Lost moments...

The holidays are fast approaching and sadness fills my heart. This is the third holiday season since Glen died. I still feel the emptiness that comes with loss, but don't feel compelled to fill the hole in my heart with busy - doing, doing, doing. I received a card from Glen's friend Larry and tears filled my eyes as I realized I'd not told him Glen had died. So I will write a note and send it off this week. Larry has retied and moved to upstate New York. Although I am glad Larry and his wife have retired together, it pricked my heart because this was lost to me when Glen died - no growing old together for us. Retirement is not the same without someone to share it with.

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Mom Dream...

I am off to see my 91 year-old mother on Monday. I haven't seen her in six months and know her dementia has gotten worse as well as her physical health. I am going home to say good-bye, not for Mom but for myself. Last night I had a dream about Mom. She and I were sitting somewhere together. I was looking at her face - which was years younger than she is now. And she had on bright red lipstick. She wanted me to give her a kiss. I told her I wouldn't kiss her until she wiped off her lipstick. I've thought about the dream all day trying to make sense of it. I don't know for sure, but I think I wanted her to wipe off her lipstick because it represented a mask, as if she were hiding her age, her frailty, her closeness to death. And I wanted to kiss my real Mom good-bye.

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Memories...

Lots of memories flood over me. Listening to “Alice’s Restaurant” three times over the holiday - always makes me cry as I remember all the wonderful times shared with Glen over the years. I guess the third time through an “event” without Glen has distanced me emotionally and then wham! The wave crashes down but I ride the wave back with new understanding. Time moves, but memories linger...

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Saying Goodbye...

Mom turns ninety-one in a few days. I haven’t seen her since my visit in June. Back then I worried because I didn’t feel sad; I didn’t really feel anything. Uncomfortably numb. Deep denial she was dying. Or perhaps denial of my impending grief. I struggled throughout the following months to understand why I didn’t feel sad that she would soon die. Reports of her declining health didn’t awaken my grief. I said, “She’s old, she’s going to die, she’s had a good life...” Last year when Mom turned ninety the family gathered to celebrate with her. This year Mom’s birthday celebration will coincide with Thanksgiving. Mom says, “I just want to live until my birthday...” At last sadness engulfs me, tears fill my eyes, I feel the pain of loss. I will go to visit Mom in a few weeks, not to celebrate her birthday, but for a chance to say goodbye, and to grieve.

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More waves...

This morning I was overcome with an intense wave of sadness. I think it was triggered earlier this week when I heard what Steve Job's final words were "OH Wow, oh wow, oh wow" just before he died. I've been trying to remember what Glen's last words to me were, but I can't find them in my memories. I remember when our friends and their 3-year old were leaving the house the weekend before Glen died. He said, "Goodbye baby" in response to the 3-year old's goodbye to him. I can't remember him speaking again. So now I grieve for a lost goodbye...

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Boxes of Glen's books

This week I've gone through four boxes of Glen's books. I found a paperback sci-fi I'd read a very long time ago - The Disappearance - by Philip Wylie. Originally written in the early 1950's and republished in the 1970's (when I probably read it) the book explores what happens on Earth where the men disappear from women's world and women disappear from men's world. As I reread the book my grief is sparked - because in my world now, there is no Glen. I have four more boxes of books to go through. Maybe I'll find other familiar titles and reread them too.

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Glen's Books...

This week I've been very weepy! My emotions are just waiting to jump out of me. Read "Zen in the Art of Writing" by Ray Bradbury, one of Glen's favorite sci-fi writers. Another way of knowing Glen - through the stories he loved. I'm preparing to go through the boxes filled with Glen's sci-fi books. Letting go of more of my life with Glen so I can move forward in creating my own life. I feel excited and sad at the same time. Very confusing. Hard to know how much of the "our life" to let go of in order to fully embrace my new life path.

Another anniversary

I've been feeling sad for several weeks and just couldn't figure out why. And then I realized the anniversary of the death of Glen's mother, Barbara was coming up. Earlier this week I called his sister and later that evening received a call from my niece. So I talked with them and felt their sadness. Today, marks the one year anniversary of her death, and I realize her death symbolizes the death of Glen for me. When Barbara died, she took all the memories of his childhood with her. So a big part of his life is gone, unknowable to me. Yet another piece of my grieving - the lost chance to hear stories from his childhood.

