Grieving Gardener

VST was not a dog person which was one of our troubling differences. Raised on a farm, being a 4-H member, and majoring in Zoology in college, he should have known my love for dogs would never die. Through the years, he always kept me in furry friends, keeping them at a distance from his own heart. Being busy with so many different things, he never discovered what I had known since one bit my nose off at two years old. Dogs are the coolest friends you can ever have. Period.

Settled in VC, totally retired and RVing, I would pine by the dog parks across the country. I would accidentally take the trash out at just the right time to beg a caress from a newly groomed poodle, or win a big old slurpy kiss from a retriever. If missing, he would find me talking with the owners at the dog park wishing I had my own puppy to throw into the mix of wagging tails. I would make not so subtle observations that traveling with the right dog might be fun. He would remind me that our RV was brand new. Did I want the leather seats chewed? Did I want poop on the floor? Did I want to chance loosing the dog at a truck stop? Did we NEED the complications of a dog? Really????

For months, I pined. Really, really pined. I created a virtual dog to dream of. The perfect pet. No messes. No chewed leather. No muss no fuss. I was constantly on the internet looking for a puppy, but I found not THE ONE. Finally, November of 2018, VST woke a changed man. Just like that.

“Darlin, we have been traveling awhile now. Do you still want that dog? Maybe it IS time that we could look.”

I was in shock. Who was this man? Was there a trick here? What was the end game? A dog? I might get a dog??? I MIGHT GET A DOG!!!!!!!!!!!!!

With laser-like focus, through every town traveled, there was a visit to the animal shelter. Nothing. No one there that was even close. We looked at every Craig’s List. Cuties, but none for us. We looked online. Sold out. Sold out. Sold out. And so, the weeks went by. Nothing. Secret relief was his, and I was waiting for the reasons to emerge on how this was a cosmic answer to my longing. I would never have another dog. Period.

My December birthday came and went. I hoped there was a hidden puppy somewhere. It would have the cutest bow on its neck, bigger than it. Hallmark moment 101. To my surprise, I did get a dog gift from him. A Christmas doggie sweater. Long and small, it was adorable. But, very flat and empty. Not puppy filled, squirmy and delightfully kissy. Nope. No dog anywhere. I must admit, I was a little depressed, and almost accepting the fact that it was a cosmic answer.

Until December 23rd.

Just like every other day, I had been in heavy pursuit on the internet. I am a Dachshund girl. Period. I have had several, the very first being when I was six. Fritz. Fritz was a mini, red smooth haired Doxie. My parents got him for the farm, and Fritz lived his entire life outside. No problem with coyotes or wild dogs, Fritz was quite capable of taking care of himself. He lived a great life keeping our ranch free of any one or thing unwanted. He was a great watch dog and a wonderful friend to me as a child.

On December 23rd, I again googled Dachshund Puppy. The following picture emerged.

The add was a normal description of a very unusual dog. I am asked this often, so I will give you the complete description. He is a cream-based piebald, chocolate, wirehaired standard dachshund with green eyes that can look through your soul. VST would add, “Dropped into Area 51, because he is alien. And yes, he sheds. Alot.”

In my heart, the ad said the following.

“If you do not immediately call this breeder, you do not really want a dog at all. This is quite possibly the most adorable dog on the planet. Pick up the phone now, because this guy cannot exist and be available possessing this much swag and cuteness overload.”

He was a bargain puppy. No one had wanted him. He was 4 months old and ready for a new home, and that home was ours. Period. On Christmas Day, the breeder extraordinaire drove from Nevada City to Reno and we met in the snow covered parking lot of the Atlantis Casino. I had the option of not accepting him if he wasn’t the right puppy. Once in my arms, this puppy became Sir Oliver, Gentleman of Ashworth Hall, better known as Oliver or Ollie. (VST named him after a Grandfather, many generations removed). He snuggled toward my heart and stole it right there.

