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Transformations On This Path


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Thank you, MartyT, for this place of healing and solace.

I've been responding on some topics, and thought that it was time to start a topic and introduce myself.

I am becoming more aware of myself going through a deep and intense transformation in my feelings, my faith, and my awareness of not only life, but of love. I see myself walking through a shadowed valley, but I know I am on my way Somewhere, and that this journey, as with others, has light and happiness somewhere in the future. When I lost my Dad, who was my best friend, I thought I would never recover, and yet, that was mild compared to this. Then, I took off a semester from my work, and walked the beaches of Lake Michigan, and spent most of my time in my studio just off campus, and walked for hours and hours, and sailed more, from the beaches in Evanston where I lived.

I was head of the Center for American Archaeology at Northwestern University. I lectured at various universities, mostly in maths, but had always been involved in archaeology and anthropology. I am also an artist. I am a published archaeologist, have had too many art shows to count, and right now, I am slowly recovering from a visiting virus, while also sorting out my new life. My own company, started in 1979, does consulting on applied mathematical algorithms mostly for non-governmental charities and trusts.

In the world, I now live in Montana. I have my own art studio, where I do everything from high-fired translucent porcelain vessels to silk screens and oils. I've been an artist since I was five, I think, and had my first watercolor show at 13. I studied at Chicago Art Institute and with several artists when I was young (cleaning brushes and sweeping studio floors, and loved every minute of it!) who taught me a lot, and hope to be ready to get back to art soon, as I have a couple of galleries waiting for my works. My web site is down, but when I get it up again, it will be at makingmudpies.com, which is funny because my work is fairly formal and elegant, more than happy and casual, although I am good at japanese tea bowls, too. But that could all change. There have been so many changes this past year that I know I must keep myself open to little nudges from my Angels.

My husband Doug was a climber (as am I), a brilliant epistemologist, with reading clubs for his works at, among other places, MIT, Chicago, CalTech and Princeton. He was a former regular Army Ranger officer and aviator, who flew two tours in VietNam, which left him very shaken and often deeply angry, but we healed him from that before he left. He was also a wonderfully creative artist, so we are much alike, although I write mostly on human rights and ethics. We worked together these last ten years, and were recognized internationally for our writings on human rights.

Doug escaped his non-functioning body on February 7, 2012, so it has been almost a year. The first few weeks were pure numbness, as I took care of all the logistics, sorted through papers, and dealt with less than kind in-laws. Then, I had to gather all the papers to take to our trustee, and begin to figure out how to have breakfast alone, how to give Thanks alone, and how to find one small thing for which to be grateful every day—a great suggestion by our pastor, Dean Heidi, who is also a wonderful friend.

An accident two weeks before Doug's initial diagnosis in December of 2008 injured my spine, but with his diagnosis, I just ignored the pains and began taking care of him, pretty much full time. His initial diagnosis was already Stage IV, and the prognosis was not good. We kept him going, with the help of a whole host of Angels, for three years. He was able to get a lot of things done, we had a lot of fun together, and we had time to say everything we wanted to say to each other. That was a total blessing. By the time he left, I was in a back brace and gobbling prescription pain medications well above the limits recommended. The back injury from the accident was making itself well known.

I kept myself on going through Doug's Life Celebration in Fairbanks, Alaska on his birthday and our anniversary, which was May 19th-20th 2012. It was difficult staying in our home in Fairbanks without Doug. I did not get much sorting done. There were many horrid facts to face about his family. While there, by June, I began to lose feeling in my legs and feet, which, after the horrible pain, was sort of a blessing.

Now I am back in Montana, had emergency surgery to resolve the cauda equina (I had no idea there was such a thing until after the surgery when they told me how fortunate I was to come through so very well!) in July, and am learning to walk and lift things and exercise again. Somehow, with all that has happened this last year, I had not had time to sit with myself, be compassionate with me, and allow myself to fully grieve this profound loss. I was pretty stoic and locked up inside.

So, a while ago, I started going to a group, but found it not too helpful. Then I found and still have a wonderful grief counselor who lost her husband three years ago to ALZ after caring for him for several years. She is wonderful, caring, compassionate, and we can really relate. Her husband was a professor of comparative religions, so had the same sort of mind as Doug, and they come from an academic environment, so we can talk shorthand about some things, which is helpful.

I just had my 66th birthday on 26 January, and am looking forward to another adventure, and a long life, since in my family we all wear out at about 100. I do plan to be back in the mountains.

Doug and I had great fun together, as we were both outdoor people in excellent physical condition—until the cancer. Our minds worked well in tandem, and we won awards for our writing. I miss working with him, playing with him, creating with him, and loving with him. I miss the hugs in passing, the kisses on the top of my head when he would wander over to my desk. I miss going to sleep holding hands. I miss his voice, his touch, and his tender, loving humor. I miss everything he was to me, the other half of me, and our long, long talks while we listened to music by candlelight and sipped our glasses of wine. I am barely yet able to go into our wine cellar, which was one of Doug's hobbies.

Now I have found this place with articulate, compassionate, and sharing others, and it is more of a blessing than I can say. Thank you all.

I don't know what my life is going to become. When Doug's cancer returned in October of 2011, we had already begun packing (thinking he was all right by then after two rounds of chemo and having had a go-ahead from his oncologist) to move to Southeast Alaska to a new home we were negotiating to buy in Hoonah. My studio and much of our household things here in Montana are still packed, and while I want to unpack it all, I am not ready yet. It is too much to acknowledge quite yet that all those dreams are gone. The kind people returned our earnest money on the house, thank goodness.