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A Circular Staircase

Reading a book - Grieving: A Beginner's Guide and came across a wonderful concept. Grief as a circular staircase, not a series of "stages" but a spiral in which we circle around, passing through anniversaries, events, year after year, but with increasing insight as time passes. The idea comes from a poem - "The Five Stages of Grief" by Linda Pastan who writes upon reaching the "final" stage of grieving - "Acceptance. I finally reach it. But something is wrong. Grief is a circular staircase. I have lost you." It reminds me that my grief changes with each passing cycle, through each relived moment of my loss, how much I have learned.

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Sad time rolls around

October - soon it will be the first anniversary of Barbara's death. Today I read my niece's Facebook post about missing her Nana. Barbara was the cement that held her family together. Without the mortar of Barbara's love, the family seems to be adrift. Everyone struggles to get through the day, each day, and sometimes we fall apart without knowing why. As our pain lessens we move on with our lives. We try to celebrate the good times - marriage, birthdays, time spent together - but struggle to keep living our separate lives. We miss her so much, sometimes we just fall apart.

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Letting go again...

This week I tackled cleaning out the closet in the spare room. This was my third attempt at completing this chore. I cried looking through all the paperwork stored on the top shelves - paperwork from the two business Glen started when we moved to Oregon. It felt like I was throwing away his life - so sad. It took me 5 1/2 hours to complete, four trips to the recycle bin, and two hours shredding the paperwork with identifying information. In the end, I felt satisfied because what I don't want to happen is when I die, for someone else to face the task of sorting through the mess of a lifetime. It has taken me 2 1/2 years to find the courage to face this task.

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Difficult Writing...

I now face the task of putting together the materials for Dubious Grief. The most difficult task is simply reading my journal entries and deciding where to insert the story of Glen and my life together. This backstory is important and reading the journal entries will hopefully stimulate recollections about our life together. But it is still very difficult for me to read my words written as Glen dies and my days of deep sorrow following his death.

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9-11 fallout

Last weekend was the 10th anniversary of the 9-11 attack. As the day approached, the news media projected image, after image of the tragedy. Although I did not know anyone personally who died in the towers, the images triggered wave after wave of grief for me. I purposely have avoided these images for 10 years - and was unprepared for the waves of grief. I couldn't write - the pain was too much. I decided to write about happy times with Glen. Writing about these happy years helped lift my spirit.

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Unacknowledged grief

When my husband was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer, the year of the DEATH WATCH was filled with contradictory emotions. Although it was the beginning of my grieving, it was unacknowledged grief. It was a time filled with alternating hope for a cure and increasing realization that the end of his life, our life, was immanent. I struggled, moving between fear of loss and unwavering support in his attempt to find a cure. I think this paralyzed me emotionally, leaving me unable to even talk with him about death. As his death drew ever closer, the pain of impending loss consumed me. How could I grieve when the person I loved struggled to stay alive?

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From the heart...

This week I had a breakthrough - I've been seeking my authentic writing voice this summer and went back to my journal entries - and WOW - my voice jumped out. Read through all of my journal entries - cried a lot but I expected reading these would have this effect. I decided that the essence of Dubious Grief, as a writing project, lies in these journal entries. With that in mind I decided to use these as the heart of my book. Yea - I feel like this is a breakthrough in my writing.

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A year of blogging

My first post on Dubious Grief was a year ago. I started blogging because I wanted to put my writing out - I wanted a public place to put my writing. Writing a weekly post on the blog was a challenge - but it helped me let go of my ego and simply write. It has helped me let the words speak for themselves. Writing about grief, my grief, has freed me to write, from my heart. Creative nonfiction is a wonderful place to begin writing from.

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Healing is allowing release...

This past week my son Mike had a second surgery to remove cancerous limps. This morning, nearly a week after his surgery, I was finally able to let go of my fear of being left behind, yet again, by someone I love. A wave of grief flowed over me and tears followed. Not painful, heart wrenching tears like when the wave crushes me, but tears of relief, as I rode the wave through my grief, effortlessly releasing all of that grief held so tightly by me over the past month since the initial diagnosis. It's comforting to know I have learned the way to ride the wave...

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Finality of death...

My sister sent me a piece I wrote in 2007 reflecting on the death of my mother's husband. I started thinking about relationships from the past, the finality of death, and how once death comes, we can 't go back and "fix" those relationships. I'm reading - Death's Door - written by the literary critic Sandra Gilbert. One of the things she suggests about acknowledging the irreversibility of death is that we move away from the dreamlike past of thinking we might change the ending. Acknowledging the finality of the death is necessary before we can move forward with living.