For a few days, I was in terror of what we had just taken on. I was up with him every two hours for months to insure proper potty training. He was neutered and I slept on the recliner with him for two nights. We listened to puppy complaints when he was unhappy and laughed so much as he delighted us with his adorable antics. And just like that, VST became a dog person.

Did he need a new toy? VST would be online finding out the right toys for a him. Was his food just right? Again, more research. As we traveled together in the rig, Oliver was always our first concern. Was he safe, happy, warm, well-fed, and enjoying himself? Oliver was happy as could be. He would see us preparing for a trip and remind us the entire time that he wanted to be included. He always was.

VST quickly learned that when they walked together, Oliver stole the show. People would stop their cars to ask us about him. Women requested pictures with him. I am referring to Oliver. Strangers would smile big, wide, happy smiles, all while Ollie just did this thing. Dignified and true to his blue blood name, he became a Gentleman.

For almost two years, Ollie and VST were walking buddies. I would smile as I stood on the deck and watched them trot off. Oliver kept his puppy waddle far past his first year. He would take on a new happiness when being with VST, one that he never had with me. Just a little free spirit walking with his man.

VST took his part in Ollie’s life serious, and one day, quietly decided to teach him a new trick. Not being a dog person, it would really irritate me when he would stare at dogs in the eye. I would remind him that in many cases, that is how people get bit in the face. He cared not. So, I would see VST and Ollie gazing at each other, but didn’t understand what was happening. VST silently taught Oliver to wink. There they were conversing through eye movements of the oddest kind. VST became a true dog whispering soul.

I have told others since that Oliver will wink at them if he feels like it. No one believes me until they wink at him and he winks back. You have to be a very special sort of person for him to interact with you in that way. He saves this for his very favorite people.

Since April 8, Oliver has taken on the role of my emotional support dog. He doesn’t wear or even need a vest. He has soft green eyes that look into my soul and know when I need a doggie hug. He knows when I get stressed and encourages me that it surely must be nap time. He senses when I need a laugh and does something adorable. He is good at knowing when I have had enough, and doesn’t try anything silly. He still steals my socks, and anything else he finds humorous. He watches our front door to keep out the unwanteds. And he is my writing buddy when I blog.

I picture myself at my first book signing someday soon. I will be dressed in appropriate writer clothing, picked out for the occasion. My makeup will be just right. Fresh haircut. A stack of pens, ready to go. Oliver will be himself. I can guarantee you, the line will form to the right to get pics with Ollie. I will sigh, and give him the limelight.

For a time, Ollie brought the beauty and love of a dog to one man that had never experienced it. He brought an old couple such happiness by just being himself. He may be my last dog, but he is definitely the one I will never get over.

Your dog is doing double time right now, grieving with you and for you. They deserve a little free time to be a dog. Take a walk. Play outside with a new toy. Just for a minute, delight in your dog and give a smile or laugh. They will be relieved that you are feeling better. And, feel better you will.

A huge thank you to Song Catcher Dachshunds in Nevada City, California. Breeding for over 30 years for soundness, personality, and beauty. Please mention that you met Oliver and he says Hi!!

Thursday last, I sat waiting as so many Seniors do. We wait for many sad, happy, frustrating, unexplainable, funny, terrifying, and peaceful things. I was waiting for my friend to arrive. A HEART FRIEND as a student once described special bonds that we form with very few in life. This kind of friend is of the deepest kind, covering you with love, protection and things you need when you need them. I am blessed with this kind of friend that was visiting on the 6 month anniversary of VST’s death.

I remember when we met. It could have ended badly. You see, we loved the same guy. VST loved her first and she had an 11 year jump on me in this situation. While my love was unfolding in new and exciting ways, hers was deep, steady, and rock solid. They shared a history of which I was not a part. It was up to me to honor that and find a way to create new memories we would cherish decades later. She had him at their first Hello on May 25, 1976. She was K to me, and oldest Daughter to VST.