I am rambling a bit, because I am still working and feeling, thinking and meditating, to sort out all that has happened this past year and longer. After being Doug's medical advocate and caregiver for three years, I need to find myself again. I need to sort myself out, and that is taking time.

Thank goodness for flu, and for the forced respite I have from it. G*d could not have given me a better gift than this time to mourn, share, meditate, and begin to find my way back to my own center of being.

I have no idea who I will be when I emerge back into the light. But I do know it will be all right in the end. Thank you all for caring. The sharing and compassion here have allowed me to cry tears, wail, and to turn my compassion toward my own healing, finally. I can feel the sadness, the sense of emptiness, and the deep grief being replaced slowly, little by little, with love, faith, and glimmers of hope. Thank you.

I feel that I have found a home for my grieving heart, and a sanctuary for my hopeful spirit. Thank you for sharing, caring, and compassion. Thank you for welcoming me to your community.

*<twinkles>*

feralfae

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My dear feralfae,

How wonderful that you have found this caring place. You did right in offering your thank you to Marty, our grief counselor here on this forum. Everyone has the same feeling that we are all on a journey together and guided and supported by one very capable, caring person.

I like your post name – “Transformations On This Path.” Thank you for sharing your life with us. As with so many of us we have all suffered many loses. Each person’s loss is unique and painful and we are here to listen as they move through their grief.

How happy I was to read about your time in the IL area. We have walked the same paths to many of those favorite places at one time or another – Chicago Art Institute, Northwestern, Lake Michigan, & Evanston… I spent my adult life in the IL area for almost forty years as a wife, mother, grandmother, and educator only moving to AZ in 1999.

Your background sounds so exciting. Do you like Montana? I will look forward to seeing your web site when it comes up. When you talk about Doug you do so with love. Many of us on this forum have a deep love of our now deceased husbands. The pain is intense as we journey through the reality.

You are approaching your first anniversary of Doug’s death. Firsts have been so hard for so many of us. I will not reach mine until May. Other firsts (holidays) have been bearable. There is a sadness even thinking about Jim’s anniversary.

But that is why I am on this forum, feralae, the support will carry me through.

Your bout with cauda equina has been a long healing process. Yes, you are fortunate to be coming through it so well. Good for you.

You mention that you ‘don’t know what my life is going to become.” Welcome to the club ^_^ - neither do the rest of us! We will learn as we travel this journey. Anne

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Dear Anne,

Thank you for your reply.

Thank you for welcoming me to the club!

This is such a wonderful place of truly wonderful people. Thank you for the special bond—I had several friends at the Field, of course. And I will never, ever forget when, as a special gift, one of our dear friends arranged for me to have an early morning private showing of the Monet exhibit at AIC, because I am not comfortable in crowded rooms (hence, Montana!) and I was in heaven. It was one of my best days ever, and so I know you will smile. :) That was many years ago. Thank you for reminding me of that time.

I lived on Eastwood in Evanston, a few blocks east of the tracks, just west of the stadium, one block south of Wilmette, there by the little park, if you know where I mean. I could easily walk/run to my dusty old building on Ridge, which was the old Pierce Arrow building, and the name was still in the lintel above our front door. I think there are shops now. It was off campus, but great for archaeologists with dusty things and needing lots of shelving. :) And close enough to campus to walk over for lunch. They demolished our old, dusty, artifact-filled spot, but I loved that old building, of course. And we are scattered, those of us who were there.

I still get to Kampsville occasionally to visit everyone still doing research there, too. I enjoy going across the river on the ferry. :)

I enjoy Montana for its splendor and magnificent mountains, which I have thoroughly enjoyed visiting. :) We were moving to Southeast Alaska, but we had not decided whether or not to sell our home here. I don't have a clue right now about the future, but I am doing a bit of redecorating, such as recovering pillows, and working on new needlepoint pillows, too. A bit of painting. :) I asked a girlfriend in real estate what I needed to do the house if I wanted to sell it, just in case, and so I am enjoying a new kitchen floor and will be putting up new trim in the huge living room, but that was about it. We were always doing things here or in Fairbanks.

I have wonderful friends here, and also in Fairbanks. I just am not ready to figure this stuff out yet, and I still work, although I went to minimal work these past few years, and need to build up clients again if I want to go back to my consulting. I don't know yet. All (or, I hope, at least most!) of my clients would love to have me back, but I am not ready, I know. My brain is too fuzzy for multi-vector calculus right now. So I am sewing, painting, doing things that make me smile, mostly, and bringing some little bits of new beauty into this place. I just take it a day at a time.

Yes, this is a new journey, and I know we will learn and shift, grow and transform, and that is what life is supposed to be about.

My Grandmother often told us when we were small that:

We could not change the past, but we could shape the future. It was one of her favorite comforts after we would goof up during our summers on her huge ranch. Her words and love still comfort me today. I try to remember that I am still the creator of my life as I look out through these tears, knowing Doug left right on time. Just not my time. :)

Okay, we carry on, learning and transforming. :)

Thank you.

*<twinkles>*

Much Love,

feralfae

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feralfae,

Thank you so much for sharing your story, and your life with Doug. It sounds as though it was a wonderful filled life and it's understandable that you would miss him so much. I love your positive attitude, one that was undoubtedly formed over such a rich and fulfilling life! As you look forward and anticipate a future with happiness yet ahead in it, I am sure it will happen for you.