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Letting go again...

I read a lot - not simply fiction, but nonfiction. I started reading "Long, Strange, Trip" about the history of the grateful dead. I couldn't seem to finish the final 20 or so pages. This week I finished the book and realized my hesitation was not wanting to read about Jerry Garcia's death. After my trip to the coast last weekend, and releasing some of Glen's ashes, I was finally able to read the ending. I hadn't realized Garcia's ashes were released into the Pacific just off San Francisco. Funny how closure comes in unexpected places.

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Letting Go...

Yesterday I went to the coast with several friends. I brought along some of Glen's ashes to release. My little 5-year old friend has struggled with Glen's death. She was 3 when he died. They had a very special connection. She talks about his spirit visiting her and how much she misses him. At the beach I gave her some of his ashes. She happily flung these into the wind and water, laughing. She said he could swim away into the ocean. Saying goodbye is hard, no matter what age we are.

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Remembrance Garden...

Last summer I didn't spend many evenings meditating near Glen's Remembrance garden. I had the first year spent lots of time in the early evening eating my dinner and finding a sense of calm near the garden. This year, the third year of the garden, I again spend many evenings near the garden. The first year I wept, grief so new I doubted the grief would ever end. Last summer, year two, I was still doing, doing, doing - not much time for feeling. This year I sit and enjoy the incredible beauty of the garden.

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Moving forward again...

For the past several weeks I have been aware of how my grief process is never ending. How new or potential loss ignites my grief journey, moves be back in time, forces me to examine my grieving again, and again. I became depressed, unable to connect with my physical, emotional self - in that place of grieving where I am paralyzed. I can't move emotionally and become stuck in the uncomfortably numb space I dwelled in during Glen's illness when we did not know what lie ahead. Uncertainty - anticipating but not knowing what to expect. News from Mike's doctor that his thyroid cancer is back but confined to three lymph glands. Surgery to remove the cancer is possible; this released me to move again. Loss or potential loss will alway stay with me; but for now I move on in my journey.

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Waiting...

The pain from loss - this is what I fear most. Fear starts with the tests that uncover the terminal condition - cancer. Anticipating the loss stirs fear. The pain is physical, mental, emotional - a ripping to shreds, one piece at a time, kind of pain. I startle at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. The face staring back is the same sorrowful one I wore for months following Glen's cancer diagnosis and death. My sad eyes filled with deep pain. I see these same eyes now as my son Mike and I await the results of his PET scan.

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Transition in grieving

I feel a transition in my grieving process. A few weeks ago I started looking at photos taken of Glen during the final year of his life as he underwent chemotherapy. I had not been able to look at these images before. Now I find I need to reflect on his dramatic decline. I am ready to face emotions long suppressed during this final year of our life together.

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Visit to Mom

This week I will travel to visit my 90 year old mother. Her health is declining and this may be our final visit. Another wave of crazy grief to confront. The worst thing for me is the distance between Mom and myself. Not just physical distance but emotional distance. I love her dearly but we are very different people. Sorting out my feelings at this time is difficult. So much to think about as I travel "home."

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More Crazy Grief

Last year I received an unsigned birthday card from my sister. The note inside says, “You sent me this card last year on my birthday and didn’t sign it...” What? I didn’t sign the card? This is not at all like me. I’d sent the card two months after Glen died. When I received the unsigned card with the note, something clicked in my head. This was the action of a person with impaired cognitive ability, a crazy person. And I began thinking about Crazy Grief. Am I crazy two years later? I don’t think I am, but then what do I know? I sent the unsigned card off to my sister for her birthday again this year. It validates my Crazy Grief time.

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2 steps forward, 1 back...

Creating a life worth living is hard. I move forward, writing, beading, gardening, living. Then suddenly, I’m stuck, can’t seem to find a reason to move. Self motivation is a problem. I sit, think, weep. I want to understand what deflates my desire to move. Maybe it’s the date - Saturday, May 14, 2011 - two years and two months since Glen died. Now I write, write, write...

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Photo

This week I found a photo of Glen and Brenda (his sister). It was taken in May 2008 when Glen underwent chemotherapy. I had not been able to put up any photos taken of Glen during his final year. I would feel so much sadness when I looked at these photos. The image I came across this week made me smile. Glen and Brenda, smiling at me. I don't see death in this photo, but hope shining from their faces. I framed the photo and put it on the mantle where I can see his smiling face even as he faced the end.

