Author: Danita W.

When Roger was still able to walk, he and I ambled slowly around the neighborhood. I created a quiz so that Roger had a focus and engaged in conversation. We played a little game I called “Five of a kind”, and I asked him to name five kinds of cookies, or five different birds, or five kinds of cake, etc….  His favorite cookies were oatmeal raisin cookies, especially the ones his Mom made. We both loved the meadowlarks’ song, and the striking blue of the Mountain bluebird.

When Roger was tired of the five of a kind  game we built new worlds. Heaven was his creation, and he picked the food he wanted, his favorite chair to sit in, and even his pick of tv shows. He always put me in heaven with him, even when I was sure  I didn’t belong there.

Now I play my own version of “five of a kind”. I try to  list my gratefuls daily, especially when my world turns to shit. This reminds me to pay attention to what is good in my world. As for Roger, I know he had butter and sour cream on his baked potatoe and a big slice of cherry pie for dessert, because that is what he ordered for his heavenly meal.

As soon as I think I’m doing ok, suddenly, I’m definitely NOT ok. Grief grabs me by the heart and violently shakes me. Maybe it’s a place, a memory, a feeling and even a smell that sneaked up on me and reminded me Roger is gone forever. Yesterday’s sun and mild temperature were bittersweet. I walked alone and tried to let the sunshine and warmth be my walking partners. I kept waiting for Roger to walk along with me. He didn’t show up, but grief did.

I grieved for several years as dementia relentlessly claimed more and more of Roger. I thought I knew how I would  feel when Roger died. I was wrong. No matter how long I had known Roger was dying, his death still shocked me and brought pain beyond anything I had ever experienced or imagined.When his last breath came, my heart was still begging him to stay, but what I said was “It’s all-right to leave, Roger. I will be ok.”
My last gift to Roger was letting him go; a gift that completely used me up.

Roger died four months ago. The high and low spikes of grief are still so extreme I can’t see a straight line. At times the waves of grief gently roll onto the shore; at other times grief is a wall of water, a tsunami, roaring towards shore, and I am running for my life. Lately, I have more moments of focusing on my life and not thinking about Roger.When I realize I have “forgotten”Roger for a few minutes, I feel guilty because I am alive and he is not. Grief and guilt are painful partners.

So often we resist talking about death; even though it is the ONLY certainty that life offers.When a song ends with the perfect note, it feels right and complete, and we are satisfied. In denying death we rob ourselves of composing our own song and creating our last, beautiful note to sound for eternity . When I am quiet I  can hear Rogers’ beautiful note, a symphony of one.

This morning, my wise and tired friend, Susan, said ” I’m too tired to have it all.” She was talking about her frustration with not having enough energy and time to do all the things she wants to do each day. I told her I felt the same way and Bingo!she just gave me the subject for today’s blog! What to keep, what to let go off, and what to explore, are the decisions that create a life. As we age we have less energy and less time to get it right.  Do we still try to have it all?

I think the children’s story, Goldilocks and the 3 Bears, has much to teach Susan and I about having it all. Let me explain! The story begins with the 3 Bears ready to dig into the porridge Mama Bear slaved over. Baby Bear whines that he wants berries in his porridge, so off they go into the forest to find berries. Goldilocks (Donald refers to her as the “blonde bimbo”) is out enjoying her morning and comes upon The Three Bears’ house. She’s very curious so decides to check it out. First,we all know she samples each bowl of porridge. Papa Bears’ porridge is too hot, Mama Bears’is too cold, but Baby Bears’is just right, so she eats it all. She finds the chair that is just right, and falls asleep in the just right bed. She doesn’t eat all the porridge,  or sit in 3 chairs pushed together,or sleep sprawled across 3 beds. Goldi practices good self-care and doesn’t settle for less than just right.

Cold porridge, uncomfortable chairs, and lumpy beds just will not do. Goldilocks has fewer choices. She doesn’t need to gather information, and read reviews until she is paralyzed with indecision. Goldilocks knows the answers are within her so does not ask half of Fort Collins what they would do. She gets quiet while she walks the woods; her own truth and honesty guide her. When Goldilocks wakes up and runs away from the Bears, she has no regrets about her decisions. She knows she is just right.

