In Absentia, as Was Presence~

We spend our lives with an awareness of our physical bodies. We dress our bodies, we move our bodies. Our hands hold the hands of people for whom we feel affection, or love. Our arms hug. Our lips meet in exquisite kisses. Our lips smile and laugh. Our eyes sparkle as we gaze upon life and our loves. Our feet dance, in rhythm or not.

Physical presence is a big deal in life, in love.  Physical presence makes Love tangible, it makes who we are, and what we represent, an entity.  Our physical bodies were very much a big deal with me and my husband, Chuck, for our 24 years. We touched often. My husband’s physical body and presence was measurable in my life, as mine was in his.

His absence from my life is just as palpable and I’m uncertain how that might translate scientifically but his absence is, to me, as strong as his presence ever was. In fact, now that he’s gone, his absence is almost stronger than his presence ever was, which causes anxiety in me. It has seemed, since he died, that he’s so gone that its as if he never existed. Chuck died forever ago, or 4 years and 11 months. Long ago and no time at all ago.  I suppose I could say, he’s been gone almost 5 years. Dead almost 5 years. Absent from me for almost 5 years. But why rush the years, right?

Presence and absence. My external life has changed drastically since each of my last April 21sts of these 4 years and 11 months but not quite 5 years. I’ve changed drastically, or at least it feels like I have. Nothing is the same, either in my external world or my internal soul world. He disappeared the night he died and my life did too.

And yet.

Weirdly,though, his absence from my life really is as tangible and measurable as his presence ever was. His absence is an entity that breathes and walks and moves with me as I stumble along, and not in an oh, look! He’s still with you! way, but in a fuck, I can’t believe he’s not here but he’s clearly not in such a massively huge way, so….

As the months have passed, because he is so very gone, I’ve held onto, and purposefully courted, the love he left me. I cherish his last message to me, left on my phone at my request the week before he died. I still listen to it with a sense of disbelief that I’m not seeing him say he loves me, that I’ll never see him say that to me again, with his green eyes glinting with Love and passion.

Those words though. That love he had for me. That love I had for him that beats as strongly today as it did for all of our 24 years. The love is a physical presence to me now, and co-exists with his absence.  Presence. Absence. Love, no matter the mind fuck of it.

I can’t explain how presence and absence can both be real. It just is. He is here with me in his absence.

He loved me. I loved him. That is still real.

It was our blessed gift to each other.

With Chuck for me, for me with him, it was always, always, always, about the Love we shared daily. How our bodies moved together, even when we weren’t in close proximity. How our hands automatically entwined when we fell asleep.  The rhythm of Love was our SOP…standard operating procedure.

And I ache for its’ absence, as I ache for him.

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This Still Beating Heart~

When was the moment you realized you would survive this?
Your person’s death…this new life…
I never doubted for a moment that I could and would survive this.
From the time Chuck was told that the cancer was everywhere.
My fear was that I would indeed and unfortunately, survive this,
And live the rest of my life without him.
I did.
I have.
I cursed myself daily, that I was surviving his death.
Surviving this widowhood.
I didn’t want to survive this and I cursed whatever it was in me that made me keep on living.
I researched broken heart syndrome, and was disappointed to meet all the criteria, yet continue to live.
How was that possible? How?
Did I really not love Chuck enough? Was the stress of his illness and death and the fucked up family dynamics that sent me into meltdown anxiety attacks, not enough?
Why did I not qualify for broken heart syndrome? Why?
And yet, here I am, 4 years and 11 months later, widowing.
Fuck.
I suppose I’ve lost all that energy I spent wondering why I didn’t die.
Lost the will to search and curse that I still lived, that I still am, that I still must.
I’ve driven thousands of miles since Chuck’s death, following highways and backroads of our country.
Honoring and remembering him.
Missing him.
More aware, each mile, of how he is missing from me
And my life is less without him.
Now I wonder…
Is there death from empty life syndrome?
I’ve learned so much about widowing
About living in the after
How it isn’t only about healing our hearts
But healing our minds.
Reframing
Plugging in
Honoring the process of grieving in a world that has no patience for grief,
Or anything that requires more than a pause in doing and rushing and performing.
I’ve insisted on doing this my way, which we all know, is the only way to get from here to there.
I don’t know where there is
Mostly I don’t know where here is.
And I wonder still, in passing thought, how it is that I’m still here,
Without him.
It’s a mind fuck of the Universe.
Some would say that I’m still here because I still have work to do.
To which I say…
Poppycock. Baloney. Hooey, and bunk.
I’m here because I haven’t yet died.
Whether there is a reason for it or not is up to an individual’s personal beliefs.
I cringe, still, at the thought that I may yet live centuries without him,
Which is what it already feels like,
Only 4 years and 11 months in.
No broken heart syndrome here.
Fuck.
Just plugging away, reaching out where I can, living on Love.
An emissary, a servant, a courier, of Love~

Dance Partners~

I used to dance with my beloved husband…

We danced dreamily, to Clint Black, to Chicago, to Elvis, to whatever tune happened to be playing, wherever we were.
Oh, how we danced…his right arm around me, my hand clasped in his.
At the end of the dance, he’d always dip me back in his arms, and then kiss my hand.
I dance still, these 4 years and 10 months since his death.