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Write, write, write...

I entered my short essay about Glen’s death in a contest. I just wanted to put it out there. Just writing the essay was cathartic! Finding my life through writing is wonderful. Sadness comes and goes, but I suppose that’s always going to be part of being left behind. Visit my new blog and sign up to follow!

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Come to my NEW BLOG!

Join me at my new blog. I will continue to post about my grief process on my new blog: jeanblanchardwrites.blogspot.com

I hope you will all follow me on Jean's Writing.

Time passing...

I’ve noticed I’m simply passing time these days. I have no awareness of purpose; it feels the same as when Glen was dying - one day simply follows another. Time just drags me along. July 2008 I wrote:

I find myself passing time, in every aspect of my life...passing time, day to day, the clock ticking down until what?

My life was controlled by the cycle of chemotherapy and care taking. I needed to take control, not simply drift along in time. I wrote:

I have to figure out what to do for myself. So I took my first walk in over a year...these are my first steps to acknowledging I have a right to a life.

Throughout my grief process I have contemplated time - time left until death came, time since death occurred, time to grieve. So now I am again simply carried along by time. I must figure out a path, one that is self directed, purposeful in my daily activities. Time to be alive!

Self Forgiveness

I notice how hard I am on myself when I look back at the choices I made during Glen’s year long battle with lung cancer. All of the “what ifs...” haunt me. Chemotherapy is one of these choices. April 26, 2008 I wrote:

Success – stopping the growth or better yet, shrinking the tumor, somewhere between 20-35 percent. Not hopeless – a chance for more life together. Glen’s decision is to go ahead with the chemotherapy. I support whatever he wants to do.

I made the choice to support Glen’s decision to undergo chemotherapy. I feared what the anti-cancer drugs would do to his body. Yet I knew the odds for positive results were low. I wrote:

Glen assures me he can handle any and all of the effects if it means he has a chance to stop the cancer. The oncologist assures us there are drugs to minimize the effects of the chemotherapy – to deal with the nausea and the diarrhea, help with the fatigue – and Glen says he doesn’t care about the effects, he can deal with them.

I hated chemotherapy, but I supported Glen’s decision even when I believed it would diminish the quality of his life. It is hard to forgive myself for not advocating sooner for holistic therapies.

Getting Unstuck

Time moves both quickly and slowly, depending on where I am in my grief process. When I am “stuck” time slows down - during chemotherapy time in 2008, I wrote:

So much of our life now involves the (chemotherapy) cycle...(it) is out of my control - especially the results...my life is consumed with living by the cycles...

Time I am unable to control is slow - when I can do nothing but wait.

This is the place I occupy waiting for the third chemotherapy treatment...(and) the results of the treatments...I sit and wait...

After Glen died there were many times when I was stuck and could not deal with being alone without him. September 2009 I wrote:

The hardest days are on the weekend when I will just simply sit in my chair and think about how much I miss Glen..

When I take action, time speeds up. Processing all of my emotions during the year following Glen’s death helped me begin to become unstuck. In 2010 I wrote:

Trying to create a life for myself...this is what I am striving to accomplish...something I need to do if I am to be healthy and find some fulfillment in living...

Today the act of writing helps me stay unstuck and moving along my path of living.

A Garden

After Glen died and I was left alone I wanted desperately to keep his memory alive. I decided to create a “remembrance garden” in the tradition of the Medicine Wheel Gardens created by Native Americans. When my sister Susan visited we began the task. On April 17 2009 I wrote:

Sue and I cleared a space for the garden...(we) dug out the grass after marking the circumference.

Within the circle we marked four quadrants for plants of four colors: white, yellow, purple, and red. A landscape barrier of rubber marked the circumference. I ordered soil and bought plants. On May 10 I wrote:

Planted the miniature rhododendron with red blooms in the southwest section, white clematis in the northwest section, witch hazel in the northeast, and blueberry bush in the southeast...

I bought perennials in the four colors and planted them to the garden. I placed rocks around the circumference and three stepping stones to divide each of the four sections. In the center of the garden, surrounded by 6 sacred rocks, is the cane my sister’s husband made for Glen. After two years, the garden flourishes. The day before the 2-year anniversary of Glen’s death I wrote:

I am the one left behind. I sit on a white plastic chair gazing at the bright colored blooms emerging in the remembrance garden. Missing the spring colors inspired me to create the remembrance garden; I did not want to miss springtime again, even as I continue to miss Glen.

