Marilyn's Musings

I recently attended the memorial service for my sister-in-law. Being an out-of-state funeral several hours drive away, I carpooled with family the day before. We arrived safely and checked into our hotel. With some daylight hours left after dinner, we decided to explore the local area. The name of a nearby town sounded familiar: Taylors Falls. Had I been there? I vaguely remember going there some 40+ years ago. Why not check it out? Who doesn’t love a good waterfall?

Upon arrival at the Falls, we discovered there were no falls at all. Rapids at best. Did we need to go further up or downstream to find the falling waters? This wasn’t my first waterfall chasing rodeo. Just follow the river and the noise. You’ll get there eventually. Nope. Not this time.

Some internet sleuthing on our pocket computer phones revealed that a dam was built in or around 1909 to harness the flowage. No falls to be found. I swore there were falls back in the 80s when I visited last. There had to be falls then, right? I can picture the picture in an old photo album with the cellophane overlay and yellowing once-sticky pages, with a waterfall in the background of that picture. Note to self: deep dive in the basement to locate photographic evidence upon arriving home.

I expected the falls. I experienced the rapids.

What’s the difference anyway? Well, it’s all about the angle of descent. Waterfalls have abrupt, steep vertical drops. Rapids are turbulent with a somewhat slanted gradient. Water rushes through both. Both involve a descent. Oh, the gravity of it all.

All this waterfall talk sparked a memory. A shtick between my husband and his sister involved sending a random picture of any waterfall he visited with the simple message “Menomonee Falls” (a village they lived in for a time, which has rather puny falls). I never understood it until now. You’d better believe I’m going to carry that tradition forward, except it will be with my siblings and the text will say “Taylors Falls.”

That week proved to be a plunge pool of emotions, challenging the depth of my capacity to carry them all: glee while en route to the memorial service after receiving a bit of good news, then palpable grief during the service itself. Over the unexpected waterfall of joy only to experience the rapids of grief. The waters of life flow ever onward. May we enjoy the ride, despite the unexpected descents. Flow forward. Flow forward.        

No matter the size of the grocery haul, I was a one trip wonder. Second or third story walk up? No problem. My carrying capacity knew no bounds.

I must've looked ridiculous.
What was I trying to prove?
Feats of strength and balance!
Focus! Determination! Get it!

Inevitably, you must:
set it all down
fInd the keys
open the door
pick it all back up again.

Sounds like my friend Grief.
Have you met?
Carrying capacity stretched beyond your limit? Check.
Focus fuzzy trying to find your balance? Check.
Feats of strength because you have no choice? Check.

The key is knowing that you need to set that $h!t down. Rearrange the load. Take a breath. Pick it up and carry it over the threshold, one bag at a time.

You never looked ridiculous. Everyone is managing their own load, not minding yours. Seriously.
My carrying capacity exceeds that of a generic paper plate. Who knew? When you allow loved ones to lighten the load, when you cast your cares on the one who bears those burdens, then you make room for something more. Carry on.

I’m convinced that rearranging furniture and redecorating are unnamed stages of grief. Yesterday morning, I decided to rearrange the guest room. I enlisted the help of my son because moving bulky furniture is no fun alone.

It didn’t take long for me to remember why I don’t ask for his help very often. Our approaches to the task at hand differ greatly: his to speed through and mine to ponder and place.

“Why don’t you get rid of this, Mom?” (holding up some random thing found in a storage cube)

Good question. Pinch. Ouch.

My mind wandered to the grief task of dealing with the ‘stuff’ hubs left behind: clothes, books, papers, photos, flashlights, calculators: a lifetime of accumulated and retained objects. The bonus kids accomplished the cleanout in what felt like lightning speed to my griefstruck brain. I’m grateful. They kept me from what would have been an overwhelming chore, emotionally and physically. I’ll never forget the weight of the garbage bin filled with his old photo albums, ones he likely lugged through 8 moves. Also, shredding the 16 bags worth of papers he intended to file ‘someday’ was oddly therapeutic. Let’s just say I’m on a first name basis with the village sanitation drop-off clerk.

After the photo album purging incident, I’ve been applying my own version of Swedish Death Cleaning to my accumulation of stuff. My version: I visualize someone tossing my junk into the trash. Then I do a gut check. Does the prospect of this thing being thrown out hurt more than giving it away and finding it a new home? Do what hurts less. I have agency over my possessions while living. When I’m dead? Not so much. I suppose I won’t care.

The item my son questioned was a grief gift. Seeing and touching it reminds me of the giver. I’m not ready to part with it just yet. Why hold onto it? It’s not particularly my style. It’s in a box and not on display. Tossing or donating it would feel like a betrayal to the giver. How would they feel if they knew that I just tossed it?