I dance the Widow dance.

Sometimes I dance what I call Spirit dancing, which consists of turning on music we used to dance to, and putting my hand in his hand that is no longer there to clasp mine, and placing my other hand on a shoulder that no longer supports me.

My feet move in the same pattern and I always close my eyes, remembering back.

But mostly, now, I dance with an intangible partner that is hard to name.

Grief, but so much more.

Loneliness is a consistent and dependable partner. It’s an awkward partner, this one. Moving my feet with it, not feeling, yet feeling everything. I don’t like how Loneliness is always just there, insisting on every damn dance.

My partner named Dislocation is always there too, waiting on the sidelines. Our dance together entails quite a bit of bumping into sharp edges and uneven ground beneath us. Kind of like Elaine on Seinfeld; uncoordinated stumbling, but with flair, if such it can be called.

Heartache is a gentle dance partner. Our dance is one of synchronization, shadowing one another gracefully, our toes pointed, our hands reaching to the Universe, or wrapping tenderly around our bodies. The lights dim when Heartache and I glide out to the dance floor. We are familiar with each other and we move separately and in tandem, with no hesitation. We know each other well.

Emptiness doesn’t dance with me as much as it jumps up and down in a crazy free style frenzy, demanding my attention, causing me to wonder why it’s always there and never seems to change, or go away, even if I accept a dance from…

Adventure. Adventure seeks my hand and leads me into steps that have no particular direction or pattern, and allow me to feel unfettered and open. Where might this partner lead me, I ask myself. We slide from one type of music to another, tentative at times, but sure nonetheless, never knowing where our feet will take us. Quick tempos with swirls and dips, holding hands or, even sometimes, sending me spinning off on my own. Adventure is quick but steady and sure. We work well together out there on the floor.

My dance is a widowed dance now, and it isn’t anywhere near as satisfactory or fulfilling as it was with my beloved husband, but it is powerful and even, I think, abandoned.

And maybe, in the abandon of this whirling dervish of a dance, I’ll find my beloved somehow. Or find me. I don’t think I’ll know which until I stand breathless from exertion, breathing it all in, when the music stops.
Maybe both.
It’s all about the dance, meanwhile~

Because Love Must…

I must write about Love, because I will go fucking insane if I write of the painful past. I will go fucking insane from..I don’t know…rage? World stopping anxiety? Despair?
It goes by many names, this feeling that is the experience I shared with Chuck in his hospice time. In the cancer time. In his death and dying time.
How I torture myself by reading the blogs I wrote on my private page, of those times. And yet, how unfailingly drawn I am to read of those times…
The horrifying morning where I drove Chuck to the ER because this man who had a massively high pain threshold could no longer absorb the pain of the cancer that returned and ate his ribs, and made it difficult to walk.
The determination of me, of our kids, to make his hospice time one of Love, not instead of fear, but as a cup for the fear.
The horror of realizing that my beloved husband was dying and I couldn’t stop it.
And the sharp in breath I took when I recognized, somehow, that the breath he was taking at that moment, would be his last breath.
The…everything…as I put my hand on his heart and knew that he was gone.
And that my entire life was somehow, also…gone.
My god, the dread, the panic, the purity of that moment of sheer Hiroshima level shock…
I must focus on the Love. Or go more fucking insane than any person since time began.
The Love.
His Love for me, and mine for him.
Chuck was my life, and I, his.
With kids and siblings and parents and friends we loved deeply…still, and all, it was me and him, always.
I recall his Love more than I recall him, weirdly. He is so gone, has been so gone since he took his last breath. It was as if he and I had never been a we together. The mind fuck began at that moment he drew his last breath.
I try to remember him as a man, as the man who was with me in our Love story, but it seems so distant. And that, too, is a mind fuck.
Did we even ever exist as a man and a woman together?
The mind fuck waits patiently for me, at the corners of my mind. Remember the agony of those last 3 weeks, it bids me. Remember that you can barely remember who you were together. Remember that there is only pain if you give energy to any of that.
No.
I may not remember much of us, in my mind. But my heart remembers being loved well and truly and passionately. It wasn’t a figment of my imagination, though his continued absence tries to tell me otherwise.
There was a man named Chuck, many years ago, and a woman named Alison, who fell in love and beat the odds against them. They were real people…there are pictures to prove it. And oh, how they loved each other and danced through time and kissed and held hands and were strong together and oh, how cherished and nurtured that woman felt.
Love did live for those 24 years, no matter what tricks my mind attempts to play.
Love lived.
It lives still, in a very unsatisfying way, because he isn’t here, but in a manifestly huge way, because he isn’t here.
Love fucking lives.