The garden is a sacred space where I feel Glen’s spirit. This is a place where I come when I need reassurance that life still holds promise.

2 years

Tomorrow marks two years since Glen died. One year ago I wrote:

I am sad but not filled with the pain of grief that was with me for so long...I will love him forever - as long as I am alive...I will always keep him in my heart - but I will also find a way to live without him. I will smile and laugh and live in spite of the empty space in my heart. I will go forward for whatever time is left to me in in this world.

This past year was difficult, but not as painful as the first year after Glen’s death. In August 2010, I wrote:

Time marches on - routines develop and replace old patterns. The pain from grief lessens but seems to engulf me at unexpected moments. Loneliness from the loss surrounds me, always...A year ago I was so deep in grief I thought I could never move on - yet here I am...I believe now that a life without my love, Glen, is not only possible but will be fulfilling.

Now, two years after Glen died, I live - I write about my grief process and revise my novel. I socialize with a small group of like minded women. I take classes at the local community college. I cry when sadness engulfs me - sometimes it’s a song playing on the radio, other times I feel the emptiness Glen once filled in my life. I continue creating my life.

Approaching the End

This is a tough time for me - two years ago Glen was dying and I watched helplessly. The Hospice nurse thought Glen should be admitted to the hospital hospice unit. On March 2, 2009 I wrote:

Glen does not want to go back into the hospital. Brenda and I agree we will take care o him at home.

The Hospice doctor says Glen has been receiving the wrong pain medication. Instead of the morphine based drugs the doctor prescribes a nerve block. Glen starts taking the new medication. I wrote:

No more talk of hospitalization...Brenda and I persuade Glen to get into the hospital bed (set up in the living room)...we take turns sitting up with him.

The nerve block begins taking effect and I reduce the morphine gradually. Glen enters the “in-between world” - sometimes he is with us, other times he talks to those we can not see. On March 9 I wrote:

Talking, simple conversation near Glen about our lives together, childhood memories shared from Brenda, constant messages of love and appreciation for what he has given to us.

This was a time of tears but also a time for letting go and guiding Glen toward the end of his journey in this body and time and space. Death came silently, without any appearance of struggle, simply a kind of surrender as Glen’s body wore out.

Hospice

I am so grateful Glen had end of life care though our local hospice organization. I started thinking about home care when Glen’s radiation therapy failed to decrease his pain. On February 6, 2009 I wrote:

I find I am increasingly unable to hold all of this together. My insurance will pay for in home care and this is the next thing I will investigate...I realize I cannot do all this by myself.

After Glen is admitted into the hospital due to his increasingly debilitating pain, he begins to consider end of life care. On February 26:

Glen’s goal is to come home...Doctor K talks about hospice...the social worker comes to talk to us about Hospice services available.

The next day, Friday, we meet with the doctor and he advises a hospice release for Glen.

We meet with the social worker and a hospice representative...Glen fills out the DNR directive and signs admission forms for services. A “soft” release from the hospital is arranged...

Glen comes home on Saturday, February 28. A hospice nurse arrives in the afternoon to conduct an intake with Glen. The hospice doctor comes on Monday and identifies the appropriate pain reliever, a nerve block. A hospice nurse visits daily. Glen dies relatively pain free 12 days later. I will always be thankful for this end of life care.

My Valentine

Monday was the second Valentine’s Day without Glen. I remember that final valentine’s day two years ago - Glen was pain free for three days. On 2-14-2009 I wrote:

Valentine day - and small hope flows from my heart...(he) has experienced a good deal of relief from his pain since he got the cortisone shot...I think one of the most frustrating things for him is that he has been unable to do anything because of the pain.

The pain relief was short lived and not due to cortisone shot but the nerve block administered prior to the cortisone. Last year, the first valentine’s day after he died I wrote:

Valentine’s day - (we) used to laugh about this “hallmark holiday”...I suppose we were an unusual couple for our time, so interdependent on one another that I never realized what loneliness I would feel when he was no longer with me.

Last year I tried to focus on our love - hugs, kisses, not just reserved for that one day, but shared every day. This year I received a valentine in the mail. It was from the County of Santa Barbara, vital statistics office. It was a copy of our marriage license. I luxuriated in the memories of our love once again.