“Just throw it away, Mom.”

I explain the grief gift thing. He doesn’t get it. I snapped at him. He’s one to talk because his apartment is trashed. My house is at least an organized mess.

“Two different things, Mom.” Woof. He’s right.

This rearranging stage of grief? Forget the furniture. A rearranging of priorities is in order.

I’m keeping the small grief gift item for now, but these cubbies will be finding a new home. Thanks, cubbies, for all the toys, books, trinkets, and miscellanea you’ve held. After 18 years and 6 moves through 4 states, I am letting go. Your next owner can ponder your backstory and know how much you were loved. Who knows, you may even become a TikTok DIY makeover marvel.

P.S. The Kitty Committee was not consulted for prior authorization of the new furniture placement in the guest room. They’re pissed.

Company is coming
My brother, to be clear
So I’m frantically cleaning,
hoping he’ll feel welcome here
What are you doing, woman?
The man’s wife just died
He doesn’t give a crap
about your carpet lines

It’s Day 404. That’s random, isn’t it? After the one year deathversary, the counting feels clunky. Do you still mark the months, like toddlers? If we’re doing that, we’re at 13 months and change. Side note: I don’t get it when someone tells me their kid is 43 months old. Super clunky and too much math.

I’ve also done the hundreds of days thing, noting days 100, 200, and 300. Day 400 snuck by me.  404 fits perfectly because my system still glitches every now and again. I still reach for the phone to call or text him, wanting to share some of life’s surreality. I lament that he’s not here to help with the laundry, garbage duty, or automotive maintenance. Pity party, table for one.

Apart from a few glitches, I am coming back online after the hardest reboot ever. 404 error, be gone! Renewed resolve and purpose: found. I’m claiming my place and taking up space in the widowsphere.

Magical thinking story time, death anniversary edition. Part of you believes that the grief will spontaneously disappear at the one-year mark, like there’s an internal countdown playing on a scoreboard in your head leading up to the anniversary. Of course, you know in reality that no such fix exists. No waving of a fairy wand with some incantation: Poof! Be gone, grief! Shazam!?

Like many life events for someone prone to anxiety, the anticipation leading up to the day is the worst. Not colonoscopy prep worse, just a heightened intensity level. You attempt to have the perfect plan in place to mark the last first of the firsts. Read that again. The last first of the firsts. That ought to be celebrated on some level. No more firsts!

My loose plan for today included journaling the entire death day story, recording as many details as I could recall. Writing diffuses any potential ruminations and helps with the purging and processing of it all. Don’t worry, I have not and will not share my journal entries here. My deep work remains my own. Just know that the phrases, “the are you sitting down phone call” and “couldn’t they at least extubate his lifeless body” were included. I cried a few tears, not many. The day deserved a couple.

I continued on to the final destination of my remembrance tour, Devil’s Lake State Park, where I met up with kids and grandkids. Dennis loved Devil’s Lake. We went there many times over the years. It felt right. It felt natural and good: the warm hugs, the laughs, catching up, and some other assorted silliness, culminating in handing Flat Dennis off to the kids for more adventures. I know he’s in good hands.

Tonight, I’m going to re-read the boxful of sympathy cards I received last year. They’ve been sitting in my home office all this time. I feel like I should do something with them now that I’ve reached this milestone. Somehow, holding on to those cards served as a lifeline reminder that I am not alone or forgotten, because loneliness always lurks.

Thanks to all who showed up for me, who stuck by me, and continue to give me grace as the sorrow subsides, and I grow through this season of becoming. I do not know what the future holds, but I do know who holds us all: past, present, and future.

Hold your dear ones close, friends.

Just an older lady, sitting on a park bench, writing about her grief. Nothing to see here. Move along.

On the eve of the death-versary (I will always call it that), I’ve got too many words and not enough words simultaneously.

Thus far, this week of solo travel provided everything my spirit needed: the familiarity of places we traveled together, mild exploration of places yet uncharted, solitude and introverting time, and proving to myself that I can do this. I am doing this.

I am proud of myself for the vulnerability and courage it’s taken to document this past year. You do not have to understand my journey. Clearly, some folks don’t and either left my life quietly or provided low frequency background noise. To the rest who’ve stuck around, I love you and am grateful for your persistence. May I similarly abide with you in your grief at some future point.

Grief will find you. Every single one of you. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But one day, it will be your turn. I pray that when it’s your time, you will give yourself grace and space.

Grief still sucks, albeit with less frequency and severity. God is still good. See you on the road to find out.