The doorbell rang, and there she was, the best hugger and friend, knowing the day would be tough. Intuitive and gracious, she had cleared her schedule for the next few days to come hang out and remember our VST/DAD. We each owned separate memories of our man, that brought a more complex picture to light when shared. She was an hour earlier than I thought she would be, after a six hour drive. In a moment of highly energized happiness, the doorbell rang again. I really didn’t hear it, and in a gentle way, she said I should check.

As I opened the door, out popped T. This bulk of a man standing in my doorway completed the Momento Perfecto. T was K’s other half. A dear friend and rock to me since 1987. Smart, strong, problem solving T. When I met him, long ago, the connection we had was real and authentic. I never had to pretend around him, smiling and cheering his accomplishments, which were vast. His connection with VST was a bond that is as deep as time passed and eternity to come. He could have claimed VST as his own, meeting him first on May 25, 1976 as VST’s only biological son and K’s twin. He could have warned his SIS to steer clear of the new gal in Dad’s life, but, he didn’t. He had every right to, but he opened his heart to me and my boys, J and D. The Three Amigos were off and huddling at the first meeting. The seven of us rolling through happy in our red VW van. Here he was in my doorway, smiling and glad they got me good. K hadn’t mentioned they BOTH cleared their lives to come comfort ME.

Here I was, StepMom, but our steps had led me to Friends. How very beautiful and blessed it is to call them FRIENDS of the HEART kind.

When VST got sick, we had been feral parents, holding hands and running towards life. Illness slowed that to a standstill. We hadn’t known how serious things would become, but, T and K were on it. They came every weekend to visit. They made us calmer, happier, and less scared. They brought life of a vibrant kind to a very frightful enviorment and most importantly, they made VST/DAD’s heart smile. By coming, they brought FAMILY to our home, which healed and mended us all in ways we didn’t know needed fixing.

To me, they will always be my Kids. They are anything but kids or children.

Tim is a funny, logical, brilliant, and handsome knockoff of VST. He is a wonderful father to three beautiful kids that will someday ask him not to refer to them as kids anymore. He is driving every aspect of his own version of the red VW bus, making sure their familial path is on target. He loves is sweet M with all his strength for the beauty she is in and out. He grieves for the loss of his Dad deeply. He is a 6’6” softy to the core. When we are together, it is my hope just for a minute, he can put down his heavy load, and be our kiddo again. The freedom of childhood can be revisited while you still have a mom friend who calls you a kid.

Kim is an exquisitely beautiful and fierce woman not to taken lightly. She is funny, sensitive, kind, and thoughtful. To me, she is the Friend Daughter I didn’t raised from birth, but fell in love with, none the less. We chose the same career in teaching, but, SHE took it and ran faster and farther. Her students are blessed to be under her wing. Her own mothering abilities shine in the faces of her two man-children. Kim is wise and patient. She skillfully releases her boys to freedom and then reels them back in when needed. She cherishes her sweet husband, J, remembering when they met in grade school. K mourns the DAD that took her to the fair as a young girl one minute, and walked her down the aisle to her future the next. She remembers that, in his eyes, she was and will be his little girl for eternity.

In past posts I have referred to The Kids. That was wrong. They are not part of a pack or a rock group. They are T and K. The best parts of their dad reflecting his brilliance, grace, honestly, loyalty, and at times, funny looks or words. They hold his memory gently and share it with me. They are strong, beautiful adults that will need to forgive me if I call them kids. In my eyes, they are T and K. All things listed above and so much more, My kids, but more importantly, my HEART FRIENDS.

Today, hug your kids and hug them again. As parents, you already know. They may be bigger, but they will always be sweet, loveable kids to us.

