For months, that freaking planner has been sitting on a little side table in my dining room practically taunting me by reminding me of all I've lost. All the plans that will never be.

    In that time, I managed to finish my research project and complete my degree. That was brutal. Forcing myself to focus on something that intense while grieving only made me more scatter-brained and more easily frustrated, with brain fog that was sometimes so thick I couldn't even make a grocery list. Have you ever tried to teach a toddler long-division? That has to be what it was like for my professor to support me through all that. The Zoom calls ended up being more like therapy sessions than anything. 

    And there sat that planner, where I could always see it but barely stand to. 

    I filled out piles of paperwork (some with help, especially on the days were I could barely write my own name and birth date without making a mistake), and I started to accept that I could take charge of my life and what it will look like moving forward. 

    But that damn planner remained untouched.

    I then turned around and bought myself another planner, but this one was for one day at a time. That seemed to be more realistic for my foggy, salty, widow's brain as it was. This one even helped me track my meals and water consumption! (And fitness and errands and gratitude..... but let's not get too carried away, K?) 

        A few weeks ago, with more than half of the calendar year behind me, I finally opened up the damn planner and decided to try to use it again. A lot has happened...and not happened...in those months that I have tried to pretend they didn't exist, that the damn planner itself didn't exist. I guess I am coming to terms with the fact that some birthdays, anniversaries, and other plans will not have the same meaning or ever bring the same joy that they once had. And while it will never be *okay*, it will always be. I can't change that. And if I begin to utilize these planners effectively, they can help me take control of all the parts of my life I still have left. 

    Maybe it's time for me to go back to basics and give myself little congratulatory pats on the back in the form of brightly colored stickers and writing down the things I do accomplish. Some days those little wins might look like making phone calls I have been dreading or brushing my teeth and putting on real pants. Other days, getting out of bed requires so much effort that a parade should probably be thrown in my honor. (No, don't do that. I actually despise parades. Sitting on a curb or on a fold chair, watching people walk or ride by? I don't get it.) My capabilities and attention span are about as consistent as Oklahoma weather, but ya gotta start somewhere, right? 

    Plans can change, people can die, and life as we know it can feel like it completely implodes. But I'm still here. Life, for the most part, still feels very much like an abandoned beach in January.... foggy, salty, and empty. But I feel like some of the fog has lifted a little and I need to begin to try to look around at the wreckage and see what I have left to work with. I may not have a lot of days where I feel accomplished, be it in my career (that has yet to begin) or personal hygiene. But I'll be damned if I don't give myself some credit when I do. 

    Not to brag, but I plan on brushing my teeth later...

Shells

    I'm still the same person I was before I lost David. At least, I think I am. I feel like I am still me, only way more aware of how quickly life can go sideways and the rug can be pulled out from underneath me. I miss him everyday, but I feel stronger on some days and like I can't catch my breath on others. I am usually still quick with a joke or a humorous observation but I also cry quietly in Sam's Club when I walk past the brand of socks I used to buy for David. I guess you could say I feel like a shell of my former self, but I know I am still in there somewhere. The old me is guarded by the understanding that anyone and anything can be ripped from your life without any warning or real explanation. 

    I took my dog for a dental procedure the other day. When I signed the release form before they took her back, I had to initial a section to choose between them taking lifesaving measures or a DNR if she doesn't respond well to the anesthesia or should other complications arise. I checked the box for the DNR because I am in a dark place, life is fleeting, and it's hard to imagine suffering anymore than I already have. The procedure went well and she is healing nicely. It also cost about half of what they estimated it could, so that felt like an all-around win for me. She didn't die, but I was prepared if she had. If you don't answer my call, there is a part of me that is preparing for you to be dead. It's pretty dark where I live right now, but I think I am just protecting myself from any more unexpected losses. Because how could I suffer more? 

Let me quickly make sure the Universe understands that this is in no way a challenge to see how much more I could lose....just to be clear!

    Last month would have been our 21st wedding anniversary. Since Pismo Beach was always our go-to place when we wanted a quick getaway either as a couple or a family, I booked a room at a hotel where he and I had always talked about staying but never did. I did all the things we would usually do, but alone. I  bought cheap jewelry on the pier, ate clam chowder (Splash Cafe, of course!), bought candy at Hotlix, and sat on the beach to watch the waves and the other families enjoying their day. It was difficult and sad, but it also felt very right and necessary. I felt both closer to David and I also missed him more than ever. When I passed a UPS driver making deliveries, I amused myself with the conversation I know I would have had with David. He would have been jealous of the weather the driver works in, but he would not have envied the higher cost of living and the hellish tourist seasons. Those brown trucks stood out to him no matter where we went, to the point where he often felt like his job was following him on his vacation days. 

