The Pulse Beat of Love Over Everything Else…

I have to remind myself, as many of us do, I expect, that this widowhood is, as I learned in AA, a matter of progress, not perfection. Because I, for one, consistently seem to expect more of myself than is realistic. By which I mean, I continually scan my body and mind and heart to see where I am in this grief and why I’m not further along, even as my mind tells me to stop such nonsense and lays out all the reasons why I need to stop such nonsense.

Still it continues. But I’m getting better at just letting it be and not gauging my grief by anyone else’s grief.

So…progress, not perfection.

In the months after Chuck died, I remember writing on my personal blog about an issue that arose in terrible ugliness while he was in hospice. Without getting into gory detail (because family issues are rife at such a time for many of us, I know), what I’ll tell you is that in the 2nd week of our hospice time, which was the week before he died, I was told by his daughter that he’d asked her to be his medical advocate. Instead of me.

Because my career was in hospice, death/dying/grief were fairly regular topics at our dinner table. Chuck and I had done all the paperwork of wills, advanced directives, etc. I’d written particulars down on a piece of paper so that I’d have an easy reference sheet.

Once he and I went on the road, and most especially after his first cancer, he and I spoke even more frequently about such matters, clarifying our individual wishes. I was as clear on his wishes and desires as he was with mine.

The day previous to being informed of this matter, he and I made a personal pact: whatever he needed, I had his back. I recall him holding up his pinky finger (which he’d never, ever, done), indicating for me to do the same, wrapping mine with his in pinky swear. I promised that I would have his back and kick ass and take names as needed. It was intensely emotional.

And then the next day I was told what I was told. And, no, as implausible as it sounds, I never questioned him about it. I believed that, if I did, it would further agitate him because he’d feel caught between me and his daughter and I would not, would not, would not, add to his agitation.

There were many comments and actions in his hospice time and the weeks and months after his death that pretty much sent me over the edge, and, though I don’t wish to be overly dramatic about it, the added trauma seeped into my bones and marrow.

What I recognized even amidst the devastation of this conversation with her was that my husband had needs to be met in regards to his daughter and it was my responsibility as his wife, as the woman who loved him, to ensure they be met to the best of my ability. It wasn’t necessary for him to articulate those needs to me; after 24 years together, my instincts regarding Chuck were sound….so I stepped aside, I stepped back, and gave space to his daughter.

Now, lest you start crowning me with halos, let me quickly disabuse any notion of saintliness or such nonsense on my part. I struggled every day and night with the decision I made to step back and was talked through it every day and night by my sister, who called me daily.

However, because I’m not a fucking saint, stepping aside as I did, though done with and for love for him, also raised in me a sense of helplessness and rage…and rage while in the insanity of grief is what I felt when I lifted the cover of the box he was in for his cremation and it horrified me that this was my last feeling for him, when I’d never in all of our years together felt such an emotion towards him.

Today’s EMDR therapy took me into the depths of that rage and helped me delve more deeply into the layers of it. I realized that Chuck’s supposed request of her to serve as his medical advocate made me feel betrayed; clearly he must have thought me to be weak and incompetent and incapable of handling his illness.

The reality is that I don’t know what he said to her, if anything, and whatever he said, she heard what she needed to hear and ran with it, due to her own issues and agenda. Chuck and I were square on everything and I suppose, as I think of it, that’s a good part of why I was able to step aside, even as I craved more time with him.

The biggest revelation for me today was this: in our hospice time I loved him even more perfectly than I’d ever loved him. Even as the cancer consumed his body, I made his final few weeks about life and living for him. I encouraged his Air Force buddies from around the country to visit him and made sure he had alone time with them. I encouraged numerous of the men he’d sponsored in AA to come from Jersey to California to bring him meetings and meet one on one with him for final sponsorship and so that he could say his final goodbyes to them, and that very important aspect of his life.

I advocated for him every minute of every one of those days and I made it all about the love he’d brought to so many and most especially to me. And he died knowing how much he was loved.

Death is, in the simplest of circumstances, I believe, traumatic for those who witness it, who bear the grief of it afterwards. Which is not to say we ought not to witness it; I’d do every big and small thing again and again. But memories and words and anger and pain from emotion-wrought times seep into the marrow of our bones and become trauma and it gets carried through our bodies and into our hearts and minds, even as grief swirls around and through us.

If Chuck were here, he and I would have a conversation about what happened and he’d clarify to me what he said to his daughter and we’d work our way through it, as we worked our way through all issues. Ultimately, he would tell me how proud of me he was for what I did and how I did it, and he’d thank me and tell me how much more he loves me, even now. That is the man he was to me for 24 years and that didn’t change in hospice. He spoke highly of me to his friends and co-workers through all of the years of our marriage; his pride in me and his love for me, shone brightly, always.

Grief is indeed a matter of progress, not perfection. We put our own pressures on ourselves even before the world does, to be more, to be better, to be different. Trauma sets into our bones and we may not even be aware how it simmers into that progress and chokes it until it chokes us so that we can’t breathe.