I, too, believe that this journey is transforming us. Most of us have our ups and downs but try not to let the downs defeat us, and try to focus on the positive side. Still, there are times you'll hear wailing in here and that's to be expected.

I am curious why you were moving to Alaska and then decided to move back to Montana? I don't mean to pry, if you don't care to answer, just ignore my question. :)

I'm sorry Doug's family hasn't been all you would wish for...families can be like that sometimes. I haven't heard from George's family after his initial death and their wanting something, as if I had anything. I am fortunate to have my own family! I am glad you have a lot of friends, and if, after a year, they are still around, they are likely to stay. Many of us lost our friends when we lost our spouse, another common casualty of death.

Good luck on your (physical) recovery! It sounds like it was a good thing you'd been in good physical shape, that often aids greatly in the recovery prognosis. What we set our minds to, we often reach!

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Dear Kay,

You wrote: "I am curious why you were moving to Alaska and then decided to move back to Montana? I don't mean to pry, if you don't care to answer, just ignore my question."

We have long had homes in both Fairbanks Alaska and here in Montana. Both very simple homes, and the one here, we heat with wood, although we do have back-up heat. We raised our gardens here, our fruit trees are here, and we spent some winters here, as well as some summers. Our home is above the Missouri, with wonderful fishing and of course the mountains.

After Doug got sick, we were here most of the time, because the cancer clinic is here that Doug needed, and his friend and fellow climber is the head oncologist. We lived both places. Our long-term plans were to move to Southeast Alaska, and maybe sell this place, but probably keep our tiny, simple place in Fairbanks, at least for a while. We just did not get around to moving before Doug got really sick the last time.

So, it is a question of where I need to be now, and I have our church group, many artist friends, the Bray Foundation for the ceramic arts, and lots of loved ones including our Godchildren, here. But our plans were to move to an island in Southeast, have our main home there where we could have a huge garden, eat lots of fish, and also live simply. It was our dream together, and I knew I could not take on the load of finishing the interior of the new house, moving, and setting up in a new place without Doug. So I am staying put for now, but not up yet to unpacking all the boxes.

Yes, I am slowly (emphasis on slowly) beginning to rebuild from the cauda equina and the years of caring full time for Doug. Financially, things are tight, which is why I am so glad I have wood heat, since the wood from our land is free. I am slowly being able to walk a straight line again, as my muscles and nerves begin to carry on conversations. :) I can stand up straight again. I am not in constant pain. Yes, I am trying to eat well, stay healthy, and get lots healthier.

Yes, I have lost a lot of married couple friends, but have also discovered some wonderful people who came forward and have truly been here for me, especially right after Doug left and I was dealing with so much. And the married friends may be back—I think my loss brings to light the reality of their own inevitable loss of one or the other of them. We all need to work through things in our own time. I was angry at first, then I remembered how I felt when another friend lost his wife, and how it scared Doug to think about me leaving him alone. It just takes time to work through and find acceptance of mortality and loss, I think.

Thank you for your caring note. You sound as though you are in a good place with yourself, and being open to the wailing as well as the smiles. I am working on being the same, and meanwhile, just healing.

Thank you. Blessings and *<twinkles>* feralfae

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You certainly have your plate full right now, but you will figure out what is the best thing for you and all will work out for you. I agree, your priority right now has to be healing and building yourself. I know what you say is true, that others are hit with their own mortality and sometimes withdraw as we serve as a visible reminder of what they could face. I admire you for your positive spirit and determination! I also live in the country and heat my house with wood heat. It does present a lot of work but there's also something satisfying about it too. It makes for a long commute as there are no local jobs, and the city folk don't understand why I don't just uproot and move to the city...I was raised there...no thank you! I am a country girl and love nature. In the city I wouldn't see my beloved elk and deer, coyotes, foxes, owls, Tanningers, bears, and even the dreaded cougars! George and I both loved where we lived and his ashes are scattered here...it's where I want mine scattered someday. Besides, where in the city can you see the stars so brightly? The city lights make it more difficult, and I love the beauty of this place.

My son has always been drawn to Montana, wouldn't mind living there one day...we are in the mountains of Oregon.

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Dear Kay,

The mountains of Oregon must be a most beautiful place to live!

I went back to work at the office for a couple of days, and discovered that I have almost no energy for the busy office days. Then, I tried to work until 8:00 last night to catch up, since the accountant was there to work on tax things, and barely made it home to bed before I collapsed. I am not over the flu, obviously, although the fever is gone. I just don't have any energy, and feel very weak. But I don't want to fall into further collapse, so I try to get up and do things, and can do so for maybe half an hour, before I sort of collapse into a chair or our bed.

Our bed... yes, I am still having trouble seeing things as Mine. Our home, Our office, our foundation, our life, our dreams, our hopes, our future. Although I got new sheets, and have rearranged lots of things, this is still our home, our place, our chairs, our bed. It has been a year, tomorrow, since Doug left, and yet I still keep feeling very married and although Doug is not here, I don't feel alone some times, so much as that he is here, and if I am still and listen, I can hear him talking to me quietly the way he did those last months, when we would sit with our heads together to talk. Part of it is probably this turning of the days, this first anniversary, but, oh, I hope it gets easier soon. But I do hear his voice, always with good and loving advice. :)

And although I am sometimes working again, my mind is still fuzzy, and I am not thinking as well, nor able to do a lot of work that requires complete concentration, so I am most impressed with and given hope by the wonderful accomplishments of so many friends here. I hope to get back to being able to concentrate more soon.

