Grieving Gardener

Saturday morning, April 25. The eve of my major move off the mountain, exactly 17 days after VST left. We were standing, three grieving amigos, at the appliance counter of a major chain hardware store (Not Home Depot. Just sayin). Along with all my other equally pressing decisions, my new home, Winterpast, needed appliances.(King Solomon 2:10-14) Frig, range, dishwasher, washer/dryer. VST and I made the decision that all appliances would be replaced before we moved in, and I intended to carry through.

I knew exactly what I would get. My VC range was heavenly, and I wanted that exact model. The Frig needed to have the freezer on the bottom, with french doors on top. The dishwasher needed to have a food grinder and heated dry cycle. The washer and dryer needed to be full size and pretty. Kitchen stainless, washer/dryer white. As we stood in the appliance section waiting for someone to help us, I made most of my selections shortly after walking in. As the kids wandered and wondered how I would choose, I already knew what I wanted. But, what I wanted most was to get back to VC and prepare for the movers to arrive the next morning.

I had already gone through Round One with this store. Four days before, I had done the right thing and called to cancel VST’s credit card. Here is a little history.

VST and I loved remodeling things together. It was our happy spot. He had an eye for what could be and knew just how to create beautiful spaces. I could describe something to him, and he would take the idea to the next level, creativity resulting with awe inspiring projects. It took us both. It was not without a fair share of bantering, arguing, stalemates, and compromise. But, in the end, every project was a work of beauty and we looked for the next.

For the first two years in VC, I worked while VST was at home alone, with one huge project in mind. My dream kitchen. I knew that if I didn’t work, the kitchen would be put on hold. For once, I wanted to earn a project myself. I wanted to pay for every shim and handle with my own paycheck. The kitchen had been abused by the previous owners, who had cooked for their restaurant frying with peanut oil. It was a given when we bought the VC house, that the kitchen would need to be replaced, and so the project began.

VST had gone to the Carson City major chain hardware store (not Home Depot, just sayin) and in minutes, had a sufficient line of credit. Alone. Without my signature. We thought nothing of it. We had wanted the store card for the additional discount we could apply when buying cabinets, granite, installation, and all the other items needed. The limit was perfect for our kitchen budget and we went to work. Over six years, we used the card for every project we tackled on the house, always being glad we had it. We never paid a cent of interest. One of VST’s golden rules.

Getting back to me. Widowed. Clueless. Very new to the tricks of cancelling my late husband’s financial life, this chain hardware store (Not Home Depot. Just sayin) would not be helpful.

Days before the appliance purchase, seated at a mound of paperwork, to-do’s and had done’s, I called. After punching an endless amount of numbers to route me to the correct department, the dance started. I explained that I had an account, my husband had died, and I needed a replacement. The associate pounced on that.

“His account is now closed. The closing bill will arrive in 5-7 working days.”

Wait, I thought in utter disbelief. Miscommunication here. No, No, No. I need a new card to purchase the appliances on Saturday for the new house. I want the minuscule discount. Wait. It was MY work that let us pay off the kitchen. Wait just a minute.

“This account was in the name of the decedent, alone. You are welcome to apply for a new card of your own online. Sorry for your loss. Goodbye.”

I stared blankly at the phone. They didn’t just do that. No! But, yes. They did.

Going online, I filled out the screen properly, assuming that the computer would crosscheck any prior activity and my new account would have an equal credit limit. After all, it was MY job that allowed us to funnel My income to their chain hardware store (Not Home Depot. Just sayin). I waited for the computer to decide the fate of my credit limit.

My limit flashed on the screen.

$500.

This wouldn’t cover the washer I selected, let alone all the appliances. So I called back the chain hardware store plead my case(Not Home Depot. Just sayin).

“Just inquire at the store when you go to make your purchase. Perhaps the store manager will agree to raise your limit. Sorry for your loss. Goodbye.”

Back to Saturday. The kids were in shock at the speed in which I could rack up a huge bill on appliances. We had not discussed the fact that I had already picked these out in my head, as the buying frenzy occurred. A five minute walk through appliance heaven, and my order was complete. Now came the bill and method of payment.

I presented my shiny new Lowe’s credit card. Of course, I tried. With a puzzled look, the associate whispered, “This will cover $500. Do you have any way of covering the rest?”

I was handed the phone after requesting the store manager. I pleaded my case, and was then connected to Credit Customer Service. To which the answer was…

“At this time, your credit limit is $500. Sorry for your loss. Goodbye.”

It was then I found a wee bit of happiness and hilarity at this very moment. I smiled a sweet smile as I reached into my purse. The kids, not knowing how I would handle this situation, were quietly horrified. What was I reaching for???

And there it was. Platinum Visa. Financial solvency does have its rewards. I had wanted my own replacement card to honor the memory of VST. But, this would work just fine. I thanked the girl and we left. I am quite sure she wondered how this old, widowed woman in torn jeans and a tee pulled that off at the appliance counter on a Saturday morning at the major chain hardware store (Not Home Depot. Just sayin).

The moral of the story is this. Whatever you do, think before you start canceling your husband’s financial standing. Get your ducks in a row. Because, the minute you start, it is a constant response of “Canceled. Sorry for your loss. Goodbye.” Remember that the associates that are helping you are just doing their job. They didn’t write the crazy rules. They may be dreaming of a day they no longer need to work at a chain hardware store (Not Home Depot. Just sayin). Remember that there are many paths to get to a final destination. Be determined and persevere.

Hi! If you are enjoying my writing, please subscribe. Drop me a line to say Hi! I appreciate your visit and continued support. Joy

Prone to decision weariness when overwhelmed, I marvel at all I have decided in my first 6 months into widowhood. There was no choice in the matter. From what I fed myself out of my Winter/Covid stocked cabinets and freezer, to whether I would live on a golf course or in a neighborhood, the decisions flew at me. Life altering and heart wrenching decisions that would have far reaching consequences.

I grieved the absence of VST. Which funeral home? Cremation? An urn? A service? Obituary? Pictures chosen with care? Proper eulogy? How many death certificates? Where to start financially? Friends to alert? Countless other, smaller details swirled in the first week. I had friends remind me to practice self care. In my case, it was all I could do to keep my daily planner close, documenting the smallest things, like breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Even at that, without choosing, ten pounds were gone. Mechanical and deliberate, I became an automaton, while making choice after choice.