Take that Donald!

When I sit down to write, Sister Carmalita is hitting my knuckles with a ruler and chanting “You dumb bunny!” I am sure she really wanted to say “You dumb shit!” I am not making this up.

Prose is torturing me lately, I get caught in run-on sentences and different tenses; but poetry is shorter and easier. I am so naive!  Writing poetry demands discipline, focus, and the determination to travel to the ends of the earth to find the perfect word. I know that I have enough angst and sorrows, and these emotions are a requirement for writing poetry. I decide that writing poetry is foolish, but I will try anyway and see how it goes.  I am a risk taker.

Tears

One single raindrop
Quietly grows a deluge
One plus one plus one….

Winter Grief

Tree Bones and knuckles
Black blood crawls through hollow veins
Thin capillaries expand
Green Spring still a dream

Dark
Cat fight, screams and howls
The night symphony begins.
Loud clashing sounds hurt, but still
I stop to listen.

Roger would have loved the Sister Carmalita story and added it to his catalog of stories with a few embellishments. He loved to laugh and make others laugh.

What would you do if you had no fear? Several days ago, my good friend and I were talking about regrets and aging, and we posed this question to each other. Before I even thought or consciously considered the question, I blurted out “I want to run!” It was like I bypassed my brain, but something within me answered anyway. I knew I wanted to run physically,and run spiritually.

When I shared this story with my therapist she asked me what I wanted to run away from, and I asserted that I was not running away, I was running towards. She asked”What or where are you running towards?” Well I thought 3 miles, 5 days a week was a good answer. Physically I wanted to feel strong and I have always loved the rhythm of running. My thoughts were clearer when my legs were moving me along and I was breathing hard.

I ran for many years, but I got “old” and I quit, sure my running days were behind me. I told everyone I used to run and that I used be in great shape.  A life of “used to’s” I now realize just makes me a “has been”. So slowly I am running and adding distance or time in small increments. I feel good and pay attention to my body ,and I do feel stronger.

In the spiritual realm where I look for purpose and meaning,  it’s much harder for me to know what it is I am running towards. At 63, I sense that time is not on my side. Being famous and saving the world is probably not going to happen for me, no matter how fast I run, or walk or crawl. Regret is most painful when it is about roads not taken. Why didn’t I take that trip, or go to medical school, or hang onto my dreams? Ruminating on regrets is a waste of my time, it’s like asking for a do-over when the time for that is long past.

I have to start where I am today, and keep moving, and keep listening to my soul, and know that I can’t let fear stop me.  Finally, I really get what FDR said: “There is nothing to fear, but fear itself.”  I won’t allow fear to shrink my life and spirit.  No fear! Who knows what I might run into?

For months after Roger died, it was impossible for me to write because my words were all gone.  There was nothing to say because my grief was squeezing the life out of my heart.  I was very busy instructing my heart to keep beating.  Beat, beat, breathe in, breathe out, beat, beat….

Now I am surprised to find that I can trust my heart to keep beating, and I breathe without conscious awareness.  My words are coming back, but they often fail me.  I know that I need to create a life “after” Roger’s death and my writing helps me begin to do that.  Grammar and punctuation be damned! My feelings refuse to follow any rules.

Putting pen to paper now would mean my tears would fall on the paper, and blur the ink where they landed.  The type on a tablet screen can’t be blurred by tears falling on the screen and this seems a little dishonest, but please witness me as I write about the days to come. I am honored to have your company.

Somehow I lost my ability to post to my original blog”agingtroublesandtreasures”,so I have created a new and improved(?)site”agingwrinklesawonders”.  Please read all of my earlier posts here. I am sorry that my technical disability has caused this mess. Perhaps this disruption in my blogging can serve to create a “before” and  “after”.

My husband,Roger, had Lewy Body Dementia. He died on November 1, 2015. He had just turned 64. We had a wonderful birthday celebration for him in September. He understood it was his special day and he was with people that loved him. Dementia did not steal that day from him, but complications from dementia took his life soon after.  So this is my “after”; my life since Roger died. Of course, Roger will always live in my heart and memories.

Roger Lee Watson

Born: September 22, 1951

Died: November 1, 2015