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.