The move was a choice VST and I made for ourselves when life was not irretrievably shattered. But daunting choices emerged. Which movers? Budget? Logistics? To rent the new house early? When to clean the old one? Which Internet at the new house? Where to return ATT equipment from the old? Insurance changes? Who would drive the rig to the new RV barn? All these things would have been a full time ordeal as a couple. Now, it was just me in the wilderness of Grief during Covid silence. I was choosing as fast as I could.

Our beautiful, strong, funny, grieving, blended, adult children became my comrades supreme. Just when the ability to make another decision was fading, they would call to check on me. How did they know their voices were what I needed to hear the most? Just at the right time. Always affirming that we were in this together for the long haul. In a blended family, I always knew, although VST and I chose each other, the kids had no say in the matter. Yet, we all blended into this fantastic mix of a normal family and all the ups and downs that go with that. After 32 years, they were all ours. All mine. All there supporting me. Me supporting them. In the past, there were periods where they had Facebook duels and clashes, as siblings do. But, in this situation, with me flying solo, they banded together stronger than I ever knew they could. This gilded our wedding vows made so long ago, when VST were over a decade younger than our kids were now.

My closest friends became closer, listening and giving advice when I needed it. They came to me. 6 hours one way. Multiple times. To hold my hand and find laughter. To celebrate VST’s life on his 66 birthday, when so many couldn’t because Covid endangered fragile health. They came, masks dropped, arms open, to hug an emotionally spent widow who needed them more than ever before. They knew the right things to say, even when it was nothing at all.

An easy decision helped me through the lonely days when the kids were busy with their lives, and Covid isolated me. I decided to be grateful. Morning still cloaked in darkness, before feet hit the floor, I would pray. For VST and me. For the kids. For Oliver. For goodness to come in small ways. I would be grateful for something in my life each moment I could. And then, I CHOSE HAPPINESS. Each day. Happiness. In the beginning, I faked it of course. But, I would find at least one thing morning, noon, and night to be happy about. In time, I found myself turning on the radio and singing once in awhile. I ended my draining fascination with the news, and finally turned it off all together. I talked to VST every day, and shared happiness with him as I rearranged my old life into blooms of my new one.

This choice was a deliberate decision. As a grieving widow, I would be reduced to ugly crying by the strangest things. A found pair of frayed jockey briefs. An empty pen in the desk. Pictures of landscapes in which I could transport back to the time, day, and place, remembering conversations VST and I were having while taking the shot. Tools that VST carried to fix things for me, never complaining, but saying, “It’s nothing, Darlin, fixed and done. What next?” An empty RV that slayed me every time I stepped inside, bringing me to my knees by the memories of 50,000 miles of exploring, laughing, arguing, plotting, planning, and discovering. But, in the background of my grief,were also 50,000 miles of sheer happiness and adventure, while holding each other on the journey.

As the months have unfolded, it now seems strange for me not to live in the now of happiness. I smile. Alot. Even when no one is looking. I sing when there is no one to hear. I dance in his shirt in horribly choppy, 70’s moves, knowing he is here with me, dancing in an even more awkward way then me. I laugh with Oliver and can see his relief that his old/new mom is better now. I see him relaxing more, because I have his back again. I am finding delight in my autumn garden. Always looking for something to form a happiness connection, I find that memories flood back and are now welcomed. Not painful, like swallowing a bitter pill, but comforting, warm, and delicious.

My dearest, sweet friend brought me a housewarming gift so affirming and final. “Choose Happiness” stated in metal formed in cursive. It hangs over my kitchen table as a mission statement that feeling happy IS a choice I need to make every single moment. Choose happiness for the moment right now, and remember what it looks like. Feel it, like a carmel, hot fudge sundae feeding your soul. Smooth, rich, warm, and full. Focus on the feeling and call it back throughout the day. Slowly, the feeling will become like breathing, like your pulse, or anything else constant and life supporting.

Do some events and people drain the happiness from our lives? Every day. Deal with them in the most positive way you know how. Identify those that drain you of this positive feeling and limit your experiences with them for a time. In the beginning happiness felt foreign to me, like I was cheating on VST and his passing. How ridiculous! I got a letter from a dear friend of his in which I was reminded that VST was one of the most happy-go-lucky people he knew. After all, VST’s theme song was, “Don’t Worry, Be Happy”. Although a die hard Country Western fan, this remained his theme song for our entire marriage. Don’t Worry, Be Happy.

Today, do some little thing that makes you smile, or better, snicker, or best, throw out a booming belly laugh. Dance a little, in a frenzied way in your husband’s favorite work shirt. Watch a comedian online, or a funny movie that you can’t resist smiling over. Retrain yourself to feel happiness if only for a few minutes at first. And make a choice. Because, in this wilderness of grief, there needs to be the North Star of hope, perseverance, and gratitude, with a rainbow of happiness above it all.

Willie’s Roadhouse was all new to me in the summer of 2017. While RVing with VST, I became a new fan of Country Western Music. He had grown up at Grandpa Arch Dell’s knee listening to Bob Wills and His Texas Playboys. With satellite radio in our rig, the driver had the choice of stations. Willie’s Roadhouse would play for long stretches through plains and prairies. I learned to love the songs. Alot. When the driving was treacherous, we would both belt out “Big Ball’s in Cowtown” in unison, laughing until we almost cried, because some places VST drove us took big balls, and not of the dancing kind.

Recently, I was unpacking boxes and listening to a country western station when I heard, for the first time, “You Can’t Make Old Friends”, a duet by Dolly and Kenny. A trip to Dollywood had been on our list of destinations before it might be to late to see her perform live. We were quite sure the problem would be on Dolly’s end, not ours. Boy, were we wrong. The song was about their special friendship over the years, being the OLD FRIENDS they sang about in the song.

Stopping and taking time to reflect about the message in the lyrics, I thought of the experiences I was having in an unfamiliar town while meeting new friends. Neighbors on my block were still strangers. Their houses stood like unopened presents on Christmas morning. Some were going to be just what you wanted more than anything else in the world, and others were going to hold no fascination. New connections? No connections? New service providers. The Mail Lady. Gardener. All mysterious.

Having lost VST, who would now set me straight when I needed it the most? Who would share truths a best friend would spit like darts, because they would know just what you needed to hear. Who would interrupt my crazy stories, if embellished just a little too much? Who would add the tiniest detail forgotten that would make the whole story so much better? Who would drive me nuts finishing my sentences, or in later years, color my thoughts? I have lost the best friend I relied on through my adult years. The one that saved my butt so many times. VST.