Monday I had three "scrapings" of places on my face, and one stitch where one deep 'scraping" tissue sample was taken. I think part of the spots are due to age, and part of it is spending a lot of time up at high altitudes. I don't think it is anything serious, but the doc wanted to check out the spots, and, since he is a cousin, he wanted to have good samples to investigate in his lab, since he is also the lab guy, and he did not want me to need to come back for more scrapings and tests. The shots were the worst part, but I made it without screaming, because I hate shots, and now sport three little bandaids. He'll call when he knows. I miss having Doug here to share concerns and bring a cup of tea, sit down, and ask, "So, how did it go? How is it going? Anything you want to talk about?" which we did for each other, as it is one of my family's rituals to invite discussions. There is no one here to talk about my day, my hopes, my fears, or my projects. No one to share this life.

Today I see my grief counselor. I need to find out if I am doing okay. I look around me at other women who have lost their husbands here in Montana, many since Doug left, and who are really getting back to their lives very fast, sometimes just a few months, and even dating. They are encouraging me to go out more, at least to have coffee with someone, but I don't want to. It does not feel right.

And I ask myself if there is something wrong with me, because I don't feel that I have moved very far along yet, and while I a not entirely impatient, I sometimes wonder if I am stuck or not doing this "right" because I still feel married to my darling Doug. I know that we each do this our own way, but I see so many people starting new lives, some talking about getting married again, or falling in love, and right now, the idea of any such thing just scares me. I barely seem to have enough energy to hold myself together most of the time, much less working on new relationships. But my girlfriend who lost her husband in July is talking about dating again already, and while I know she and her husband were not very close any longer, it just feels too soon for me to even think about it this for me. I want time to sort myself out.

Mostly, I want what I cannot have, and that is Doug back to be here with me, to share our life, and to help me sort things out, which we did for each other. I know that is not going to happen. I am trying to find ways and means to go forward, but it all seems totally beyond my present state of being. Maybe when this flu is finally licked, I will feel better. Right now, I just feel alone, vulnerable, and confused. And I guess that is normal, or what is normal for me. I hope it stops hurting so much sometime soon.

I know everyone here is on this same journey, and I just hope we are all headed toward more happiness, joy, love, sharing, optimism, and adventures. Thank you for letting me whine for a while. :) I know it is okay here in this place, and no one will think I am losing my mind. But some days, it surely does feel that way. I most definitely am not who I was with Doug here. I hope the new me shows up soon, at least enough to recognize. I am still feeling only half, and very alone and raw. I hope I heal more soon.

Much Love and Blessings,

*<twinkles>*

feralfae

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feralfae,

I think it's pretty common to not have the same focus as before, to have a hard time with thinking, I know I did.

I also remember not wanting to change the sheets the first month and when I finally HAD to, I cried. My daughter came home with me at first and slept with me, but after a couple of weeks she was back to seeing her friends, getting work, etc. I had to go in and do payroll after a week and was fully back to work in two weeks, but it was hard and I found myself making mistakes...not like me.

I still don't sleep in our bed, I choose instead to use the recliner. The bed just seems so lonely, like it emphasizes that he's missing. I'd rather be in the living room with the animals around me.

I hope you take time to rest and get over this flu...I know it's a hard time of year, esp. with a business and taxes, but they can file an extension that will give you more time.

You aren't the "yourself" that you were "before"...losing your spouse creates changes and it does take time and a process to learn our new normal. We evolve through this journey into who we become.

I don't want you to feel there is no one to share your life with, I know it's not the same as having Doug there, but we are here. I guess that's why we share about having the flu and our dogs antics...it may not have a lot to do with grief, but in a way, grief affects every aspect of our lives...and none of us have someone at home sharing in these things with us, asking about our day, bringing us a cup of tea, so we share things here more than other people in other forums might of their personal lives. These people here are like a family and there's always room for more!

Yes some of the people here are quite accomplished, I am amazed by Harry and Mary and I shouldn't say their names because that infers leaving someone out, and really, all of these people here are quite amazing...me, I am more simple, I like the quiet country life. I accomplished much when I was young...now, I am just trying to find some purpose or something to look forward to. Meanwhile, I just enjoy each day as it comes, my animals, the beauty of the country, friends, what there is. I don't take anything for granted, that's one thing death does for you.

I can't say as I feel like a "half" anymore, but I do feel very alone. I guess that's because I am! :)

You can share here as much as you want...sometimes I feel like a blabbermouth, but I figure someone can always ignore me if they so choose! :)

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Thank you Kay.

I do find this a wonderful place of solace to come read, write, share, and mostly, just read what others are going through and nod my head several times, then feel not so alone.

My grief counselor was very helpful, reminding me that I have had a lot more to deal with than Doug leaving—but I think most of us here have had more than our husbands leaving, or our wives. We find all the usual life activities are now our sole responsibility—all the things we once shared and divided the burdens in two. Now, I must look after so many things, and many of them were put off while Doug was in his last months. The septic is pumped and cleaned. The puddle of ice in the drive is filled in. The storm door is repaired. I fixed two doorknobs that were not properly tightened. I have fixed the garage door. So many little things that usually went on the "honey do" list are now done, by me.

This evening a year ago, Doug asked for a glass of our best bottle of wine, his beautiful cane he made from a juniper root, his top hat that he often wore to parties and even out to dinner—alpinists do things like this, being such free and independent spirits—and asked me to crawl back into bed with him. It was then he told me he was leaving very soon. He told me again and again how much he loved me, how very much he loved me. He told me he would see me soon. He told me that I was his personal angel. We talked until he was too weak to talk much more, and he had removed the feeding tube and oxygen. Later, he wanted the oxygen back. He was still entirely lucid and aware.