Dreams have always been a personal comfort and place of wonder. My traveled dreamscapes are richly diverse, with beauty unexperienced on my wakeful side. Growing stories throughout my sleep-filled nights, I awaken before light, ready to harvest my thoughts, and serving them up in text. In my dreams, I am an athletic, svelte, tall, very blonde, ageless beauty. I can rollerblade, snow ski, skateboard, and backpack the Pacific Crest Trail from Canada to Mexico in a night. I see the tiniest details and make notes on how they will enrich my writing. All in the night, while peacefully I sleep.

The thing that has escaped me night after night has been one more visit with VST. Mornings have held disappointment as I slowly wake to remember there was no magical meeting the night before. No visit on A sun-kissed island, with azure seas surrounding us, or at our kitchen table at dawn. No last kiss of passion, regret, sadness, or goodbye. Not one more gaze into eyes that held my forever, while giving me a playful wink, or THAT look, which came in many varieties. Looks I learned to translate immediately, whether they drew me in, told me to straighten up and fly right, or ended a conversation. I would settle for just one more time having eye conversations, no matter the topic. I would awake refreshed and full or other dreams, but not the one I wanted so badly. Until a few weeks ago, that is.

I went to sleep after watching half a movie. Nothing new. Oliver was making sweet sleeping-puppy sounds in his crate while I floated off to dreamland, as usual. The next morning, my wish had been fulfilled. VST and I had shared the night before.

We were visiting outdoors in a beautiful place, natural and green. We smiled and talked for most of the dream, quietly savoring the moments we were able to share. He was his younger self, and without any signs of illness. Just my Dr. H. Most of our words remain muffled, shared celestially. Their essence cocooned my heart in peace. Cancer could not rob us of this quiet conversation of souls. Most was just beyond memory’s reach, but there was a portion clearly recalled.

“Darlin, the memorial was fine. Perfect. The words and songs you chose honored our life together, and me in ways that warmed my heart.”

At that moment, I felt a wave a relief that everything was done now.

“It’s great that you sent programs and notes to all the friends that couldn’t come. Nice touch that took extra effort. Thanks for doing that. It was all just beautiful.”

“However……”

However? What was coming next? But what, VST??????? Really????

“You screwed up on one part.”

I knew it. I knew it. Even from beyond the veil, one moment remained in which VST could have done things a bit different, and definitely better. I sighed, wishing so much that he was still here.

“Please explain yourself.”

“Everyone was remembered that needed to be, except for three. Pat, Steve, and Harry. Honey, you forgot to tell them. Please. Tomorrow. Hurry. Send them special notes that explain I have gone. Do it tomorrow. Please don’t forget.”

“I promise.”

That was the revelation I had awaited for months? The only thing I could remember? Not a final, ‘I will love you forever?’ or ‘I have a place saved for you?’ No. Just a reminder than three very important men in his life needed to know he died. A former doctoral classmate, boss, and close work friend? I knew the boss and workmate from our lives spanning 1988 through 2001. Although I had heard about the doctoral friend for 19 years, I had never met him. These three people would have never come to the forefront of my brain, only because I was not VST. His friends were precious to him as mine are to me, but personal to HIM.

In the morning, I retrieved “THE BOX” from the closet. If you’re widowed, I assume you have “A BOX”, as well. I have inherited “THE BOX” from Grandparents, and even though the items inside never held a great deal of meaning to me, disposing of something treasured for so many years couldn’t happen. Now I have my own. In VST’s box, there are extra programs, prayer cards, a guest book, and sympathy cards. Every one of them is precious to me, making the box sacred. Everything I needed to complete three last notices that their dear friend was gone.

I penned special notes to each of the three men. Sealed in silver envelopes with program and prayer card, I sent the three cards on their way with love. Mission accomplished VST. You just come back anytime to discuss the missing and loving me parts. This, I handled for you. I went on with my day.

Two weeks later, I heard the mail truck outside. For those of you that still have the luxury of a personal mail box at your drive, you know what a treat it can be. I love 11:30 when I hear the mail lady starting and stopping on her way to house after house, until I hear her engine pause at mine. I went to retrieve the mail and found inside a card addressed to me.