Beginning a new song, men friends would appear at the appropriate time for me. Ready to take me to coffee? Ice cream? Dinner? Each situation ripe with the appropriate expectations of conversation while prospecting for possible links, not yet knowing about the core belief and value parts of me that needed knowing for an OLD FRIENDSHIP to thrive.

I meet new friends every day. I say HI in a way that is hopeful and upbeat. I flash a smile and try to sneak a furtive peek into their eyes. Their gaze usually shifts quickly when mine is spotted. I am left to wait, hoping real friendship will develop slowly, while looking for validation that doesn’t come in ways comfortable and shared for decades.

The song goes on to discuss harmonizing with someone. My initial thoughts race back to high school choir, when VST and I would join others on key. Our voices, soprano and bass would blend together back then to form a recognizable and enjoyable song. Two YOUNG FRIENDS. Little did we know our voices would create so many harmonies throughout the years. Hello’s. Promises. Vows. Dreams. Songs. Agreements. Arguments. Apologies. Sweet night sounds. Support. Defense against enemies. Coos to grandchildren. Prayers to God. Defeat to cancer. In the end, our harmony was silenced. I miss that we could pick up a tune in the middle and go with it. Or that, we always knew what to say at the right time, in the right way, even when that was really hard to do.

The stage is mine for now, and I find I’m fumbling with the words and tune. Finding the right pitch of a person that COULD be an Old Friend, who might know just a little of the song and join in. So far, I find myself humming alone. Everything needs explanation. The tempo, timbre, texture and structure of my wants and needs in life. I, too, need to listen carefully for the notes and rhythm of theirs. Exhausting. Without VST, the silence helps me appreciate how blessed I was to have enjoyed my Old Friend for the lifetime we shared. It also makes me want that experience one more time in my life, because having Old Friends like that is something that makes life rich and worth living.

I pray each day that somewhere out there, there is an Old Friend having the same longings. That a duet waits. That hearts can indeed learn new musical genres and songs. VST always reminded me, “You can’t go nowhere on yesterday’s train”. Our song ended. Abruptly. Final notes harsh. Shrill. Quite final. New Old Friends will come around, maybe just to listen to the music for awhile.

God has me in the palm of his hand now, and someday, sooner than I would expect, I will be on my way to heaven’s gate. I know all my Old Friends will be waiting there for me. But, in my prayers, I ask that VST will be front and center, because, he is the Old Friend lost that I miss the most. We will be young again, not the way we had recently been, but the same Old Friends.

Today, call an Old Friend of yours. Really appreciate what an amazing thing friendship is. Tell them how much you love and cherish them in your life. Because, your voice is just what they long to hear more than anything else.

Bull Riding is my favorite sport. Nothing feminine about it. Snorting, slobbering, cute cowboys, amazing animals at the height of their game. Danger, suspense, twisting, turning, and amazing aerials by all involved. Dealing with two complicated real estate transactions closing hours between each other was just as suspenseful. I just wish the ride had only lasted 8 seconds.

VST and I had decided in early January, 2020, that the time had come to sell the VC house. 3300 sq. ft. of beautiful. It had been an unloved and abused repossession when we bought it at a bargain basement price. We had a vision for restoring it to grandeur, and spent 6 years doing just that. Everything in the house was dialed in to perfection for us. Actually for anyone. By the time we decided to sell, there were only two more projects remaining. We needed to have a proper laundry room and one bedroom closet. In January, these were the last two design and building projects VST would accomplish in his life. They were perfection when finished in two weeks, just like all the other projects he had completed before. If you were not told, you would have thought the closet and laundry room were original, he was that good.

The house was barely listed when it sold. We had just decided to sell as we were driving home from lunch. We had spent the morning looking at some houses with a realtor, and found two that we really liked. The discussion on the way home was devoted to the pros and cons of moving, and we decided it was time for us to get off the mountain. The new realtor would be our agent. Within five minutes, my phone rang. It was another realtor we knew. Would we ever consider selling? He had a couple that loved our home. They both worked in VC. Would we, could we, might we sell? They wanted to see the house the next day. We listed. They came. They fell in love and offered. We accepted. All within hours of us deciding to leave. Just like that.

At the same time, VST was driving, worrying about the taxes, building and fixing things, calling me Darlin, and kissing me goodnight. We hadn’t found a new house yet, and had even taken an RV trip at the end of January to a town seven hours away, spending an entire day looking at ten possible choices. VST was himself, although tired and very swollen by the end of the day. He drove the rig to and from our destination, enjoying Willie’s Road House and the trip. He promised we would see the doctor about the troublesome swelling when we got home.

Finally, we found THE house for us. One hour from VC, a single story ranch home on one-half acre of beauty. Totally landscaped with paths and walkways through mature fruit and shade trees. A lush green lawn right out my kitchen window. Bird houses and plenty of birds to raise families in them. An RV barn, interior walls totally finished. A four car garage. Three bedrooms/2 baths. 1907 sq. ft. of beautiful, promising low maintenance allowing us to continue RVing. We both immediately felt at home and made an offer, which was accepted.

We had two realtors, a buyer, a seller, us, and more paperwork than you could imagine. Our VC home had never been part of our family trust. The trust needed to be domesticated in Nevada, and that was on our to-do list. So add an attorney and more paperwork to the mix. And, so the ride began. Cancer entered the mix about two weeks after the bucking bull left the shoot. We held on for dear life with both hands as our lives seemed to spin out of control.

Double inspections, repairs, re-inspections, requests from Title Companies, realtors, buyers, sellers, and escrow companies. Appointments with the lawyer. Endless signings, needed countless times. Cleanings, walk-throughs, plans for moving to and from. Canceling old services, and starting new ones. Hiring movers and choosing THE big day.

All while VST got sick, and sicker, and sicker, and died. In nine weeks from a word I couldn’t even pronounce in the beginning. Choalangiocarcinoma. Cancer of the Bile Ducts.

I entered the transactions with my husband. Joint Tenancy. Husband and Wife. All that goes with that. I closed both deals as a single woman selling and buying alone. All that goes with that. My realtors were stunned. Both seasoned and knowledgeable, neither had ever had a client die during a transaction. Let alone a healthy client that was thrown off his game and trampled to death by cancer. We all walked together through two months, holding each other and our breaths. Twists and turns. Changes in speed and direction. Covid complicating the entire ride.