    I have found myself preferring the company of people who have suffered similar losses and have connected with some amazing people in the process. It's like we are all in a sad, dark club where no one actually wants to be a member, but we are thankful to have each other. It's soothing to be with other people who *get it*, even though we hate that we all do. I met a small group of women who meet in person and a few Facebook groups that have made me both laugh and cry. I feel most like myself when I am surrounded by like-minded people who know my pain.

    I am just trying to move forward most days. Sometimes, I don't move at all but sit still and try to immerse myself in what used to be. I can't live there, though. The world keeps on turning and it's a gift to be able to turn with it. We shouldn't take that for granted, even on the days when we want no part of what this world has to offer. On those days, I crawl inside my theoretical hidey-hole and just sit with it all. While it felt more difficult than it should have been, I completed my master's degree and have started looking for jobs. Aside from the substitute teaching gig, it has been so long since I have been a part of the workforce and I am sort of scared shitless. The original plan was for me to be able to ease into working once I completed my degree, but this past year or two has taught me that ultimate outcomes aren't really up to us. I'm not sure if I will ever be able to make concrete plans for the future again. Instead, I will focus on the direction I want to go and hope for the best. While also preparing for the worst. 

    I also collected a few little shells and rocks I found as I walked on the beach on our anniversary. I identify with those shell pieces, especially the broken ones. But, unlike those shells, I am not the final version of myself. I'm still in there somewhere, even if there will always be pieces missing. For now, it's safer to hunker down in my shell. Never the same but always me.

    

Moments and Other Finite Resources

       Like many adults (and probably some kids), my typical morning begins with a cup of coffee. Since I am the only one who regularly drinks coffee in this house, I usually just make myself a single cup. But the other day, I peered out the window as I was setting up my morning joe up to brew. It was cold, rainy, and windy and I decided it would be a good day to brew an entire pot. I mean, it's really not any more work to brew an entire carafe of coffee as it is a single cup right?

    On most mornings, those when I usually brew myself a single cup, that cup is my main focus until it is gone. I have never been one of those people who can carry their cup of coffee around the house and then have to retrace my steps to see where I left it. I don't enjoy the idea of letting is sit long enough to get cold, drinking it cold, or even reheating it in the microwave multiple times just to get through finishing a single cup. Instead, I sit at the kitchen table and allow myself the five or ten minutes it can take to enjoy the entire cup of coffee. I also usually take that time to grab a bite to eat, take my vitamins, and load up on the allergy meds I need to survive my everyday life. If I get too rushed or don't plan well enough to carve out these few minutes each morning, it usually feels like my whole day is thrown off. So I make a cup of coffee, sit down and give myself a few minutes to savor the entire cup, then I am ready to move onto the rest of my day. I always finish that cup of coffee because I know it's the only one I am getting.

    But, something odd happens when I decide to brew an entire pot of coffee. I rarely do this since I have a system in place and, for the most part, it works for me. But knowing I have the remains of an entire pot at my disposal somehow takes away from my ability to enjoy finishing even one cup. The last few times I brewed an entire pot for just myself, I didn't even finish drinking the first cup. Knowing there would always be more kept me from appreciating the cup sitting in front of me. I guess it could be said that I took it for granted. It's funny how easily we can take things for granted when we feel like there will always be more where that came from. A friend of my daughter's is going to school on the coast. I asked her if she visits the beach often and she admitted to me that she never thinks about it because she always knows it's "right there." 

Just like that pot of coffee.

    We don't live very far from a pretty well-known national park. People come from all over the world to be able to enjoy the beauty and splendor of this park. But the first time I visited that park, it was on an elementary school field trip with one of my daughters' classes in my late 30s. Had I not chaperoned that field trip, who knows if I would have visited there at all if it hadn't been for that field trip. I always knew it was "right there" and would not take much to get there. 

Just like that pot of coffee.

    It just seems like it's so easy to take for granted so many comforts and people in our lives when we feel like they will always just be there. When the kids seem to have grown up in the blink of an eye, is that because we feel like we didn't savor it enough while it was happening? Taking things and people for granted seems to be common, since so many of us seem focused on the future, be it the next thing or phase of life we perceive to be ahead of us. How many or things do we regularly put off focusing on because we assume they will always be there?