He left the next night, after a long day of slowly sinking further and further away from me. But he is still here in my heart, and I still feel his spirit when I need to sort out my frequent confusions.

Today was a blessing of a day, though, in many ways. My grief counselor was helpful, and affirmed that I am not crazy. My darling mother-in-law from my first marriage passed away recently, and today, her trustee called to tell me that the very old, family heirloom necklace she had left to me has been found, and will be here tomorrow. To me, this is a gift from both her and Doug. It is the last bit of the "ticket stones" her family ancestors used to escape from extermination. They were Jews. She and her first husband later became Christians, and he (Jim) returned to earn his DD, and they went to serve in places where ministers were needed who did not need a salary. :) Later, Jim passed away, my mother-in-law passed away, and Dad and second Mom-in-law met at church. I think it was love at first sight, and they had many happy years together before Dad left at 98. She lived on to 98, and we talked almost every day. She loved Doug, and often sent little gifts to him. Now, on this first anniversary, I will have her token of love for me to put on and wear while I look through photos, listen to and watch videos, and celebrate my wonderful Doug and wonderful Estelle. I fell very fortunate, although sad, to have had such loving and wonderful people to share a part of my life with me. I have no idea why I have been so remarkably blessed. But I am glad I am.

The trial balances are done, and of course all the tax statements were mailed last month, so we are up to date on things. I am told we will not need to do an extension, but thank you for that thought, and if it gets too rough to do now, I will certainly keep that in mind.

Several people have called today to share love and kindnesses. My counselor was loving and kind, and suggested that I not strive at all for a few days, just lay low, allow myself to feel the grief and loss, knowing that it will move through and out of me soon. I was just crying, so I went for a short walk on this exceptionally warm evening, out among our trees and gardens.

Yes, Kay, I am glad I have this place to pour my grief, because it really helps to have a place to pour where I do not feel I am overburdening people with all of this sadness.

Much Love,

feralfae

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feralae,

Somehow when it comes out of you, it doesn't sound like sadness, but more like gratefulness. :)

I felt that way about my MIL too (my kids' dad's mom) and my FIL, they were very special and I was blessed to have had them. It's hard losing such special people and life changing, but that is part of life...always changing, never constant.

I'm glad you got your necklace to remember some special people/times with. And your time with Doug, that sounds very special too. I wish I could have had that with George...I thought we'd get it that last day, I didn't think he'd die so soon, but it happens how it does.

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Dear Kay,

Thank you. Special is unique, and so, we each have our own special times and lives and loving, I think.

Kay, just because you did not have time to say words does not mean that the intention was not manifested at a spirit level. Yes, it is a true blessing to share the words out loud, to have the time to say "see you later" and to have last kisses and hugs and touches with that other manifestation of spirit, but I am sure that you and George met at a spirit level, and that cannot change by "something as the simple as a minor detail like death" as Doug used to say to me when we were talking about "next time." :)

I miss Doug's physical presence. I miss sharing ideas with him. But I have profound knowing of his spirit still being connected with mine. I am sure you feel that with George as well. Sometimes, when I let myself put down all the worries and stop being hyper-vigilant too much of the time, and surrender to the silence, I can hear Doug reassuring me, letting me know that all is well. Meditation helps to calm my mind and heart a great deal.

I am here, counting hours, watching videos, reading Doug's words, cherishing some of his love letters to me, admiring all the things he made for me, thanking him for sharing his spirit with me, because out of everyone on Earth he found me (!), and for letting us touch each other's hearts. Wow, what an incredible gift! :)

I feel as though I am surrounded by Angels, and that the entire Universe is conspiring on my behalf. Estelle's necklace arrived today by FedEx, and I have it on, remembering some of her wisdom:

Life is meant to be happy.

You are entitled to as many miracles as anyone. Anyone.

Love is the only valid reason for anything you do.

And she used to say how lucky she was to have had two such wonderful husbands. Especially Dad, she said, which made him smile every time. :) She often told us how lucky Doug and I were to have each other. When Doug left, Estelle and I comforted each other by telephone. She left a memorial to him with the American Cancer Society. She really helped me a lot—she is still loving and helping me.

For me today, people are calling, sending cards, notes, flowers, and love. Having the necklace arrive was a very special blessing. It is very comforting. And Estelle's Goddaughter, who received it accidentally, sent it filled with her love as well. She is a remarkably wonderful woman with 5 sons.

And here at HOV, this place simply IS comfort. Thank you all. {{{hugs}}}

Blessings, much love, and of course

*<twinkles>*

fae

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Dear Anne,

Thank you so much. I feel comforted reading other posts here, knowing this journey is a shared one. Thank you for the welcome.

Blessings, Much Love and *<twinkles>*

fae

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fae,

It sounds as though you were as blessed as I was when it came to mom-in-laws! I hope your necklace brings you much comfort.

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Thank you Kay

Yes, Estelle was a superb person, brilliant, loving, and unable to have children from her body. She had some wonderful children of spirit, however, and everyone of them a lovely person. I was her Daughter(-by-marriage), and she gifted me with great love. After I met Doug, she gifted him with her love as well. I am so glad I got to love her.