Patiently, they helped me with emailed documents, when my computer wouldn’t agree to e-signings. They handled things from the sidelines that I am sure I am happier not knowing about. They made things happen that seemed impossible. They helped peel me off the ceiling on many days when I was ready to forget the entire thing. They listened and advised. They gave me the right amount of space and support. They were treading scary waters, as Covid was new. Risking their own health, they showed buyers our home and me my new home. They coordinated the ride, and made sure things closed within 24 hours of the sale and purchase.

I was alone when VST died. I had just checked on him and he was still hanging on. He was comfortable and quiet, and I left the room for just 5 minutes. When I came back, he was gone. The phone rang. I answered in a babbling, choking, wailing kind of way that was incoherent. My sweet realtor was on the other end, the first voice to say, “Calm down, I am so sorry, how can I help?” There was no help. We lost our balance. The bull won.

Think about all those professionals that took time to say, “Calm down. I am so sorry. How can I help?” I made of list of the most insignificant times that there was an angel in human form that made all the difference to me. Someone at the post office. The doctor’s office. A neighbor. And even a guy making me a Subway sandwich. I took the time to write them a Thank You, for comfort they gave while just doing their jobs. Not even knowing how much it meant to me. Do the same. It is a small part of our healing. Acknowledging the fans that cheered, held their breaths, and helped us get up and start our journey through widowhood. Hold on, its okay to use both hands, this is a tough bull to ride.

Please note– A special shout out to Penny Phillips from Coldwell Banker in Fernley, Nevada, and David Shriver from Coldwell Banker in Carson City, Nevada. You were both a Godsend to VST and me during our darkest hours. You lovingly helped me say Goodbye and Hello while carrying me through a horrible time. I love you both.

Looking back on my planner for the week of April 20, I marvel at all the loose ends I had to tie up while selling/buying/packing/moving. With Covid raging in everyone’s mind, there were no casseroles and floral arrangements behind a ringing doorbell. There was me, a stunned woman in grief of the worst kind, putting on her boots every morning to get stuff done. Exactly what I did.

VST and I had a standing joke, more mine than his. I always felt I would reach for the door earlier than him and make my heavenly exit first. We shared many miles in the RV discussing this. We would argue about who would die first and why. It became competitive banter with humor, but, I did believe I would go first. I was the one that had more obvious emergency room visits due to a stupid Vaso Vagal reaction hitting me at the worst times. He had slow and quiet problems like crippling arthritis. So, in my mind, he would be the widower.

I counseled VST on this very topic. First bit of advice. Watch the arrival of the casserole dish. Some casseroles arrive in disposable containers, ripe for the tossing when the contents are gone. This type of person is really helpful, and knows that they will never see their dish again. A great friend to do this service. Practical and thoughtful. I counseled him to make a note, because washing and returning a casserole dish may be cumbersome during the first weeks as a new widower.

There are those that will deliver a casserole in their finest stoneware. Warning. Red Flag. Make note of this, too. How was the deliverer dressed? Speaking? Wiping lint off your three day old smelly tee? Cleavage exposed? Beware. This person is not expecting to ever forfeit this expensive dish. In fact, it is a place holder for a return visit. Warning. Beware. If the unexpected visit might be welcome, that’s one thing. But, the dish is a connection to the future. Just an observation from the past. If the phone number is written on the bottom with a smiley face and a heart….that should not go unnoticed.

We would laugh and one name would repeatedly come up. Don’t answer the door VST. Please. Just feign some horrible pandemic-y disease and hide under the covers. But, you open the door, it ‘s just like bed bugs. Hard to unring that bell, and you will never really get rid of the problem.

It had been twelve days since VST had died. His urn, which had to be just the right shade of blue with embellishments of pewter, sat in the bookcase. I had so many appointments that my head was swimming, and the phone rang. Friends of the best kind, soft, sweet, caring, and amazing cooks, were on the other end. What was my favorite meal? What could they bring to me? I had been running so many errands, rolling on and off the mountain, each trip to civilization costing me at least 30 minutes one way. Covid had closed all restaurants and emptied store shelves. Luckily, living in the wilderness and coming off winter, I was stocked, but the thought of a real home cooked meal brought tears to my eyes.

Spaghetti and meat balls. I guess if I was on death row, it would be a strange last meal. But, I had been craving S & MB for days, with french bread and garlic butter. Not even my favorite meal choice, but what I wanted more than anything on the morning of April 20th. In the midst of the chaos, Oliver had a vet’s appointment at noon, so off we went down the hill.

Two hours later, returning to the front door, I saw an strange and interesting item. There, sitting with a pot of pink tulips, was a brown metal, scuffed and very antique container. It was 1/2 the size of a banker’s box and 1960’s vintage. My friends had dropped off the meal! A real meal made with loving hands, that came from the dearest of angels. A care package had never been sweeter. Flowers, TOO!!!! Amazing, because with winter’s cloak still wrapped tightly around VC at 6200 ft., and my soul needed the powerful medicine of these blooms. Easter had come and gone, and these flowers stood as a reminder that I would bloom again, too, and spring was on the way.

After settling Oliver, I carefully took the ice chest to the kitchen to explore what was inside. Everything about the box was comforting. I’m pretty sure my Mom and Dad had one similar when I was growing up, taking it along on camping trips or outings to the beach. It was well used and packed with goodness only these two could have thought up. Inside was homemade sauce and meatballs with spaghetti noodles cooked just right. A small green salad with dressing on the side. Ciabatta roll, fresh and squishy. A hunk of garlic butter, wrapped in saran. Another saran of fresh Parmesan cheese. And a meal that would last a couple of settings. It was a feast that warmed me to my toes. I stood in my kitchen and cried the ugly cry thinking that this was, indeed, a meal that was made with the deepest kind of love. That from dear friends whose hearts were breaking for VST and I.

With each bite, I remembered all the times we had shared memorable Italian meals. So many different restaurants, with kids and without. At our own country kitchen at the ranch, with 5 kids running around asking for seconds. By candlelight, or off paper plates. I wished he was there to sing me “O Solo Mio” with his booming bass voice. An outside observer would see an old woman, eating Spaghetti and Meatballs through her tears. But, for me, it was a feast of memories with every bite, so comforting and warm.

Today, take inventory of those clean casserole dishes waiting to be returned. Think of the love and care that went into preparing food for you when all you could do was remember to breathe. Find the names on the bottom and call them. The best friends will come to retrieve them and sit with you for awhile. Savor the flavor of the bond you have with them and be grateful that you are loved that much. To my spaghetti toting friends, you know who you are. Your kindness that day was one that helped me stay afloat. Your friendship today is golden. I love you both.