Just like that pot of coffee.

I just miss him so much

    David was my rock. . . and not only because he could raise one eyebrow just like The Rock. He might have worked long hours and missed a lot of the day-to-day activities, but he was my constant, steady partner nonetheless. Sharing a life with another person can be really trying at times. We certainly stepped on each other's toes our fair share, but our strengths usually complemented each other. We used to joke that neither of us wore the pants in our family. Instead, we shared the pants and stumbled around as if we were competing in one of those cheesy three-legged races. We stumbled a lot, but we always managed to stay together and get back up on our feet. I guess it was naive to assume that he would always be here. But I did assume that. As much as I had wanted him to stay, I also know that he did not want to leave us either. 

    In fact, no one was more excited about our future than David. One of our more recent regular disagreements was about how he wanted to make big, rather specific plans for our future and how I wanted to avoid that topic. My little ADHD brain would perceive those plans as pressure and start to spin out with a whole new set of worries and what-ifs when he tried to get too specific about our future. He put a lot of stock in his retirement, which he was planning on doing very soon. My anxiety would then make him anxious, which I would usually find upsetting and. . . you can probably see where this is going. 

    But in David's mind, his retirement was this thing that would always be there, finally allowing him the opportunity to do all the things he felt his job prevented him from doing. I'll eat healthier when I retire. I will start exercising regularly when I retire. When I retire, I am going to spend a lot of time outside and really make the yard look good. He was so excited for the life he could lead and the options he would have when he finally retired. In his mind, those good things could wait because he would be able to enjoy them all upon retirement. 

    I think I am in a sort of reflective phase of my grieving. My mind likes to playback unanswered questions and regrets on a loop, which I realize is rather exhausting and not at all productive. I sometimes feel like I have a constant movie playing in the background that highlights all the ways I took David for granted when he was here. Instead of beating myself up for all the things that cannot be changed, I am making a conscious effort to try to be more present and mindful with some of the people around me. This is often easier said than done since I have an innate tendency to live inside my own head and fail to see what is right in front of me. Or hear the person yelling "MOM!" at me from 11 inches away. 

    I still mostly keep to myself when I can. I have had so many offers and invites from friends who just want to help, but I am not exactly ready for much of that yet. I really appreciate everyone who reaches out and wants to help me, but I yearn for the day when people stop looking at me as the woman who lost her husband while offering me hugs and condolences. (I'm actually not much of a hugger and usually only hug others if I think they need it.) I really do love to talk about David, just not so much about how I'm doing since he died. I love to tell funny stories about him, brag about his accomplishments and more stellar qualities, joke about things he did to get under my skin, or illustrate how frustrated I can feel not being able to ask him simple questions. (Honestly David, where on earth did you put my step ladder?) I mention him frequently in conversation, often still in the present tense. I have read that is common and I'm not too worried about it. I am actually embracing thinking about him that way, confident the day will come when all of my stories about David are told in the past tense. I am sure it will feel like another loss when that happens since acknowledging he only lives in my past feels like it could make the time and distance seem even more real. I'm not ready for that.

    In the meantime, I am trying to focus on who and what I have right now; what's in front of me. It shouldn't matter if I have a full carafe of coffee on standby or a scenic adventure just down the road. I need to always try to remember that time and proximity are not guaranteed, so I should savor each bite, sip, or relationship like it's all I might get. You never know when they could be gone. 

The End of the Beginning

 

    I lost the most significant part of my adult life almost six weeks ago. David was an actual force of love, support, and kindness for me and so many other people. He was the very best human in so many ways. I have never known anyone to care so much about everything he did and all the people around him. He really put a lot of pressure on himself to be so many things to so many people. Because of this, he was not always the easiest to live with. Then again, is anyone? I know I’m not! It could be said that his most serious transgression in our marriage was caring way too much about so many people and (in my opinion) too many things. 

     These past weeks have felt as if they were unending and, yet I also feel like they passed in the blink of an eye. I can lose almost entire days feeling frozen in a moment sometimes. Conversely, I can also shower, dress, and join the living world as if I actually belong there. Even if I feel like I can pull it off, it’s really physically and emotionally draining. I am most comfortable in my home, surrounded by my small circle of people. Or even totally alone. That is when I feel like I can be my truest self, laughing or crying as I feel I need to. 