The necklace is so special because of the story. The tiny diamond was one of those smuggled out, and used to buy life. Ticket of life, they were called back during the Inquisition. (I was told a lot of remarkable stories by my Dad. It's funny to find others who fled Spain at that time, because many of us, even if reared on various continents, look a bit alike. But Estelle was not of that line. She was not Sephardic. And of course, that is only a drop of my genes, along with Scottish, French, Sioux, etcetera, but it is a nice heritage.)

I think it was recut in about 1850 or so, into that old european cut. It is not a significant stone, but the history of these stones is remarkable.

This was one of the ones saved—who knows by what means! It has been passed down through the women of the family. It keeps getting diverted due to no daughters, so now, I am its steward. I have daughters, so we are covered, and Dad told them the stories as well. So, Estelle married my husband David's father, and she brought with her the ticket of life, which her mother-in-law had given her when Estelle married Jim. I think Jim's mother, Adele, had no daughters. Adele was Estelle's wonderful MIL.

My father called these the Stones of Rachel. (Lots of history in that phrase!) My Father's name was Joseph. This stone ties back a circle more than 600 years, for that branch of my far-flung ancestors left Spain in 1500. The stone belonged to one of many families to escape torture and death and go out into the New World with what they could carry, hide, convert, and conserve, and that family might have been mine. I consider this stone a wonderful talisman of Doug's love, Estelle's love, and how very, amazingly blessed I am to have them in my life and heart. I miss them both terribly, but I am not alone. :) These circles of Grace are truly amazing. Truly.

Thank you for allowing me to praise Estelle here. We have yet to have her memorial service, which falls to me when I am able to do so, and I must not wait too long, as many of her friends in her retirement community are in their 80s and 90s, and I would like to see them all and bring them together one more time, as Estelle did at so many magnificent parties she hosted.

Thank you for this healing place to share these stories. Thank you.

Blessings, hugs, and much love, herinafter condensed into

*<twinkles>*

fae

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I must add:

As is the custom in our line, we retain few assets within the family: the women generally share their fortunes with charities. Estelle left most of her estate to Hunter, Duke, the American Cancer Society, and a variety of scholarship funds at a variety of schools. Maybe some to Harvard. And the University of Tampa. It is the custom.

And the tiny stone I have received means more than any fortune, as I am sure you all understand. :)

And to have it arrive today makes me certain there is a conspiracy of Angels. :)

*<twinkles>*

fae

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This has been a wonderful place to spend a lot of this day. There have been many loving calls and emails. Tomorrow I am having a massage from a very good masseuse and then I go for my physical, and I know it is going to show that my endocrine systems are improving, that my spine surgery is healed, that my health has improved in many ways.

The report today is that all the biopsied spots were totally benign. One more plus for the day. I am alive, and slowly coming back to life as well.

Thank you for all the wonderful posts that I have been reading. How comforting to find this place!

*<twinkles>*

fae

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That is wonderful news, Fae!

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It is February 9th, and I have made it past the one-year mark of Doug's leaving on 7 February.

A year ago, when someone told me I would feel better in a year, I could not imagine that I would be alive in a year, much less feel better. All I wanted to do was leave and go find Doug. Then, and I think I wrote about this before, one of our dear friends had a dream where Doug was lecturing me and telling me to stay in my body. She was most emphatic when she was confronting me about that. Other friends had other dreams to tell me about. I felt at the time that I had lost all connections with Doug, because I was not dreaming about Doug, but only hearing about others dreaming of him talking to me, and then telling me about the dreams. I guess I was too deep in grief to even have dreams at that time. By now, I have had a few lovely dreams of us together.

I planned a lot of practical events to help me make it through this anniversary time because this week so filled with memories from last year. I looked at photos, watched videos, read notes and letters. It helped a lot. I had a massage. I went out to dinner with one of our Godsons, who came home from college to spend part of yesterday with me. I met a friend for coffee. I felt very proud that I was taking care of myself, even while all the memories of those last days Doug when was here flooded in and pretty much overwhelmed me.

But I have been even more overwhelmed by the love that has reached me from my friends, my family and my husband through these golden threads of love which seem to have held me together thus far. The notes. The arrival of the necklace. The 'all clear' diagnosis on what everyone was concerned was skin cancer. And yesterday, a good report on my heart. Hurray!

A couple of his "bird books" showed up in the mail yesterday after being on loan for several years. Doug's scraps of paper with his field notes are still in the books. A fellow from a wildlife refuge had borrowed them in, I think, 2006, and only recently came back to the US from field work in S. America. So, here are the books, with Doug's notes and a few of mine on bits of paper interleaved with the pages of the books. I held the books, smelling them, caressing them, and hoping to feel a little of Doug there. But the books have been through a lot of hands. Our contact is mostly spirit now, I know.

I have made it this long, lonely year. As I type this, I glance over at the corner of our living room where Doug would sit in his wingback chair, writing up notes, answering emails, sorting papers, and occasionally smiling at me or chuckling over something and then sharing it with me if I looked up from my own work.

A lot of my pain now is still this overwhelming sense of loss, or finality, or knowing I will not have his presence here in our home. I woke up crying, although I had a good day yesterday. Each time I shed tears, I know there is healing, that I am coming to acceptance, and that emptiness is being filled with a new kind of love that cherishes, remembers, and celebrates our love Here. And even as I cry, I have a certainty about the future, and I know Doug is only gone from that broken body, and that his spirit is still with, in, and around me, and his love still fills my being. But, oh, I miss his voice, his breakfast prayers at the table, his kind and loving hugs just any old time, and his humor and wit.