NOTE. Please, please, please. If you are enjoying my writing, subscribe. There is a subscription link on the side of my blog. Also, be sure to read the other posts. The oldest is at the bottom. If you REALLY like my writing, please share my link. Thank you for reading my blog.

Hands connect us to one another in a unique and precious way. In VST’s last days, he chose to spend time on “the death couch” as he referred to it. He first recoiled at the thought of opening the hide-a-bed in the living room, but later, chose it often to rest next to me in the busy part of the house. He slept while I snapped this, or he would have protested that any part of our nightmare called cancer was documented in this way. Images have a way of returning us to captured moments. We were captured by the hell that is cancer.

My own hands are large, functional Germanic woman-hands. The kind that get things done. Size ten ring finger. Not a dainty, girly-girl digit in the bunch. They attempted to help me play piano when I was little, but constantly flew in directions not conducive to a beautiful melody. My mom was crushed. They also attempted to help me with guitar. They easily wrapped around the neck, depressing strings to make keys that hummed in a 1970’s kind of Glen Campbell way for a time.

Through the years, they held young lovers, wrote term papers, dialed phone numbers and twirled the cord late into the night. They pointed and shook at boys that needed to leave me alone, and beckoned those I wished didn’t. They raised Guide Dogs for the Blind, delivered brand new puppies into the world, trained dogs, and held their paws as they took their last breath. They irrigated grapes and helped shake them after they turned into raisins. They washed a squirmy grandson and splashed with him until we were showered with delightful fun in the bathroom. These days, they hold Oliver in the silent mornings when I wish VST was still here to share our morning coffee. They wipe my own tears and help me move on through this blog.

In the beginning of VST/Me, our hands were busy with life. Every aspect. Work, personal, spiritual, family, and educational growth. Through the years, VST used his massive mitts in the gentlest of ways. Holding a daughter’s precious hand at the country fair, leaving an imprint on her heart that warms her still today. His hands wielded wrenches, and twins, a boy and a girl, when he was 21. They held steering wheels, traveling millions of miles in his lifetime. They built houses, waterfalls, great walls, and our life together. They wrote his dissertation and earned him the loving title Doctor H. Later in life, they caused him intense and extreme pain with arthritis and paralysis.

When we were together, our hands were often intertwined. After decades of marriage, often on a trip to Lowe’s I would be in my own writer’s head. And there he would be, on a cold parking-lot morning at Lowe’s grabbing mine. People would smile at us in that way. How adorable, these two sage lovers. And that is what we were, even if we had just argued the whole way there about an insignificant topic of the day that found us at odds. I would feel his hand reach for mine, and I was home, wherever we found ourselves.

Hands held each other when he had no more strength to reach for me in the night. My hands helped him take morphine and other hideous drugs, less horrible than the cancer that robbed him from me. They wiped his brow when he was feverish. They helped him into the passenger side of the Jeep to travel to the doctor, when it was me that took the wheel while he slept. They put soft blankets around him when he suddenly found himself bone chillingly cold. And more than a few times, they shook at the heavens, questioning WHY.

Finally, in one last touch, it was my hand stroking his cheek that said Goodbye to him as he was making his final exit on that beautiful Virginia City morning. My hands cradled his urn and wondered how this all transpired in nine weeks.

Hands need to find each other and hold on. Touch is a precious sense that can speak louder than words at times. Caresses feed starved skin and comfort a bruised soul. Use your hands to produce acts of kindness. Wave. Open a door. Greet someone you haven’t seen for awhile in spite of Covid, or because of it. Clap for others. Journal your life. Connect with each other. Hold hands as you cross the street, and be so grateful that you have another’s hand, if only for a time.

Letting You Go

You saved me when I needed saving so badly.

You have been the one to hold me, to cheer me, to love me, to teach me.

You.

It was you from the first look.

It was you from the YES to your proposal.

And, it is you now.

I need to let you fly with the wind, with the angels, to the arms of God and our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

Please wait for me. Please be my guardian angel and help me across when my day comes.

Thank you, My Golden Friend, My Bold Lover.

My heart will beat to remind me I need to stay here a little while longer.

I will remember our sweet story, smile, and share it often.

Because you and I are, and always will be pure love. Period.

I say these things not knowing HOW I can let you go.

But

Knowing I must.

Take my love with you, and find me when I finish my time on earth.

I love you most…

Even though I know you love me more.

Your Darlin Forever, Mrs. H

JH April 6, 2020

Navigating as a new widow, I find I am constantly being confronted with “Should/Shouldn’t” (S/S) information. The worst offender is my own brain. Having been the other half for so many years, decisions of the S/S kind were made together with thought and conversation. There were no judgmental rules for us to follow, but rather pragmatic discussions and decisions. In the last year of VST’s life, with cancer silently robbing me of him, “Maybe’s” were no longer considered. Many things that were, were no longer. “Wouldn’ts” were the norm. Our life was a black and white landscape of the KNOWN and SAFE.

VST was a cautious man. Thankfully, he was, because it has left me in a safe situation now. Without his planning, willpower, and Stay-The-Course attitude, never would I have been financially solvent and safe. I was always the one veering to the right or left, wanting to take the unmarked path to see what wonders were around the bend. VST, on the other hand, used Google maps and Garmin to be sure he was following the Right road to a Certain destination. Safe and sound we would arrive ahead of schedule, leaving me to wonder what really cool things we missed along the way.

Safety was always comforting to me. VST kept me safe through fires and my own medical issues. He always knew what we SHOULD do in any situation and why we Shouldn’t do anything other than that. He internalized his own conversations of WHY NOT and I was left with the final answer of how things would be best handled. My input was always factored in, and the whimsical thoughts of a fantastical writer were an amusement, but in the end, the practical side always won out with him. He ALWAYS knew just what to do, or at the very least, did a fine job faking it until things worked out.

On April 8th, my Garmin following Captain left on HIS new adventure, leaving me to stop and think about all the S/S decisions that faced me. In the middle of two complicated real estate transactions, while awaiting my husband’s cremation, I freaked out for a minute. The new home we had selected together was in another town, small and not much bigger than a truck stop. The town had no hospital. No major box stores except WalMart. It was on 1/2 acre with an RV barn. All more than I needed to think about in April. I began to question whether I SHOULD buy the house at all or choose another more sensible one closer to services.