I Believe~

I believe in Love.
I believe that Love enriches and empowers and creates and morphs mere humans into magnificent beings.
I believe that life dares us and bids us, at our best and our worst, to open our hearts to Love.
I believe that life challenges us, through strife and perplexity and awkwardness, to continue loving in the face of all that it throws at us.
I believe that life entreats us and whispers to us…allow, yield, concede, open, persevere,
In spite of and because of…
Love. Just Love.
Because Love makes living worth…living.
Love will, and does, always, as it shifts and slides in subtle and magnificent fashion, from present to future to muted past,
Demand its’ own lofty price,
As Love morphs into dimensions not of this world.
Oh, but Love…Love, my Love, all Love, and the reckoning we who love, face…
The reckoning we bear…
Yes, well worth the cost to our hearts…
My heart flaunts a colorful stamp that loudly and fiercely proclaims…PAID IN FULL
Loving you, my beloved, was worth all that is my now.
Love, in our time, was strong and viable and tangible.
It remains so, though you are gone from me.
I will always and emphatically profess to the compelling beauty of Love found
Love lived
Even…maybe…Love lost.
Perhaps…on some yet uncharted plain, found again.
I believe in the paramount power of Love
To transform, lighten, brighten, stun, envelop, wrap, enfold,
One life, two lives, the lives of millions
The lives of many and all.
I believe in the power of Love to carry me through hellfire.
Carry us through this burning inferno.
Through grief
Through life again.
Love lived and spoken,
Transcends all lives,
Love, lived, grows and sharpens and softens and compels.
Love is, ultimately, our most spectacular power.
Carry it faithfully~

Feel Free Not to Read This. Probably Don’t. If you do, please refrain from telling me whatever you think I need to Know. M’k?

Fucking cancer
Fucking death
Fucking widowhood
Fucking life without him
Fucking heaviness
Fucking memories of you dying
Fucking bed sores
Fucking hole in the base of your spine where the tumor ate through your body
Fucking having to live without you every damn day
Fucking having to wake up and do life in the midst of fucking confusion that is just always there no matter what, for fucking years
Fucking relationships that tear apart after death
Fucking dark shadow of widowhood that scares people away even when you try to hide the shadows
Fucking nights staring at a TV show that you couldn’t even describe to someone even after watching it for an hour and another hour and another and you still couldn’t say
Fucking eyes that stare into nowhere and beyond nowhere into you know not what of nowhere
Fucking screams that get shoved down into your body because…well, who knows why?
Fucking judgment from every direction; too soon, too fast, too much, not enough, too dark, too light, too this, too that, too everything
Fucking cancer that ravaged and blew apart the body of the man I loved
Fucking tears that spill out no matter where or when
And fucking tears that don’t spill and choke you instead
Fucking energy to suit up and show up every day
And fucking judgements that it’s not enough or it’s not the right kind or it doesn’t matter just don’t be a fucking widow
Fucking widowhood that you’d tear off of you if you could and fuck that you can’t
Fucking doing every fucking thing you can and he’s still dead and always will be
Fucking skin hunger and fucking every damn thing about him being dead and gone
Fucking life fucking death fucking grief fucking breathing fucking everything without him. fucking everything

Measureable Time, and More~

My dearest, my most beloved husband.

Chuck. Sarge. D.  My heart, my heartbeat, the oxygen in my blood, my very breath…

You were many names to me over the years.  You were many things to me, as I was to you. You were everything to me, as I was to you.

Life was daily living for us both, of course. We had our jobs, our individual friends and interests, and we had our friends in common and interests in common.

But beyond and above and alongside of, and with, we had each other.

You were my life.

What is my life without you? Without my breath? Without my heartbeat?

That madness of the souls that is Love.  That Love we shared that was a single soul inhabiting two bodies…

What to do with all of that now that you’re dead and we are forever separated?

The calendar says that you’ve been dead for 1,735 days.  I have to look on my app to see the exact days but my mind tracks the years.  Four years and nine months.

My heart? My soul? They tell me that you’ve been dead forever.  As the heart measures is the true measurement.  You were dead forever the moment you took your last breath and you will always be dead forever, even as human time apportions out minutes and hours and days and weeks and months and years.

The fractured splinters of my heart shimmer as dust in the wake of who we were together, in the aftershock of your death, in the vague remembrances of who I was with you and because of you and your Love.

I try. And try. And try again. I swear to god I do. I get up every damn fucking day of this life without you and I keep my chin level as I push and muck through and absorb and am at one with and allow and let go and hold on and welcome Love and let Love in and put it out there again.

What will it take to make this life without you worth it?

I’m brave. I’m determined. I look around me and see beauty. I do everything I can. I fucking swear I do. I have to, so that our Love is honored. So that I live a life that honors yours. I live my life because you can’t live yours.

And the splintered, slivered bits of dust that are my heart after your death…they shine in the light of day and glow in the dark of night.

The stars in the inky dark of every galaxy, glittering in skies around the world, shining over my head here in the desert…they are you, I think.  You, shimmering down on me. Maybe. But they are also the particles of my heart, no longer claiming space in my chest. Those far away beacons, too distant to touch, are the dust of my heart, scattered in the unreachable points of the Universe.

My heart cries out to you, my beloved.

I will love you into forever and beyond measureable time~