Guilt

I think about all of the emotions I experience as I grieve. Some emotions move us out of a stuck place, others keep us stuck. Guilt keeps me stuck. Last year as the first anniversary of Glen’s death approached I was unable to get unstuck. On January 24, 2010 I wrote:

My heart aches when I think about how much he suffered. He spent a lot of his day alone with just the television to erase the silence of an empty house.

I felt guilty about leaving him alone. This guilt continued as I tried to find a way to move out of my grief. On February 7, 2010 I wrote:

At one point I told Glen I needed a little space, and I would sit in my chair in a corner of the living room behind him...He would forget...and interrupt me. I now realize it was because he was alone, in his own space so much of the time that he couldn’t bear to be alone when I was home...

I felt guilty about my inability to recognize his need for me to be present as the debilitating pain Glen endured after the cancer metastasized into his spine keeping him isolated. On May 14, 2010 I wrote:

I struggle with feelings of guilt about my failure to recognize how much Glen’s physical pain shaped his behavior - instead I blamed him for not making changes in his life that he could not possibly have made...

Today as life propels me toward the second anniversary of Glen’s death, guilt still keeps me stuck in my grief - even as I try to move forward.

Depression or Sadness?

I am in a phase with my grief where I can’t decide if I’m sad or depressed. It’s that crazy grief again. I cry a lot, feel unmotivated, and can’t stop thinking about my final days with Glen. On March 9, 2009 I wrote:

Elaine left today...a brief visit but one I desperately needed. I gain so much strength from my sisters, even in this “death watch” time when my heart is breaking...

I think about those final days with Glen and the folks who were there to support us during this difficult time. Our friends came to say goodbye.This brought a wonderful smile to Glen’s face in the moments where he is able to join us in this reality. I wrote:

His acknowledgment as they left, “goodbye baby” to the little one who loves him with all of her heart.

People far away call - friends and family alike - people checking in to see how we are doing. Glen’s parents arrive on March 11; we have tried to prepare them but I am unsure if they know how close Glen is to the end of life. I write:

Glen is holding on, sleeping most of the time now, waiting for him mom to come and say goodbye.

And when the end of Glen’s life journey arrives, his brother Mike is on the phone, his parents, his sister, and our two sons sit together around his hospital bed.

Lots of tears but also a time for letting go and guiding him toward the end of his journey in this body and time and space...

This was a time when I felt the support of friends and family. Today, almost 23 months since Glen’s death, I sit alone with my grief. Depression or sadness - I don’t know.

Honoring Grief

Grief is a process not an event. The trick is to honor where I am in my grief. My grieving began with Glen’s diagnosis of lung cancer. I distanced myself from his experience of dying. This distancing begins with Glen’s first chemotherapy treatment. On April 26, 2008 I write:

I sit in the support person chair with my beading box on my lap...I weave a pattern - alternating yellow and orange dangles with green, orange, and yellow...I focus on my task...

After Glen died, I avoid feeling the pain of his loss by doing - anything to avoid feeling the pain. On May 19, 2009 I wrote:

I mostly kept busy - three loads of laundry, grocery shopping, a trip to the nursery to buy plants for the garden...I felt that I just had to keep moving, the same kind of nervous energy I had right after Glen died.

The pain keeps crashing down on me. I can not avoid the pain so I try to control it. I do this by choosing when I feel the pain. On November 13, 2009 I wrote:

Listening to the CDs that we both listened to through the years does help me have a “good cry” and to feel the loss and grief...I know it will be a very long time before I can move beyond my sadness and grief. But this is a place to start.

I now feel the pain when I write about my grief. I am prepared to feel the pain. I try to move into living. It is hard for me. I move forward with a life, then I am consumed by my grief. It is not an easy journey - this grieving process. I honor where my grief leads me.

Left Behind

When Glen was diagnosed with cancer, he told me the future would be harder for me than for him - he would eventually die and I would be left behind. I thought he was wrong, that dying was the more difficult role. On March 19, 2009 five days after he died I wrote:

The sadness spilled out into the room as we all felt him depart and were filled with grief at our loss. Tears flowed, hugs exchanged among us who were left behind...

I spent the next several months trying to avoid the pain of being left behind. Eventually I did begin the process of facing my aloneness . On August 29, 2009 I wrote:

Yesterday as I closed the blinds in the bay window at dusk, I saw an old man and woman from the neighborhood walking hand in hand slowly down the street and my heart ached because I knew this was lost to me.