After a frantic call to my realtor, and one more look at a golf-course home, small and safe on the fairway, I knew what I had to do. I had considered my first solo “Why Not/Maybe” and made a truly important decision for myself, on my own. The house we selected together would be mine. My roots were bound and waiting to sink into the lush green lawn and take hold. This little town was the right size for me to build a new life on the high desert. The Russian Sage and Rabbit Brush called my name, promising me their fragrance as I healed. The fruit trees would be in bloom soon, and I needed a season of growth and wonder more than I ever had in my entire life. I named my new home Winterpast, from the Song of Solomon 2:10-14.

“My beloved responded and said to me, Arise my darling, my beautiful one, and come along. For behold, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone. The flowers have already appeared on the land; the time has arrived for pruning the vines, and the voice of the turtledove has been heard in our land. The fig tree had ripened its figs, and the vines in blossom have given forth their fragrance. Arise my darling, my beautiful one, And come along!”

In the last six months, this has been a comfort, because on more days than not, I am finding, indeed, my winter has past.

A hard and fast commonly accepted SHOULD NOT is that a newly widowed person should make NO big decisions in the first year. I blew that out of the water. With a major move involving the upheaval of my entire life to a new town, major financial decisions consolidating the estate, making choices of people that would become my new Old Friends, and making all this work while grieving became the WHY NOT? YES. I didn’t perish. In fact, I became the best version of myself that I have been in a very long time.

Grieving along the way, the S/S crowd weighed in on many issues, again, the inner me yelling the loudest. But, so far, I have listened to my rational side, and relied on the stability and friendship of our kids who have helped guide me through the worst nightmare I could have imagined. They console me, laugh about funny memories, and are rock solid in their support of me when I really needed to investigate a situation more. Their opinions create a soft place in which I can retreat and accept their ideas as my own. However, as I heal I need to forge many things and decide my own route, taking turns onto those unmarked paths to see what I missed along the way. They wait nervously, not unlike new parents watching children do things for the first time, as I take my first steps on this autumnal journey of mine.

I am in the land of MAYBE/WHY NOT at ever turn these days. I am finding that I am more cautious than I would have believed. But, the inquisitive and curious woman is awakening. That part of me has been dormant for decades and it is now time for me to play in the leaves while the breeze catches my hair just so. My days are shortening as morning retains its chill later and later. I need to live the best life of my own choosing. VST would expect no less from me, and I honor our life together by choosing happiness and life every day. I need this time to truly become the best version of myself. Freedom from the chains of SHOULD/SHOULDN’T will allow me to find the path just right for me.

Today, just for a little while, allow your mind to wander into the meadows of WHYNOT/MAYBE. Rest there for a time and dream of what might be around the corner. The new and untested experiences that await you. Although your spouse died, don’t let yourself become a casualty as well. No one really expects a widow in 2020 to sit under a black shroud for an eternity. If they do, it is only because they cannot fully understand our unique place called WIDOW’S GRIEF, which is entirely different for each of us. Merely rest here until you feel a need to grow, and then carry on, because God has amazing things planned for you just around the bend.

Writing is life. Period. A student of mine, only 10 years old, wrote that on an assignment. It was her opening paragraph. She got an “A”. Without kind words, life would be in chaos and ruin. Hearts would never find each other. Miscommunications would flare and healing would never occur. How many new love stories are never written because one or the other involved couldn’t find the words to express their feelings? I am, of course, focusing on the positive aspects of words and writing, but, anyone who has known me more than five minutes knows optimism is a core character trait of mine.

When I found myself at the birth of my widowhood, there was nothing to hold onto anymore. Certainly not VST. Covid had robbed me of the chance to be with other newly widowed. All Grief support groups were cancelled. Friends were sheltered in place, holding onto each other for dear life. I was on A Street left to fend for myself, and so, I came up with a way words would help me heal. They became counselor, best friend, confidant, and voice, having been my life since I first learned to talk.

As I child, I raised myself. I have my own feelings about these things and how they happen. In some way, I chose that childhood because I was independent. Having farm freedoms let my brain develop in a little richer way. I spent long hours learning how to entertain myself. Learning how to soak into nature and communicate with the animals I loved so much. I learned what it is like to mud bathe in the middle of a 40 acre vineyard, the long tendrils surrounding me in the most heavenly way. When I was hungry, I could go out into the depths of the farm and find whatever snack I wanted. Nectarines, apples, grapes, bell peppers, cherry tomatoes, plums all ready for one “funny looking blondie”, as Dad called me, to pick. Dad was famous for his Elbow Peaches, so named because the juice would always run down our elbows as we slurped up every bite, fuzz and all, straight from the tree.

During those years of freedom, I found that no matter what happened around me, in words I found the ultimate comfort, and in that my voice. When loneliness spiked, I could write about it and suddenly gain a better understand myself. That has never changed for me.

In this new phase of my life, it came to me that I needed a focal point, just as I had in my Lamaze birthing classes. When the pain because too intense, I needed an anchor to get me through, and so, The Word Method became mine. Not any tested method, this one. I can only say, it helped me heal quicker than I might have. Without words, I surely would have faded away to nothing.

In this method, I decided that each month, one word would be selected to represent our marriage. During that month, when the grief gripped my very core threatening to disembowel me, I focused on that one word with a vengeance. Exactly as in birth, for me, the waves of grief were that. Unexpected and intense. Treacherous seas. I could be packing, organizing, arranging and, BAM, there it was. Grief with a vengeance. Changing my focus willfully to the word, I would start thinking of every way it represented us. I might cry a little more at some memories, but usually, I smiled, or even laughed. I was comforted by the multitude of ways it represented us, and I would feel better. I never ran out of examples. There were thousands for each.

There was a second component. VST and I never shared traditions. We are Christians and love Christmas, but as a couple, we never exchanged gifts. We found that as well as we knew each other, we would choose the wrong things, and end up standing in frustrating return lines. So, on the morning of Christmas Eve we would go select our presents together. Secretly, I longed for VST to have a hidden present somewhere, wrapped the way a husband would, maybe in purple birthday wrap with a wonky bow. But, that was never to be.

So , VST has been tricky and every month since his death, there is a Christmas present to me, wrapped with messages on the paper, and more importantly, representing the word of the month. Okay, for some of you, I need to spell this out. I have not lost my mind. Yes. I have purchased the presents for myself after VST’s death. Some are personalized and I have not yet seen them. They sit in my office reminding me that I love myself. A notice that there will be a first Widow Christmas that I’m dreading. I have now created the beginnings of a new tradition to honor our marriage.

