Grieving Gardener

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 for more than five minutes knows optimism is a core character trait of mine.

When I found myself at the onset 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 canceled. 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 could help me heal. They became counselor, best friend, confidant, and voice, having been my life since I first learned to talk.

As a 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 as 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, and plums were 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 became too intense, I needed a life raft to get me through, and so, The Word Method became mine. Not tested in any scientific lab, 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 during each month, one word would be selected to represent our marriage. During that month, when Grief gripped my very core, I focused on that one word with a vengeance. Exactly as in the childbirth of my children, the waves of grief came in sets. Unexpected and intense. Treacherous seas. I could be packing, organizing, arranging, and BAM, there it was. Grief with a vengeance. As I willfully focused on the word, I’d start thinking of every way it represented us. Through tears, I found some smiles or sometimes even a little laughter. Comforted by the multitude of ways it represented us, I’d feel better. I never ran out of examples as there were thousands for each.

There was a second component. VST and I shared few traditions. As Christians, we considered Christmas a special time of year, but as a couple, we never exchanged gifts. We found that even as well as we knew each other, we’d choose the wrong things, and end up standing in frustrating return lines. On Christmas Eve, we would go together to select our presents. 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, every month since his death, another Christmas present appears 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 haven’t lost my mind. Oc course, I purchased the presents for myself after VST’s death. Some are personalized, and I have yet to see them. They sit in my office, reminding me that I love myself. A notice that there will be a first Widow-ed 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’m creating 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 16, 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, and 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. Find words that fit your love story. 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, a choice that only you can make. Take just a moment for one smile as you think about 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 10, the house woke me with its deafening silence. Every creak, moan, and spring wind comprised a cacophonous sound mourning VST’s passing. Our house had responded to his every touch, just as I had. Physical beauty surrounded me. His taste in domestic design and improvements was unsurpassed. 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 made his walks down the C Street Boardwalk longer. 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 doctors’ 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’d 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 silently grieved, staring at the wall rather than at 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 5 pm. Medical test results from Monday, 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 still years from adulthood. VST and I sharing all the intensity and love our relationship held from the first HELLO. There it was, begging to be opened. The email from my Old Friends. With my heart racing, I tried to digest what it said. “April 10th at 4 pm, join us for a ZOOM meeting. It’s 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 least ten years since we’d 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 who didn’t know he had gone so quietly, and receiving emails from those who 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 4 pm. 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 I’d known 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 who 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’d never given grieving a single thought before VST passed. Sure, I’d lost my parents, a sister, family, and friends throughout my life, but never did I consider the impact that Grief has on a spouse. Grieving during widowhood 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 most would envy. We really liked each other, and for the last three years of retirement, we were inseparable. We’d purchased an investment property in Virginia City, Nevada, and spent 6 years renovating and decorating this 3,300 sq.ft. home. This involved time spent shopping for supplies, grabbing occasional meals while doing so, visiting in the car for the 30-minute ride each way, planning and 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 who 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 required in musical vocals. Everyone loved VST. His teammates. The other students. And me, in a very innocent, friendly way. We were friends for over two years and then went our separate ways.

In 1987, we met again at our high school reunion (14 years for me, 15 years for him). Neither of us were anything other than irritated at being there. Divorced, we’d both chosen singlehood forever, owning our own homes and cars filled with five of 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 then on, VST&Joy was almost one word.

We had a beautiful life overflowing with blessings. It was a lovely marriage with the right balance you don’t often hear of. Maybe you were lucky enough to have had that, too. So, when I lost VST, the oxygen was sucked out of my world, shrouding the first two months 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. The first 90 deaths were reported when VST first became ill. The day he died, the death toll had reached 20,000. I had missed all the information about COVID while caring for VST, and I still find it hard to believe that the pandemic hit, and I missed every major news story regarding those first horrifying days.

I hope that psychologists study Grief during COVID. I refer to mine as Grief on Steroids. As a retiree, I was already alone. Living in VC, away from the kids and old friends, I suddenly found myself living alone for the first time in my life. 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 considered shattering at the 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 it, and the 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 cried-packed-cried-packed, 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. Casseroles weren’t delivered. 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, leaving no 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 I’d be moving in only fifteen days. 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 wouldn’t 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 pajamas that should have been thrown away years before. Go-to clothes and things not worn too often were all reduced to weight and the number of extra boxes for the movers. Complicating this was that all thrift stores were shuttered, leaving 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 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 relieved 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 me 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 in my daily planner. People suggest one should sleep enough. It was a blessing to sleep 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 used my own wise voice after listening to my Grief. I 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. 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.