As the months passed, I struggled with what the future held - would a life without Glen even be possible. On January 1, 2010 I wrote:

I must find a way to live a “me” life because the “we” part of my life has ended.

Today I continue to struggle with being left behind - to live in a world without Glen - this wise man who understood it is hard to be the one left behind.

Remembering

Today another wave of grief hit me. It was unexpected - grief and loss triggered below my conscious awareness. January 2008 is the month Glen was diagnosed with cancer. An x-ray uncovered a small spot on his left lung and by the end on January, the diagnosis of cancer was confirmed. Chemotherapy, treatment of last resort. I wrote:

So it has begun...After months of testing confirmed the location and size of the tumor, radiation and surgery ruled out...the only medical avenue left was chemotherapy.

January 2009 brought news the cancer had metastasized into his spine. Radiation treatment followed. I wrote:

Seven (radiation) treatments and increased pain medication, the pain has not diminished. I now assist Glen in all of his daily needs...home care assistance is the next thing I will investigate...I realize I cannot do all this by myself.

January 2010 marked Glen's first birthday since his death. It would have marked his 63rd birthday. Instead it marked another “first” event since Glen’s death. I wrote:

It disturbs me that I cannot remember his final birthday. I have no memory of that day...I have looked for a card I might have given him, but cannot seem to locate one...I wish I could cry but the physical pain that comes with grief is very intense right now and I can’t seem to let go of my tears...

Today, January 2011, is one of those days - I just can’t seem to let go of my tears. So I write in my blog to remember.

Denial

Three years ago, in late January 2008, Glen was diagnosed with lung cancer. Not an unexpected diagnosis - he was a smoker for most of his adult life; he'd had asthma since childhood, bronchitis infections throughout his adult life, and the diagnosis of COPD in later life. On February 26, 2008 I wrote the first entry in my journal:

With the diagnosis of lung cancer, you have the opportunity to know that the end (of life) is approaching. The trick is not to live in denial - but to face it full on.

Throughout 2008 I tried to do this, to live our life together full on, not letting denial that death was in the cards, cloud our experience. Glen elected to undergo chemotherapy treatments. On April 26, 2008 I wrote:

The only treatment available is chemotherapy. Success - stopping the growth or better yet, shrinking the tumor - somewhere between 20-35 percent. Not hopeless - a chance for more life together...I support whatever he wants to do.

The negative effects from the chemotherapy were immediate. The day of the treatment, Glen felt very tired. The next day he suffered flu like symptoms which lasted several days. On April 30, 2008 I wrote:

A lot has happened since (the first chemotherapy treatment) both with him physically and with me...the physical effects seem to last for 4-5 days...I had a panic attack on Sunday.

The next week Glen’s hair fell out. On May 7, 2008 I wrote:

Today Glen’s hair started falling out...he started brushing his long locks and hugh clumps began coming out in the brush...he was freaking out.

When I got home, he asked me to brush his hair; huge clumps continued to come out. We decided to use the clippers and buzz cut the rest off. I ended the journal entry with:

Losing your hair is preferable to losing your life.

So much for not living in denial. On March 14, 2009, less than a year after starting chemotherapy, Glen died and I was left to find a way to live my life without him.

Moving Towards

For the past year I have struggled with letting go and moving forward with my life. On January 1 , 2009 Glen was still alive, but it was clear to me that he was indeed dying. I struggled with the issue of quality of life when I wrote:

My wish and hope for 2009 is that Glen will move toward embracing a life supportive philosophy and away from the medical approach that is life destroying.

Glen would “live” for 2 1/2 months - never letting go of the idea that traditional medicine with its promise of a cure was his best hope. By January 1, 2010 Glen had been dead for over 9 months and I struggled with the notion of living without him. I wrote:

My hope for 2010 is that I will find a way to begin creating the rest of my life without the love of my life to share the adventure.

2010 was a year filled with struggle and self doubt. It was a year where I tried to move past the loss of my dear Glen - but without knowing where I would move on too. The year was marked by “letting go” of my life with Glen. It meant letting go of the adventure of living we had shared. Although I knew I would need to find a way to live without him, it was not clear to me what living without Glen would entail. Today, January 1, 2011 I wrote:

Now I move forward with a clear path toward where I know I am going in this new phase of my life journey. I am no longer moving away - from my grief and loss of the love of my life - but toward my new life as a writer.

Now I move toward my new life journey, knowing there will be many more struggles I will face, but with the knowledge I am moving into my life.