Each month, along with the word and present, I’ll create an ornament for my tree representing the special word for that month. It doesn’t have to be museum quality. Just something that would be a message that 32 years of life with VST did happen. It was rich and wonderful, reflected by the relationship we created. Perfect???? No such thing. A perfect example of an honest union of the two of us? You betcha.

The ornaments have been a snag, because to me, they will be the tangible proof that I am ready to memorialize that month and put a period on those memories. Those days will always be cherished, but not dwelt upon. I have given myself until December 16th, my birthday, to finish them. I will be creating a keepsake box for them, and plan to continue this personal tradition until I die, with notes to the kids of why each design was chosen. Because there are thousands of words and memories, I will never be at a loss for stories, smiles, and laughs for the most beautiful time in my life. And for that, I cherish VST even more.

Think of the words that hold meaning for you. You already know my first three were Food. Shelter. Clothing. from my first blog. Month 2 was FRIENDSHIP. Month 3 was LOVE-EVERLASTING. Month 4 was ADVENTURE. Month 5 was FAITH. And Month 6 is HAPPINESS. You will have words that fit your love story, I’m sure. When grief is overwhelming, take a break. Use your words. They are powerful and uplifting.

Today, spend time with memories in a different way. Choose happiness. It is a choice that you can make. Take just a moment to let out one smile as you think about the special moments that took your breath away. Soak in the loveliness that brought you excitement and tenderness. Be grateful for the love you shared. Use your words to stay afloat. Pretty soon, those same words will help you soar, if only for a moment at a time.

April 10th, the house woke me with its deafening silence. Every creak, moan, and spring wind blown comprised a cacophonous sound mourning VST’s passing. For the house had responded to his every touch, just as I had. Physical beauty surrounded me. His taste in domestic design and improvements was surpassed by no one. Standing as a testament to his skills, the house and I grieved in unison while she surrounded me like a warm hug.

By the time I got my coffee that morning, VST would have been on the move, walking the streets of VC. His power walk always started the same. He suffered from crippling arthritis, which made it necessary for him to wear heavy knee braces. Those in place, next came his white cowboy hat, jacket, and cane. VST was known throughout the town as the guy with the braces, walking on through heat, bitter cold, rain, hail, or snow. The Bionic Cowboy of Virginia City.

VST held a demanding presence with his striking good looks, debonair southern drawl, deep voice, as smooth as a fine cognac, and dimpled smile. At 6’1″, he drew looks from the ladies wherever he went. But, those looks were not returned, for I was his Forever Darlin. Plain and Simple. His friendly nature often lengthened his walks down the C Street Boardwalk. His best days involved meeting the Sheriff, after which he would come home and remind me that if I had been with him, I would have been that lucky, too.

VST was legally disabled and had been declared so for the last three years of his life. Yet, he walked four miles each and every day until a few weeks before he died. At 65, I never could consider him disabled, because of all the activities he enjoyed. But, x-ray images and doctor’s reports, and a paralyzed hand don’t lie. He powered on when others would have been on crutches recovering from knee surgery. He had no time for anything like that. He was already down the road. He was just like that. Stubborn. Tougher than nails. Tenacious. Weathered. Rock Solid. And now, gone.

The night before, I had sat stunned in his worn, leather recliner, contemplating what my future would hold. Rather like a deer, startled while grazing, I sat motionless, listening to my own heartbeat. Feeling the oddity of tears streaming down my face, I was silently grieving, staring at the wall instead of our panoramic vista. A poster girl for all the symptoms of severe shock. It was then that one of many miracles took place. Huddled in my favorite blanket, embracing tears and feelings, I realized it had been some time since I checked my emails. My pad glowed to life, showing a list of mail I would rather not open after 5pm. Medical test results from the Monday past, when I still had VST. Death related questions from the Mortuary. Condolences from people just hearing the unthinkable. All those could wait until morning.

But, there in the queue, was one email that caught my eye. It was from my teacher-friends from so long ago, when I was a younger, vibrant person, loving a healthy career and farming. Our own children growing towards adulthood. VST and I sharing all the sparks, fire, intensity, and love that our relationship held from the first HELLO. There it was , begging to be opened. The email from my Old Friends. With heart racing, I tried to digest what it said. “April 10th at 4PM, join us for a ZOOM meeting. It has been too long. We all need to touch base. Please come. Just like that, I reconnected with something concrete and all mine. They had no idea VST had passed. It had been at ten years since we had been together. A happy accident of the most serendipitous type.

The morning of the 10th was full of chores, big and small. Conquering the laundry. Emptying medicine cabinets. Packing boxes. Crying. Wiping tears. Driving back and forth to the storage area. Checking numerous emails from realtors on both sides of my life. The sale of the VC house, the purchase of the New House. Sending emails to those that didn’t know he had gone so quietly, and receiving emails from those that just found out he did. I just stayed the course. I wrote goals in my planner. Completed them. Chose three more and continued. I took time for a nap.

Finally, it was 4pm. The computer screen slowly filled up with boxes holding images of cherished teaching buddies. One by one, they clicked to life. Everyone excited and chatting at once. All looking older, but just the same. Their shock and sadness reflected from the screen, for VST and I were the couple that had it all, often excluding others to get everything done. How many times I had to forego fun outings with these friends because I had to irrigate, fix dinner for seven, or shake raisins. They never knew how many days I came to school after a rain, having been up all night crying because our crop might have been ruined by the very rainstorms they were celebrating. They couldn’t know at what a price VST and I bartered for our privileged life. It didn’t matter anyway.

They were cyber beauties. For an hour, we laughed. We adjusted our cameras to the right angle and light, maximizing our best attributes. We laughed more. We shared moments of silence. It was magical. I had a glimpse of a regular Friday afternoon with friends that had known me for decades of my adult life. How they sent that email at exactly the right time will be a puzzlement to me forever. Happenings like this I refer to as “God Things”.

“God Things” are around everyone. It depends on whether people choose to recognize them. For me, I know that God carried me through the fires of those first hours, days, weeks, and months, making sure I wasn’t burned. Not even. He gave me strength and protected my back from injury even when I knew the boxes I hoisted were way too heavy under the state of exhaustion I was in. He kept those who would have taken advantage away from my door. He brought me those friends that were the best comfort to me. Through my faith in God, I became stronger than the grief consuming me.