We were so busy living, it was easy enough to ignore all the warning signs. There were so many. Few of us really believe that death could be at our door. So many times, we have all ignored symptoms, believing they held no significance. We did just that. Boy, were we wrong. After a nine-week battle, I was left the lone survivor on a spring Wednesday between Palm Sunday and Maundy Thursday.

Cholangiocarcinoma, a rare type of cancer that forms in the bile ducts, ravaged my husband, VST. It was aggressive, lethal, and quick, stealing his energy, strength, resolve, and finally, his brain. In the age of COVID, in my town anyway, medical treatments were being authorized by a panel of doctors at the hospital. Each test needed approval, wasting valuable days as VST grew sicker and sicker. Being the lone caretaker and hospice attendant, I found myself nursing my husband while trying to wrap my head around the fact that we wouldn’t share another Easter.

The idea of hospice service is romantic and wonderful. The company we used employed a group of earth angels, with a few limitations. It was a wonderful place to get all kinds of helpful drugs. Morphine, Lorazepam, Haldol, and others. Marvelous place to get supplies like diapers, wipes, syringes, gloves, and swabs for dry, cracked lips. Because we were living in a remote area, actual physical help wasn’t available. In reality, we didn’t want strangers interrupting our last and most intimate hours together. So, we went through it alone. VST didn’t make it until Easter, but left me shortly before. Bereft, Deprived. Cut off. Dispossessed. Forlorn. Wanting. Stripped. I began my grieving process.

VST died on a Wednesday morning at 10:30. His death certificate states he died at 11:15. It lies. I was there, alone. I was the one who watched him take his last breath and slowly slip away, while our beloved kids were out on some errands. I assure you, it was 10:30. The sounds my body made that morning were shocking to me. Rather like those that a woman might make during the last stages of labor. Primal and shriek-ish. Raw and from a place I didn’t know existed in me. I was so glad the kids were out of the house. Even in the middle of hospice, few are ready for the moment of death. At least, I wasn’t.

In our small county, sans coroner, the Sheriff needed to pronounce VST’S time of death. Moments after his death, I phoned their office to ask if the real Sheriff would come, instead of a deputy. VST had made friends with him during our six-year stay, and it would be a huge comfort to me. He was in a meeting, but a deputy would come. But, in eight minutes, the Sheriff arrived with hugs and a listening ear. He visited VST one last time and comforted me in my very first hour of grief, for which I was so grateful.

A long list of players filled out my first day as a widow. A hospice nurse to neutralize the drugs. The Sheriff. The Deputy Sheriff. The Mortuary Assistants. The kids. The medical equipment personnel. Until finally, evening arrived. The house was quiet. The kids and I were in shock. Our bedroom, where VST had requested his hospital bed be placed only seven days before, was returned to normal without any signs of the nightmare the last week had held. Without a trace of him, of us. Just a pretty room with all the furniture put back in perfect order.

In the cold void of death, the kids left the next morning, needing to return to their lives six hours away. I was alone on the first real day of widowhood. Alone at 6,200 feet, on Mt. Davidson, suspended above Virginia City, looking out into the nothingness of my 100-mile view. The vista, once magical and romantic, was now daunting for a wife who’d been so intertwined with the other half that she knew not where he stopped and she began.

Needing an immediate life raft, I turned to the one thing that had been with me my entire life. Words. I chose three to symbolize the first month.

Food. Shelter. Clothing.

Those words would help me stay focused through Month One. For if I focused on Food. Shelter. Clothing. I wouldn’t die in the cold, starving because I had forgotten to eat and gone out to get the mail naked. I took myself in my own arms and gave prayers for the woman I lost that day. I rocked the remaining shell and held her most gently, listening to the wails and sobs late into that first night of widowhood.

These words hold my story. Everyone reading here has lived a story just as grueling, exasperating, and horrifying. As widows, we enter a wilderness that no one has really explained or mapped for us. Each person sees the landscape differently and must find a way through that is hers and hers alone. I found that at first, I kept a daily planner to jot down the simplest things I did. I made sure to list three tasks a day and complete them. My journal helps me remember how strong I was in those early days. You are just as strong.

It’s a comfort to know I didn’t starve in the nighttime cold of Virginia City, while walking hungry and naked to get the mail. It’s only by the grace of God that I didn’t, I assure you.