But I think that I am grieving less. I am able to function more. I no longer plan to join Doug before it is my time. I am taking better care of myself. I am cooking meals. I am able to take care of the house fairly well, although there is still a lot to do to restore things to the way it was prior to Doug's illness. And the house will not be that way again, anyway, but rearranged, redecorated, with new memories starting to be made these days. Yet, the overwhelming sense here in our house, for me, is still one of loss and emptiness.

But here is the good news: When I grieve, mourn, cry, and tremble with this sense of loss, there is a quiet voice now, reassuring me, telling me that things will be all right. That I will be fine. That the future will get better, lighter, and have more joy. Doug used to tell me I made a great research scholar because I have more curiosity than anyone he had ever met. And now, my curiosity is awakening a bit, and I am beginning to wonder what the future will hold, and how I can contribute to the shaping of that future. I don't have any answers yet, but I am able to ask the question, which I could not do a few weeks ago.

Grief wells up in my heart, and I must stop whatever I am doing to cry. But then it passes faster these days. One book I read called these "grief bursts" and that is a good description—sort of like a cloud burst, just moving in fast, a sudden quick shower of tears, a sense of cleansing, and relief.

I think it is all right to natter on here. None of this is required reading for anyone, but it makes me feel that I have shared the journey, have taken it out from inside of me and set it in public view, and that it has been permissible to do so. Somehow, sharing here makes me feel that others understand and honor this experience.

Doug would be embarrassed by this public emotional display, I think. But it is not too public. He did not want people to know he had cancer. He did not want people to know, even when we knew he was leaving soon, that he was leaving. He did not want to publicly acknowledge his leaving. Some people knew. He was a very private person. We were a very private couple, which is ironic considering that we are both writers and our stuff is all over the internet. But our personal life was pretty calm and private. Not secret, just private.

We had some very close friends, and they have held me in their hearts through all of this, and helped Doug when he was preparing to leave. He let them know. Most people we knew had little information, because Doug wanted it that way. When I started posting on Caring Bridge, to provide updates in response to all of the emails and phone calls, and to alleviate the repetition of the updates, it was a relief for me, but Doug thought it was too public, and often edited what I wrote, excluding most of the medical details.

And of course, I did not give up hope until Doug told me that we were aborting the mission. Then we began to say goodbye. We had already prepared for this leaving, just in case, but we held onto hope for a long time. I am glad we did. I am glad there was nothing left unsaid. I am glad he was with me when he escaped. I am glad we had each other.

What I am hoping for these days is the courage and strength to continue, to live on, to become who I am becoming, and to be able to share love and kindness with others, and to carry on our work. I hope to be able to show Doug's love and compassion for others, for he was a non-judgmental person, far more than am I. I don't think he even needed to forgive people—he simply accepted them as they were, and hoped that they would learn the lessons they were here to learn. He would often let people harm him, and still treat them as a friend. I am more wary. Right now, I feel the need to be very wary, as there have been some instances where I needed to have protected myself better since Doug left. I am learning a new balance in my life.

I am watching all of this unfold. I am very thankful to have had our years together. Doug's love changed my life in many wonderful ways, and I know that will continue into my future. I am astounded and amazed at all the love around me, and all the beautiful expressions of love that keep arriving. I am also learning how to take care of myself better these days, and to eat healthy foods, drink lots of water, sleep enough, exercise, take time to meditate, to read books that comfort me, to watch funny and happy movies, and to reach out when I need comfort and help. I am learning to take care of myself again, after those years of being so entirely focused on taking care of Doug.

I am glad to have this place to write, to share, and to articulate my feelings as words. I am sad to be on this transformation, but thankful for how it is working out in so many ways. I am thankful to be able to have enough awareness to see how things are unfolding, and to be reassured of my life and path, and to be able to know that I am recovering, healing, and accepting. I am so thankful to have my faith to carry me, and for friends and loving people around me.

I have made it through this year of upside-downness, of emptiness, and of sorrow. I am not finished on this path, but I know, and am wonderfully reassured, that things will be all right.

Blessings, Much Love and

*<twinkles>*

fae

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I think it is all right to natter on here. None of this is required reading for anyone, but it makes me feel that I have shared the journey, have taken it out from inside of me and set it in public view, and that it has been permissible to do so. Somehow, sharing here makes me feel that others understand and honor this experience.

My dear Fae, your beautiful writing is a far cry from nattering, and you're absolutely right: none of it is required reading. Still, I love and cherish the way you write, and I cannot help but read and take to heart every word you write. Rest assured that here your grief experience is indeed understood, honored, and valued very highly. I am deeply grateful to you for adding to the rich tapestry that we're all weaving here.

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Thank you, MartyT, for those kind and comforting words.

I often feel that I am writing too much here, taking up too much time and space here, but then, as Kay pointed out, people have a choice to simply ignore it all.

Thank you for this wonderful vessel into which we call all pour our shared sense of loss, our grief, and where we can share, celebrate, and find solace in our wonderful opportunity to have experienced the blessings of love and our beloved.

Thank you.

*<twinkles>* (I find that fairy dust shines even through tears. ) :)

fae

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Fae,

Having that first "year without" behind me was a relief to me...it told me that I had indeed survived much and I would never again do another "first without". You have been through so much this year and you are indeed a survivor! Doug can have his privacy, but this is your journey now and it's best done the way you feel and need. It is okay to share with us. And although the "public" could come here, most choose not to...to most it would not interest them, only to us who are on this journey with you and choose to come here too. I have long ago quit worrying about privacy. I know that this is a vacuum that only some choose to come to...it's not like a future employer will read this stuff, and so what if they did! What we are experiencing is no different than anyone else who has lost their mate, and for those who have not, either they will or their spouse will someday.