As you are grieving, remember to look for the beauty and miracles that surround you even in the darkest hours, asking God to carry you through the fire. He will. He will bring you peace and allow sleep to come, as he wraps you with the wings of millions of angels. I know he will, because, he did this for me.

Grief. Truly, I had never given grieving a single thought before VST passed. Sure, I had lost my parents, a sister, family, and friends throughout my life, but never did I consider the impact that grief has on a spouse. This is different in every respect I can think of. At least, it has been for me.

VST and I had the kind of marriage that might drive some people mad. We really liked each other, and for the last three years of retirement, we were inseparable. We had purchased an investment property in VC, and spent 6 years renovating and decorating this 3,300 sq.ft. home. This involved time shopping for supplies, grabbing occasional meals while doing this, visiting in the car for the 30 minute ride each way, planning, executing plans, and collaborating, all while loving and respecting one another.

We met in 1970 in high school choir. He was the handsome football jock that would come in after his PE shower, his hair slightly curled and still damp. He had dimples of the most adorable kind and a bass voice that was needed in any musical setting. Everyone loved VST. His team mates. The other students. And me, in a very innocent, friendly way. We were friends for 2.5 years and then went our separate ways.

In 1987, we met again at our highschool reunion. 14 years for me, 15 years for him. Neither of us were anything other than irritated at being there. We had both decided we would be single forever, owning our own homes and cars, and having our own children. No need to complicate anything. About three weeks after that meeting, he found himself proposing. I found myself saying yes. And from them on, VST&Joy was almost one word.

We had a life that was beautiful and overflowing with blessings. You can tell by my pictures and posts. It was a lovely marriage with the right balance. You often don’t hear of those types of marriages. Maybe you were lucky enough to have had that, too. So, when I lost VST, the oxygen was sucked out of my world and the first two months were filled with shock. Along with shock, I was extremely isolated due to Covid.

Covid. I missed all the impending doom provided by the daily news reports. When VST fell the slightest bit ill, the first 90 deaths were reported. The day he died, the death toll had reach 20,000. I had missed all information about Covid while caring for VST and still find it hard to believe that the pandemic hit and I missed every major news story regarding those first horrifying and scary days.

I hope that psychologists study Grief in the time of Covid. I refer to mine as Grief on Steroids. Being retired, I was already alone. Living in VC, away from the kids and old friends, suddenly, for the first time in my life, I was living alone. Truly alone. Grieving was a 24/7 ordeal, non-stop and brutal.

Another huge complication had been put into play some weeks before VST died. In January, he was still feeling okay. A little under the weather, but certainly nothing we viewed as shattering at that time. It had been getting tougher for him to navigate stairs, due to crippling arthritis, so, we decided it was time to sell our home and buy something off the mountain. We had looked everywhere, and found our new home 50 miles East. Buyers made an offer we accepted and Seller accepted ours. During the nine weeks VST was dying, we were in the middle of two very complicated real estate transactions. It had also become necessary to update our Family Trust, Wills, Power of Attorney docs, and Medical directives. We did all that while dealing with medical care during Covid.

Professionals advise against major decisions after a death. In my case, there was no choice. Weeks before, things had been put in motion by the two of us. Together. We chose the new place with us in mind. We were packing. I packed the day after he died. And the next day and the next. Not that I chose to. There was no choice.

As I criedpackedcriedpacked, I felt like I was in a foggy bubble. I knew people outside the bubble were carrying on with the new-normal lives during Covid. I, on the other hand, was suspended on the side of my mountain, and cut off from the rest of the world. No casseroles came. No preacher came knocking. No neighbors to help walk the dog. No One At All. Just me. Covid removed all help I could have received. There were no grief groups offered. The Senior Center and restaurants closed, taking away any quick nutrition. Impossible to get an appointment with a doctor for counseling or medication. Stores were shuttered. Even the kennel to help with Oliver, my sweet puppy, was closed. And there I was, alone and grieving.

The first problem was that in only fifteen days, I would be moving. I needed to make a tough decision. Would I pay for all clothing to be moved or not? I knew the answer. Anything that was not necessary would not make the cut. And, through tears and grief I needed to do what had to be done. New jeans, still tagged, new shoes still in boxes, favorite old, torn pj’s that should have been thrown years before. Go-to clothes, and things not warn too often, were all reduced to weight and number of extra boxes for the movers. This was complicated by the fact that all thrift stores were shuttered. Which left only one option. Many excruciatingly sad trips to the landfill off the mountain and miles away.

In my grief, during those days, I needed to handle and make decisions on every single object that signified our 32 years together. Even the tiniest item brought tears, memories, and pain. But, everything had to be boxed. And, I accomplished that. In those 15 days, I managed to pack and move the balance of what would end of being 350 boxes. I moved them off the mountain to storage, which VST and I had rented in January before he got sick. Box after box went down the hill, while I cried each trip.

In my grief, I began talking to VST. A little at first, and then non-stop. I told him the littlest things, and major things, too. I listened for his advice and help. He was there. Oliver knew this, too. Through my one sided conversations, I felt a relief that even more of our lives were put right. Every marriage has rocky times. There are always things not owned or apologized for. Things one wishes they had one more chance to say. We were no different. I talked to him all day, every day. I asked him to tuck his angel wings around Ollie and I at night so we could sleep better. I know he was there to comfort me. Thanks to Covid, it was quiet enough for me to experience that.

People suggest one should journal. It was all I could do during that first month to jot things on my daily planner. People suggest one should sleep enough. It was a blessing that I slept well in the arms of God. People suggest one should learn the stages of grief and embrace them. For me, it was more important that I listened to my inner self, which helped guide me in the ways I needed. I was my own wise voice that listened to my grief, acknowledged it, and accepted it as my truth then. Not a reality forever.

It also helped that I lived in the moment and felt everything that was happening to my body and soul right then. I prayed often. When I needed to cry, I did. When I needed to laugh, I did that too. Memories were a double edged sword. Sometimes comforting. Sometimes cutting so deep that I thought my entrails would surely tumble onto the floor. I ate when I was the least bit hungry, and didn’t eat when my stomach was upset. All this in a Covid Shroud. For me, I preferred it that way, as no one had to see the carnage left by VST’s death. Just Oliver, me, VST, and God.

In your grief today, hug yourself. In quiet moments, reassure yourself that YOU are enough and okay. You’ve got this, it just SEEMS impossible. Hug yourself. Talk to your loved one. Smile, even if it is just a little, at first. Each day will be better than the last on this journey you are taking through grief.