2023.
Just the number will never let me forget how many years it’s been since the unthinkable happened to us. One speeding freight train came straight for two very scared seniors. One was taken. One was left. Trains are a funny thing. You hear them in the night with their far off lamentations. Three or four blasts of the horn. Their sounds grow louder until all other sounds are drowned out by the rumbling cars. Just like that, they pass and the silence returns. After 32 years, that’s how I lost my VST.
That fast.
That deadly.
That gone.
It was in the Spring of 2020. Almost three years ago.
Not from Covid, but another monster altogether.
Cancer.
In the last 33 months, I’ve done everything the instruction book on grieving tells you to avoid. I signed legal documents. I sold the DunMovin’ House in VC. I bought Winterpast, located in a town where my only friends were Miss Firecracker and Baily’s and Cream. B & C died two months after I arrived. A four pack changed into a two pack in this dusty little town at a wide spot off the interstate in the middle of the high desert of Northwestern Nevada. Miss Firecracker moved on with her adventurous life and then, there was one.
Me.
Totally alone, I was forced to make peace with myself just to have someone to talk to. That took months of patience, forgiveness, love, and nurturing. I learned keep my own secrets. Only Oliver knows them all and he’s not talking, so don’t ask him.
During the last three years, throughout the ravages of Covid, I ate at every open restaurant I could find. I stayed in hotel rooms by a pristine lake. I went without a mask. I didn’t wash my hands very often. I never used hand sanitizer. I went outside as often as I could to breathe fresh clean air. My younger self would have scolded me for cussing too often and dating too soon. She was there, judging me worse than any stranger would have. But, on I went through my own wilderness not listening to her scared “Don’t Do It’s”.
I slept when I became the least bit tired and stayed up whenever I felt like it. For the first time in my entire life, I began to learn who I was meant to be. The real me, not the pretend woman who was really good at being the girl everyone wanted her to be. Instead, I released the fierce woman inside. The one quite capable of being herself.
Some parts of the last three years are so painful, I cannot yet write about them. Others are so funny they make me laugh with deep and rich abandon. I’ve embarrassed myself. I’ve also made myself proud when making tough decisions on which path to take. The easy path isn’t always the best when traveling through grief. Sometimes you need a machete to forge a new path through the brush while continuing on.
I’ve fallen three times, spraining my ankle days before my first Christmas alone. I’ve released more latex balloons into the heavens than environmentally proper, each one carrying my sorrow to the doorstep of heaven. I’ve cried. Panicked. Wailed with grief. Paced. Fretted. Bargained with God. Argued with God. Then peacefully, I’ve surrendered my life to HIM. I’ve purged the bad memories, and glorified the good. Through it all, I’ve kept moving forward, even if I needed to army crawl to do it.
I’ve broken many hearts, while protecting my own. I’ve become a good judge of character, choosing a worthy and Mysterious Marine with which to spend my precious time. I’ve found happiness in the presence of Wookie and the Wook-lets. I’m surrounded by the best girlfriends anyone on this planet could hope for. “Ride-Or-Die” friends of the best kind, each one of them.
These days, I’m okay with people and their contrary opinions. Until someone lives in your house, washes your whites, pulls your weeds, cleans your toilets, and puts up with one little headstrong dog 24/7, they can’t possibly understand your every motivation and action. I’ve learned to own my life and smile when there are those that disagree or judge. If they could only see the entire picture, maybe they’d judge less. I try to give that grace to new friends I’m meeting along the way.
In the last three years, I’ve learned that one little blog site has become a great place to talk about my traumas without burdening my besties. The keyboard has let me wander through the best adventures in healing without leaving the comforts of Winterpast. Grievinggardener has become a voice through which I’ve found my words, lost for so many years.
I’ve learned that Winterpast is not only my home, but my protector and comforter. Memories and love are woven into her walls. She’s the place that allows me to sleep without worry and dream as big as it gets. She’s my first real home, although I’ve houses more beautiful than any woman could wish for. Winterpast came equipped with some angels who text and stop by once in awhile. Real life people with forever ties to this oasis in the desert. The best family is made of those you choose. I’m glad VST and I chose Winterpast together before he left this world for his forever home.
The woman reflected in my mirror these days isn’t done growing. I still lose my way once in awhile. Often, I question if the old lady staring back is really me. Shades of my grandmother and mother peer back though our trademark baby-blues, wishing they could’ve lived the life I’m living now. I look at grainy black and white pictures while longing for the 1900’s. Somewhere in between the olden days and today is perfection. All of us experience it at one time or another. After all is said and done, happiness is true and timeless perfection.
There are those days, I’m sure I’ve totally disappointed everyone I love, but thankfully they continued loving me. Whiplash-inducing, one-eighties occur with less frequency. Life is on a good path now. I need the machete less and less. Until the next big jolt hits, I plan to enjoy winter and all the new family and friends that’ve come into my life. The miraculous blessings received over the last three years have helped me rebuild a new life from grief’s devastation. I wish that healing for every widow and widower traveling through their own journey. Life is there for you. Take as much time as you need while healing, but keep moving.
As for the old me, I miss the old me from time to time. But here’s the deal. That perfectly good girl was really bad at being real. It was utterly exhausting and life-sucking. I admire the woman that is growing right in front of my eyes. A little gray. A few pounds heavier than perfection. Some wrinkles and wear and tear. Plenty of imperfections. But, a fierce force willing to write her last chapter in ink, not graphite. You might not like her, but I do.
What would you do?
Whatever it is, live each day to the fullest with one foot in front of the other. Open each door to see what’s there. Shut the messy ones and keep on going. Even if it doesn’t seem like it, you’re doing that right now. Keep going. You’ll be amazed how far you’ve come when you look back.
More tomorrow.