It was a handwritten card that had been sent snail mail. The return address identified it as being from Dr. Pat. The card had a picture of the American flag, something VST respected so much. I opened it to find an entire page filled with manly printing, created with pen and ink.

Dear Joy,

So sad….he was one of the most easy going, happy-go-lucky friends I have had the pleasure to know…..Know he is in heaven….you now have a guardian angel…way too young….lucky to have traveled together….Truly hearbreaking….Am a better person for having known him.

All the sweet things one would expect until I read further.

Will be 60 next July and can retire after 35 years on police force…. CANCER…..diagnosed with leukemia 5 years ago……..dealing with various treatments…..God willing…..

VST’s real life Superman had been hit with his own version of kryptonite. No kevlar vesting could protect him from Cancer’s bullet. After all his service protect millions of people during his 35 year career, he was fighting this alone, as every cancer patientdoes. VST knew. I understood now why THIS was the important thing I needed to remember,

I held the letter in disbelief. The handwriting on the paper spoke volumes from a man I had never met. To a friendship rare and dear formed over years in a doctoral program. A man that was sent a special shout out from the beautiful shadows of my dream. A man so special, VST made sure he was not forgotten.

You just never know what dreams may hold. Or the mail box on a sunny day in September. Reach out and remind Old Friends forgotten about your loved one. Send notes in the mail, taking time to hand write your memories of their importance in your life. Stamp them. Send them. They will brighten a day, possibly giving hope when it is waning. Embrace your dreams. You never know what they will hold.

Widowhood. Six months in. I am in awe of the oldish-new woman sitting here blogging. Strange. It appears that these are my Germanic fingers pecking at the keys. Quite sure Oliver recognizes me as the same person who has fed him his meals since he became mine. The neighbors all wave to the familiar woman down the street. Old Friends and family still ring me up to find out how I’m doing. But, no, I’m not the same woman of 6 months ago. That woman died with VST and was immediately replaced with another tougher version of myself.

Unless you are a widow, and even if you are, you can’t fully know the unique path my journey has taken. In the past Covid-wrecked months, I have been on a trek through a frightful wilderness worse than any high Sierra trail. It has been so lonely and cold at times, I surely wanted to lay my body down in the snow and allow grief to devour me like savage carnivores. Having my arms torn off by real Alaskan wolves would have been less painful. So desolate and invisibly vast, no matter how I have tried to hurry along, believing I’m out of the woods, I make a small turn to the right or left, and there I am again. The path is atrociously hideous at times, and yet, totally natural. There has been no quicker way to come, no short cut, nothing more than this path that I travel by myself, even when others are present.

My words have buoyed me beyond my wildest expectations. Food, Shelter, Clothing, Friendship, Everlasting Love, Faith, Adventure, and Happiness. Those words, my port in the storm, highlight the core of the power couple that was Dr. and Mrs. Hurt. It is odd that the time has arrived to pick a new word for Month Seven. Reflecting on the words that represented us over 32 years has filled me with the comfort that beautiful memories can bring. A meadowy retreat for respite from the ravages of grief.

I revisit the past 12 months in my mind. A year ago, we had just decided to visit Cayucos on the California coast again. VST was still taking Oliver on his daily walks. We had decided to stay in VC a while longer, and just named the house The Dunmovin House for that reason. There were subtle changes in VST that I internalized as frailties of my own or, even more scary and unthinkable, of our marriage. Even if we would have known the real causes for these changes earlier, the outcome would have been the same. The only difference would have been that we would have missed our last two RV trips which held sweet memories made.

I think of Christmas last. I was sick with a cold for a week, which I so graciously gifted to VST. As we took turns caring for one another, Christmas came and went in the midst of the snow flurries on our mountain. A white Christmas for our last earthly holiday together.