There is a sense of relief in me after today’s therapy. Perhaps as I consider the revelations of this consciousness, the tide of trauma will wash out to sea and the soft lapping of the love he left behind for me will become my pulse beat.

This man I loved more than my own life…he left so much love behind for me. How I miss him with every pulse beat. But maybe now, as I allow the trauma to wash through me and out of me, this grief will have cleaner lines to it.

Maybe this is where the twin sides of simple grief and love can now dwell…with love becoming the stronger and mightier of the two…10685434_807833169271619_169846425441466326_n

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11 thoughts on “The Pulse Beat of Love Over Everything Else…

  1. Don’t look now? But this read like a real milestone to me. It’s not rocket science Allison. You’re coming back. Today was your first step. Try to cut yourself some slack. You are still you. You are in there. Beautifully written.

  2. There are always issues that arise in illness, death, and grief, that should absolutely not have any place at all. They arise just to make matters worse, to add to one’s pain, to cause doubt and make one wonder…was it really all I thought it was???…I pray you come to put all of it where it belongs—out of your mind. Concentrate on Nothin’ But Love, please, because that really is what it was. ♡

  3. Thank you…if I allow the blessings ..love always wins…thank you for the reminder…If I am not right with myself, I am not in the Sunlight of the Spirit.

  4. Our stories are so similar. You have the way with words. I can never express myself well. I’m so torn with pain right now, as it has only been three months since the passing of my love. He was in hospice for three months, so the past six months have been torture. And the previous three years of treatment….I crave your strength…

    • Karen, I used to describe it as a meat slicer in my chest, non-stop, 24 hours a day. Going through trauma therapy helped that in that the trauma now seems to be more OUTSIDE my chest than inside. I know it’s there, I can see it and sense it, but it isn’t slicing me moment by moment. Three months is no time at all, with what you’ve been through. Whatever strength I have, I hold it for you. Keep reaching out to me here or on my fb page: I’m so very willing to walk with you on this widow path~

  5. I’m so sorry for your lose. I’d like you to consider something. Your husband gave you a gift that you missed in hospice. You were to caught up in pain and anger to see it. He wanted you there for the love you brought him, not the nurse maid you wanted to be. There were plenty of people to do that your devotion to him made the pain bearable and the love he felt with his dying breath was more than he thought possible. He had a choice and he choose to love you the way he always had; as a wife and partner, not a mothering nurse maid. May the love you felt for me return to your heart and replace the bitterness you carry for my daughter who was only trying to ease her own suffering. The light is still burning and when the candle goes, I will still love you as if it was yesterday.

    • I appreciate your feedback on this, but am sure you must realize that there is much more to the story. It was never about me wanting to be his nurse-maid; that was a shared responsibility of all of us. It was about what he and I spoke about only the day before, about the paperwork we’d signed, about the many conversations he and I had about this very issue, long before he became ill, and then again, when he was both in hospital, and in hospice, and the sudden, very abrupt, and completely opposite to everything we’d ever spoken about change of mind. And it was never about the bitterness; it was about the trauma that was caused from literally being pushed aside in our hospice time, and the ugly words that were said to me in the initial week after his death, and then in the months after. I’ve resolved all of this in my heart and mind at this point, thankfully, but there was much more going on than anything I’ve written about, or will ever write about. I wasn’t the only one to observe what went on in our hospice time and I was also fully aware, from the time of his daughter’s arrival, that there was an agenda on her part, which she told me about in the couple of years after his death. He was heavily medicated, and I understand that, and I know that, if he did say something, it was interpreted the way it needed to be interpreted by her. I guess what finally helped me realize that he couldn’t have said what he said was because of what was tacked on to it when I was told of his decision to change the medical advocacy (which he never did change legally)…which was that he didn’t trust me to advocate for him because I’d almost let him die in the hospital. I know my husband well enough to know that he’d never say that about me or my actions. In any case, there were so many other things said to me about that time that were so out of character for him that it made everything suspicious in my eyes. To be certain, I contacted our hospice to speak to the director, and obtain all the records, and nothing negative about my actions showed up in any of records of daily team meetings. To the contrary, the director said that the entire team had been impressed by how Chuck and I handled things. His daughter was suffering and of course I recognized that. All of us were. The thing is, the rest of us were there to alleviate Chuck’s suffering, not our own. I knew he had unfinished business with her; that was more than evident, and my love for him is what allowed me to step back and give space to let whatever needed to happen, take place. Finding out what his daughter’s intent was when she came out was horrifying to me; that Chuck might have died with what she wanted to tell him on his deathbed made me sick for him. He didn’t need that and couldn’t do anything about it, and knew nothing about it and it would have caused him untold suffering. I didn’t know all of the details of what she planned, but her agenda was made evident to me by our second day in hospice. One thing added up to another and it became very clear. Bitterness? If only it were that simple. For me it was a matter of wanting my husband to have as easy a death as possible, without undue drama, and, unfortunately, I wasn’t able to give that to him as completely as he deserved~

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