     A week or two ago, I had my first dream about David. Well, one that I remembered anyway. It was late in the morning. When I can, I go back to sleep after I initially wake up each morning. It was during one of those morning naps when I dreamt of David. In the dream, I somehow just knew he was out in the garage, even though I also knew he was gone. But in this dream, I didn't tell anyone that I knew he was there. Instead, I sneaked out the door leading to the garage and there he was. I don’t remember either of us speaking, but he just held me while I cried. The peace and comfort that dream brought me was more than I had felt since he left this world, but those feelings faded quickly as I slowly regained consciousness. 

     Up until this past year, I had been relatively fortunate to not have experienced the loss of an immediate family member or close friend. Looking back, I can confirm that my ignorance truly was bliss. The loss I had experienced prior to this past year really did hurt, but none of those people I lost were a really big part of my everyday life, past or present. Unexpectedly, we lost my mom in March of 2022. Losing the mother that raised you, even as an adult, it changes you as a person. She was this huge link to my past, one of my best confidants, someone who could find the humor in just about any situation, and the one who adored my girls as much as David and I do. But as much as it hurt and changed me as a person to lose my mom, she wasn’t a large part of my everyday life. She was a huge part of every holiday and all the usual milestones like birthdays, awards ceremonies, and the sports played by my girls. It was at all those events where we usually knew we would be spending with her in some capacity that the loss was felt the greatest. It still does. This past Christmas Eve was just five days before I lost my husband, and I remember crying in the car on the way to a celebration because she should be here for this. My mom loved Christmas music, pretty lights, admiring decorations, and spoiling her granddaughters (and new great grandson) to the best of her abilities. It was all so exciting to her and that excitement created its own special joy about the holiday season that was felt by all she touched. David and I shared a family, a bed, a home, a bank account. . . our life.

     David was my rock through all of the ‘firsts’ I had to get through after losing my mom. I tend to keep a lot of my feelings to myself, but this past year I had actually let David into those scary, unpredictable places inside my head and my heart. . . and he was fantastic. I could tell him about all those anxious, insecure, or weepy moments that I usually kept inside, and he gave me more love and support than I felt like I deserved. It highlighted that our relationship could have been so much better if I had just shared all the parts of me, even the ones that didn’t feel so endearing. All relationships have ups and downs, and ours was no exception. We had just gone through one of the down periods, but with counseling (and hormone therapy on my part) we were in this amazing upswing, and it almost felt like we were dating again. With the kids being older, date nights and cuddling on the couch were more common than they had been since the beginning of our relationship. We had joked about figuring out what to do with ourselves and each other when all the kids were gone and he retired, which was could have been as soon as a year or two from now. It’s an adjustment learning to let go of the life where the kids are young and need so much from you to a life where they don’t need you and you find yourself staring at your partner like, “Who even are we without all that?” The prospect of our empty nest began to feel full of excitement rather than uncertainty. 

     And then he was gone. 

     Monday night very well could have been the first *normal* Monday night we’d had since the holidays. My middle was home, and The Bachelor was on television. I was sprawled across the loveseat for most of the program, making my usual jokes about the intensity or catty remarks of the contestants. When it ended, the next show came on and the girls set off to their rooms. I glanced over to the couch where David had always resided during this exact same Monday night routine we’d had for the past few years, but he wasn’t there. It hit me, once again, that he’s not going to be there in that capacity ever again, and I don’t need any more proof than the container of his ashes that currently resides on a shelf in the corner of this very living room. Even without the ashes, he will always be here in some way. He’s in the stories and laughter we share, the tools and gadgets he collected (seriously David, four chainsaws?!?), and the many things he built with his own two hands and often a dash of redneck ingenuity. I’m not sure there was any project or tool he couldn’t repair or improve with his outside-the-box thinking and understanding of how things work. His dad once told me that many of David’s favorite toys as a child were the broken ones, since those gave him the opportunity to take them apart and see how they work, with the added challenge of making them work once again. He often worked the same magic with people by helping them with their own broken things or even just giving them a friendly smile and compassionate ear when they were feeling a bit broken themselves. He worked so hard to be so many things to so many people. And I would say his is a success story, especially when I think about the turnout for his celebration of life. 

     My middle created a video that we shared at his celebration and it’s such a good glimpse into the kind of friend, husband, father, grandfather, son, and UPS guy he truly was. He wore a lot of hats in his way-too-short life, but he wore them well.