With spring’s arrival, projects completed, and the last nail driven, VST finished his job. He put down his tools, being proud of his life and accomplishments. He touched so many in profoundly wonderful ways. His strength carried others through their own struggles. He loved like no other. Fierce and true. He was a loyal and trustworthy man truly worthy of being a Knight Templar. He was also a man worthy of not only the title of FATHER, but more importantly, DAD. He was imperfectly perfect to those of us that loved him longest and best, and to those that were lucky enough to call him friend. He was my Dr. H.

Through Goodbyes to VST, this new woman has now stepped out of the far reaches of my soul. Helpful. Strong. Smart. Funny. Inquisitive. And SCARED AS HELL. She came from nowhere to flourish and thrive as she put down roots immediately after VST’s death in this new little town called HOME. She is the new me. I own those attributes now, as I always did. I must admit, in recent years, I chose to rest complaisantly as a wife allowing life to pass. Along the way, I lost focus, passion, and ambition. I became a passenger in my own life story, doing that all on my own. It wasn’t especially fair to VST, although he never complained. I don’t have that option anymore. I don’t want that ME anymore. She died with VST.

Today, I choose Happiness. Faith. Strength. Perseverance. God. I am finding my way forwards. I choose not to sit and rest too long. I move onward towards positive goals for the future, creating as I continue through the wilderness of my first year of widowhood. I’m quite positive there are treacherous rivers yet to cross, with crags and crannies that could feel like they might devour my soul. But, I also know I am strong enough to stay on the path. It’s going to be okay. God and I have this, together.

As a married woman, I could have never imagined taking my wedding ring off for a minute. I’ve never been one to wear jewelry of any kind, let alone pricey stones in garish designs. My wedding band was so perfect. Simple. Comfortable. Golden. Like VST and me. Scratched through our 32 years, but still a circle. A comfort to me when VST passed, it was a reminder than the three decades shared had not been a dream, but real.

One day, in late summer, I awoke to a new feeling. I could wear this ring no longer for OUR vows were not tethered to something as earthly as a bit of gold. My ring couldn’t begin to contain something so precious, vast, and unending similar to the heavens in which my new guardian angel rested. It was band of gold that was constricting my finger and just a piece of jewelry now. I was no longer a wife, but a widow. I could wear it not a second longer. When removed, I was left with a temporarily deformed ring finger, morbidly pale and chronically constricted. The nerves were sensitive to anything that brushed across that spot on my finger screaming their protests at being exposed to widowhood. A strange sensation I was not expecting.

Six months gone, six months here, I find myself with an interest in finding friends again. I laugh with them on the phone, making plans for adventures new and foreign to me. I’m taking an interest in dressing the new woman that I am becoming. I speak in a gentler, kinder way to myself, encouraging thoughts and actions that are creating the best version of myself. I cheer for me when I am hitting things out of the park. I smile from my heart and like it. My winter has past on most days. My 65th Autumn is here, and I find myself hoping it lasts for a couple of decades, at least.

One of the last things that VST said to me in weak and quiet words was, “I want to go back to the ocean.” I think about the day I will travel to San Simeon to release him to the wind. With the final page of our story written, we’ll go their together together sharing our last and final earthly Goodbye. Today, Month Six finished, the thought is immediately shelved and encased behind glassy, tearful eyes. There is plenty of time for healing on this the first widowed year of mine.

As you read this, please cheer for me in your own way. Then, cheer for yourself and all your journey has taught you. Celebrate the love you share with important people in your life. Call them. Hug them. Laugh. Cherish the life you shared with the one you lost and travel through the wilderness of widowhood with me. Love surrounds us and we are not alone in this. We WILL come out into the clearing, and be much stronger for the journey.

Hawaii-philes. A new phrase coined describing VST and me. Through 32 years, we became absolutely addicted to the islands and all that Aloha brings with it. It started with two young lovers taking a second honeymoon in their first year of marriage. The initial fascination and love for paradise grew to much more, over the years.