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Thank you Kay. Your words are most comforting.

This is a journaling place for me, as well as a sharing place.

Today, for the first time since Doug asked me to open a bottle of our best (french) wine and had the tiniest sip from his glass before he left, I went into his wine cellar and chose a bottle. I cried for a while, just to be in there, where everything was designed, arranged, sorted, and stewarded by Doug. I wanted to have a glass with the half of my dinner I brought home last night from the restaurant. It seemed a good time to do so. I had dinner with one of our Godsons, who came home from school to take me out to dinner, and who loved Doug so very much, was with us in Alaska when Doug had his first surgery and diagnosis, and who is also an alpinist and adventurer, and looked up to Doug as his leader, father, and mentor. It is hard to describe how close we were. This Godson had no functional parents, and we sort of totally adopted him, got him settled into college (engineering) and have been his emotional and financial support thus far. I am carrying on those traditions Doug had with these young men. And I have a couple of dear Goddaughters, too, whom we shared.

I brought home half of my little steak, half of my baked potato, and some grilled zucchini. It seemed to be time, so I opened the door of the cellar, and found a bottle of reserve Malbec that Doug had advisedly labeled for me. He actually spent time making sure I would know when to drink each bottle, sorting the bottles we had collected from so many places, and putting labels on each bottle of when to drink it. I am way behind. When he was here, we would consume maybe two bottles a week, sharing with friends. He collected wines, so I have a lot more than I will drink very fast, and I am going to ask a dear friend who is an expert to come out and tell me more about the wines, because, although I enjoy and appreciate them, I don't know much about many of these bottles. And I need to know when to open them, or give them as gifts, of course.

I chose a bottle from a bin that is labeled "2012." I opened this bottle with Doug's special corkscrew from France, and poured about 6 ounces, and then re-corked the bottle and put it in the refrigerator. I slowly heated my meal on the warming burner of the range, and had a wonderful luncheon just for me, and had a chance to have a long conversation with G*d, talking about how wonderful it was to have Doug in my life, and how much I appreciate our years together, as I sat at our table, looking out on the Continental Divide, and so thankful that I am safe, warm, well-fed, and comfortable, and don't have a lot of worries, but am just so very alone sometimes here on Earth.

So, I did it. All by myself, I chose a bottle of wine, and it was heavenly. I am still sipping it as I write this. I have been reading the National Geographic and about the Kyrgyz, where we had planned to trek, and which is featured in the February NatGeo. Some of Doug's men, whom he mentored in alpine climbing, and whom he loved, and who traveled to stand to make tributes to him at his Life Celebration, now write for NatGeo. Not this issue, though. But I am beginning to feel I may soon be ready for another adventure, and perhaps I will still go trekking here or in Mongolia. Archaeologists can go most places, because we are not politically motivated, and no one bothers us, especially if we are also peaceful people. Lots of images and impressions for art out there for us, too, as all you artists know. :)

So, as I savor the last sips of this glass of Malbec, and remember the days of joy and laughter we had, I pray that sometime in the future, I will find my way back to joy, laughter, good wine, and happiness again. For now, I am content with this long, long time of learning all the ways one must say goodbye to one's beloved. And it is all right, and a part of the journey, and I will be fine again soon. But for now, the tears flow, and I laugh at myself as I try to keep tears from falling into my glass, which is a special one Doug had made for me by a friend in Alaska, etched with a raven. I am loved and blessed beyond words.

I must find my way through all of this sorrow, and I know I will, but it is a new adventure for each of us, and I don't think there are any sufficient topos (maps). We each travel through uncharted territory, bringing with us the tools and memories we have at hand and heart. We must explore and discover each our own path. All I know for certain is that there will be joy at the end of this journey. Oh, but I wish the path were shorter!

Much Love and Blessings,

*<twinkles>* too,

fae

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And cheers to you, Fae and your Raven glass! So much of our triumph is learning how to do this alone, whether it's a toast, a meal, replacing a light that doesn't work, trans-versing anything new...alone. There are some things I have not tackled since George died...camping is one of them. But I have done some easy hikes with my dog and if I could afford the price of gas, would do more. :)

I hope the rest of your evening goes as well.

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"I must find my way through all of this sorrow, and I know I will, but it is a new adventure for each of us, and I don't think there are any sufficient topos (maps). We each travel through uncharted territory, bringing with us the tools and memories we have at hand and heart. We must explore and discover each our own path. All I know for certain is that there will be joy at the end of this journey. Oh, but I wish the path were shorter!"

Dear Fae, I think you speak for all of us here. There are no maps. We do have tools and memories and the journey is not short. You have reached a place where others walk with you discovering things that make it a bit easier, sharing their stories, giving love and support. I am approaching the 3rd anniversary while you approach the 1st and when I was where you are I was convinced I would never feel joy again nor would I feel anything but sad. That has changed and I believe it will for all of us. I have bad days and bad moments for sure. A dozen bad moments some days. I carry grief with me but I also experience joy here and there now. I catch myself humming and smiling and being playful with Bentley; my friends are telling me I look better (of course a few said that 3 weeks after Bill died...well, they are not really friends) but these folks know me and see my calm that yes, can turn to sadness and a distraught way of being in seconds. Hang in there. You are in good company. Congratulations on the wine today.

Peace to your heart,

Mary

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