Also, stop and smell the roses.

I went to a park yesterday to take a minute to breathe, enjoy the sunshine and near perfect temperatures, and tase (Think About Something Else) thoughts about work that might invade one’s time off, etc. This is all part of tending to your grief, a necessary part of the process. You’ve got to sit with it and in it.

As I sat there taking it all in, the sweetest birdsong became the soundtrack of the moment. The bird had a lot to say, so I reached for the merlin app and discovered it was an oriole. Remember how the oriole flew at my window repeatedly and posed for me a few weeks ago? Hmmmm. This one. Would. Not. Stop. Talking. So it had to be Dennis, right?

I looked up to the tree intently and captured these photos. We went our separate ways after a few minutes. Thanks for the visit, little birdie.

Rating Grief Relief Strategies:

Yacht Rock Playlist      7/10
Häagen-Dazs                 6/10
A really good cry          9/10
Screaming into the void  10/10
Golden Girls marathon    7/10
Dark humor   9/10
Shredding old papers and mail    5/10
Therapy    10/10
Writing about all this 💩    9/10
Decluttering with reckless abandon           8/10
Rearranging furniture     7/10
Burying the feelings   1/10
Redecorating             8/10
Memes     7/10
Meal with friends     8/10
Birdwatching       7/10
GriefShare        10/10
Reading their Bible    9/10
Returning to the scene   4/10
Touching grass       9/10
Looking through their phone 6/10
Wearing their hoodie      9/10
The family group text  9/10
Dining out alone     7/10
Getting tattoos         9/10
Throwing yourself into your work   1/10
Silly rituals when you drive by their grave         10/10
Reading all the grief books   9/10
Moscato      3/10
Sleeping on their side of the bed 7/10
Taking up space    9/10
Worrying about future everything   0/10
Hugs. All the hugs.   9/10
Faking it, hoping to make it  2/10
Saying their name and keeping their memory alive 10/10
Having an awesome support system 10/10
Calm app sleep stories for all the insomnia    8/10
Kitty snuggles      9/10
Lighting a candle      6/10
Saying "I have to do everything around here" out loud, a lot 7/10
Extra I love yous all around 10/10
Keeping a list. All the lists.  6/10
Handling the legal and other stuff without crying  5/10
Taking a break from the news 9/10
Biting your tongue when  someone says something unhelpful       4/10 
Figuring out what you need as you go  8/10
Fiercely protecting your peace with healthy boundaries  9/10
Leveling up as a badass    10/10

Whew. It’s been a day. The memories and other stuff popping up like whack a mole. It all started one year ago tonight. The weight of the week. The return of the sadness. Crying on the inside. Gratitude for friends and family keeping watch. Doing my best to bend and not break. I’m safe and will be okay. Just naming the struggle. Speaking of which, I’ve decided to name my companion (grief) Persephone. She needed a name, and that one fits. Thanks for your prayers and presence, friends.

Memorial Day weekend. Ooof.

It was just another weekend for us, ramping up for a summer with weekends at the campground. With me working every Sunday, it was always who’s going to be where when every summer weekend, chaotic but we made it work. Also, for the fourth year in a row, I was giving the invocation at Rome’s Memorial Day program on Memorial Day itself. I can’t recall if he had a band commitment last year. I’m thinking he took that one off.

That would be our last weekend together. The following weekend, he was on a ventilator. The weekend after that, he was gone.

Right now, I’m reliving all of that. It’s real now. Last year, I went full on pastor mode to get through those days. Now, I can look back and say to myself, “Damn, that was the hardest thing ever. You’re a badass who made it. You are making it, woman.” I am saying those things to myself through cleansing tears, of course, manifesting brave badass. That’s how you do it. There’s no right or wrong way to grieve. You just do it your own way. This is mine.

I cannot bring him back. I cannot replicate all the inside jokes and silliness. I cannot believe it’s been a year without him.

I can write down and document as much as possible before the memories fade with the passage of time. I can choose to live life with deeper meaning, derived from this ordeal. I can carry our love forward in my heart and soul.

I appreciate your good vibes and prayers for the remainder of this month. I’m preaching on Sunday. I missed Pentecost last year. It feels weird and wonky. I’m relying heavily on the Spirit to show up! Sighs so, so deep.

No Memorial Day invocation for me this year. I just can’t. And that’s okay. I’ll make it through the week. I have a special service planned for May 31 as I am anticipating a tough week ahead. Beyond that, I have a week off with special and meaningful plans and remembrances to mark the first anniversary. I’m looking forward to that time off with love, gratitude, and joy in my heart.

Am I doing this wrong? Nope. I’m doing this.