It all started in 1988, when we were adorable kids. Married six months, reality was setting in. The monumental tasks of parenting a blended family of five was a bit overwhelming. It is one thing to fall in love with a soulmate. Falling in love with a parent of young kids is a very complicated dance. We had to learn to navigate the schedules and personalities of five children, ages 12-7, while not offending grandparents and extended family who held their breath while having everyone’s best interest at heart. Said onlookers had finally given up counting to 9, convinced that we married so quickly because a sixth child was on the way. Believe me, we figured that out on the first date. Five was plenty.

VST came home from work after an extremely stressful day with a brochure he had been given from a co-workers wife. “Pleasant Hawaiian Vacations. Dream the Dream. Live the Aloha Spirit”. The blue waters shown on the brochure were inviting. There was a twinkle in his eye as he asked me if I would run away with him, if only for a week. This while children played in the background and dinner was on the stove. What’s a girl to do??? Of Course!

Our first trip cost us $450 a person, including airfare from Fresno. Money well spent, that I assure you, we did not have in our budget. Six nights, seven days on Oahu. Six glorious days of adult-ing. Sleeping in. Breakfast overlooking the beach. Catamaran rides. All the cheesy things first time visitors do to get the perfect pictures they will cherish forever. We were the young couple old couples would look at and smile. I get it now. They were smiling because they remembered what the NEW was like. Sparking, tanned, trim, and sexy. We spent the week getting to know each other better. We were celebrating the one year anniversary of our Class Reunion, when we had reunited as friends. On that night, two stoic singles insisted their solitary lives were exactly what they had designed. A year later, we knew the design of our lives together was what we had been searching for.

Through the years, we visited Hawaii 30 times. It would have been a good idea to buy a place. Each time we would leave the plane the experience was the same for me. I was home. The air caressing my skin and giving life to my dried out Central Valley lungs was exquisite. No matter the weather, the feeling of returning to city life was thrilling. Farming, the demands of two full time careers needed to support the farm, pre-PsyD college courses, parenting, and still being parented were immense stressors. When a fragrant, Hawaiian rainstorm caught us out walking, we could actually stop and kiss in the middle of it. Not watch in horror as our raisin crop lay threatened on vineyard rows that seemed to go on for miles.

At first, it was annual trips. Endless searching for the right deal on the right hotel, always looking for deep discounts to get closer to ocean front. Each trip earned flight miles, and pretty soon, we were flying nearly free to hotels beach front and 50% off. Our trips got better and better, while becoming bi-annual.

Through the years, our travel experiences were the same. We had endless conversations about anything and everything. Without the stresses and strains of daily life, we could allow our brains to free range. We brainstormed new business ideas. Finally, we had time to talk about the problems in Row 72 of the vineyard and what we could do to mitigate them. We had time to marvel at the growth our children were making. We had time to gossip. We belly laughed. We could sit under a cabana and say nothing, and yet saying nothing said volumes. We were ourselves at peace.

On flights, five hours in duration, I made some observations. VST and I were the couple that was talking, holding hands, cuddled up, giggling, and whispering. We compared our airplane food. We found music channels and poked each other under cloaks of headphones, pointing and giving thumbs up. The others in the plane disappeared, leaving just us in our own world. We drank in those moments like the intoxicating elixir they were. What saddened me a little was the number of couples that were total strangers. What had life done to their visible ties? One in a book, the other on binge. I made notes to myself that we would not become like that. It would take everything we had not to.

Our best trip involved taking our kids with us when they were young olders. With a rented condo and lots of patience from everyone involved, we had the trip of a lifetime. We watched the kids enjoy their first experience flying. We watched them soak in the healing powers of Aloha and relax. We made memories that are frozen in our hearts in the most precious way. We celebrated being a family unique to us. We fought and fretted. We lost one, which found himself and came back to us after a brief trip to report him missing at the police station. We tried to capture quiet adult moments sipping a tropical drink, only to have sand-throwing hellions creep into our peripheral vision. We taught. We took. We showed the island to them through our eyes and they embraced their own visions through their own. Magical and full of our own Menehunes, our trip was one of our most precious moments together.

I always felt that if something happened to VST, when the dust had settled, I would rent a place in Oahu . For years, VST and I would notice a poor soul near Waikiki beach. We called her Cannie Annie. She was always in the same spot. All day, every day, she sat cross-legged near a walkway, smashing cans. Her skin was the nearest to tanned leather that I have ever seen. She sat, smiling, as she smashed one aluminum can after can. Maybe I would become the new version of Cannie Annie. At the very least, I would breathe in healing air, and let the Menehunes take me by the hand into their world, because I was sure without VST, my world would cease.

Covid ripped that possibility away from me and shredded it to bits. So many days, I have wanted to run, not walk to the airport and buy a one way ticket to paradise. But, paradise is closed. Fitting that the one place in which I might find my most precious memories waiting in a sunset or trade wind caress is blocking tourists. Maybe the Menehunes just had no more to give. How many souls over the years have gone to the islands taking its magic as their own? The islands are as tired as the rest of us. Pele needs to regroup. The locals need to dance for themselves for awhile. My soft place to fall disappeared.

So, in Month Five, Oliver and I took a Covid trip. Best bargain I have ever found. Aloha in the Living Room. Do Ho came and gave us a private concert. I served fresh pineapple while watching Elvis come to life in Blue Hawaii. I took out memory books from past trips, and I returned there, half the young couple that September night on Waikiki kissing under a full moon when not another soul was on the beach. During that kiss, Hawaii was all encompassing and the only place in the world we wanted to be. My trip was splendid. I didn’t need to quarantine for two weeks. Oliver didn’t need to worry about traveling in a confining crate. No masks. Just vacation time in our living room, celebrating Aloha with memories enough for a lifetime. I am quite sure Oliver noticed the Menehune discussing the fact that my world without VST didn’t cease, and that their guidance to a distance forest wouldn’t be needed after all.

Grab your own MaiTai and find your own Aloha spirit. As defined by the State of Hawaii, “Aloha is the coordination of mind and heart within each person. It brings each person to the self. Each person must think and emote good feelings to each other.” The world needs each of us to LIVE Aloha in our lives today. Remember your moment under the moonlight, and embrace it as the miracle it was and remains this very day.

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.

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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.

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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.

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 MaundyThursday.

VST was attacked by Cholangiocarcinoma, a rare type of cancer that forms in the bile ducts. It was aggressive, lethal, and quick. It stole 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 docs at the hospital. Each test needed to be approved, wasting valuable days as VST got 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 he wouldn’t share another Easter meal with me.

The idea of hospice service is romantic and wonderful. The company we used was made of a group of earth angels, with a few limitations. It was a wonderful place to get all kinds of helpful drugs. Morphine, Lorazapam, 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 that 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 though it is known that a loved one is going to die, no one is ready for the moment they really do. At least, I wasn’t.

In our small county, with no coroner, the Sheriff was needed to pronounce VST deceased. 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 over our six year stay, and it would be a huge comfort to me. I was told he was in a meeting, but a deputy would be dispatched. 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 personal. 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 held. Without a trace of him, of us. Just a pretty room with all furniture put back in perfect order.

In the cold void of death, the kids left the next morning, needing to get back to their lives six hours away. I was alone of 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 that had been so intertwined with her other half that she knew not where he stopped and she began.

It came to me that I needed to have an immediate life raft, and so I turned to the consistently comforting thing that had been there through my entire life. Words. I chose three to symbolize the first month.

Food. Shelter. Clothing.

Those words would get me to focus 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 in the gentlest way, listening to the wails and sobs late into that first night of widowhood.

This is my story. Everyone reading here has 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, where I could jot down the simplest things I did. I made sure I completed three tasks a day, writing them down. I rely on that now to remember how strong I was in those early days. You are just as strong.

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