I will remember you...

This evening I will be attending a grief seminar at the church and there will be a memorial ceremony in which a candle will be lit for all those who’ve passed on over the last year.

I listened to this song by Sarah McLachlan on my way to work today and thought it quite appropriate for what my evening holds. (More on Sarah McLachlan to come in later posts, as she has been inspiring me lately) The interesting thing is that I used to listen to this song and think of my dad after he died.

Now it holds a deeper, more profound meaning for me.

I will remember you
Will you remember me
Don't let your life pass you by
Weep not for the memories

I'm so tired but I can't sleep
Standin' on the edge of something much too deep
It's funny how we feel so much but we cannot say a word
We are screaming inside, but we can't be heard

But I will remember you
Will you remember me
Don't let your life pass you by
Weep not for the memories

I'm so afraid to love you, but more afraid to lose
Clinging to a past that doesn't let me choose
Once there was a darkness, deep and endless night
You gave me everything you had, oh you gave me light

And I will remember you
Will you remember me
Don't let your life pass you by
Weep not for the memories

I love you Dad. I love you Andie. And I will remember you.

Taken...

I hate weather like this. Absolutely hate it. Always have.

Overcast, cold, blustery days leave me wanting a fire in the fireplace and a cozy spot on the couch. Andie would always build me a fire on nights like this, taking pride in making a huge roaring fire. Men seem to like fire…I guess that goes back to the caveman days and wanting to protect and provide for their women. Andie definitely protected and provided for me in a million ways, but tonight I think of him building a fire to keep me warm, and standing back as the flames danced and flickered to admire his work. He was always taking care of me in simple ways- putting gas in my car, cleaning the kitchen, making coffee in the morning, feeding the dogs, taking out the trash. Working hard so we could have the things we dreamed about- the house, the cars, the life. I glance at my wedding ring-to me it is the ultimate symbol of his commitment to provide for me always.

These days I find myself looking at the hands of other people while at the grocery store, the gas station, the car next to me. Searching for wedding rings, and wondering…are they married? What’s their story? Are they spoken for? Do they have someone to take care of them? Even if they have a ring on I wonder, are they widowed like me and wearing it as a disguise? Are they happily married, would they rather be divorced? Funny, I never cared about the rest of the world and their marriage statuses because mine was so perfect and it was all I needed. I was spoken for and didn’t concern myself with the status of others. I have always been proud to wear my ring to show the world that I belonged to someone- to prove to the world that I was worthy and loved.

Oh, how blessed to be provided for,
spoken for,
taken…

The business of dying...

There is a lot to be done after one dies, lots of loose ends to tie up, lots of people to call.The insurance company, the mortgage company, the banks, the lawyers, social security, pension companies, and on and on…it seems to never end.

On my way home from work the other day I was driving down Highway 46- the same route we came home from vacation after he died and a memory flashed through my mind.

The morning after he died my aunt was driving us home and the organ donation lady called. I never knew what went into organ donation or how involved it is. It was probably the most surreal and ridiculous conversation I’ve ever had, and even more so because my husband had only been dead for a few short hours. After discussing which parts of my husband’s body they would likely “harvest”- an interesting choice of words, I thought, she had to ask me a litany of questions that seemed bizarre at the time. (Had he ever engaged in homosexual sex, slept with anyone from a certain region in Africa, or slept with anyone else who might have slept with someone from a certain region in Africa, had he ever used IV drugs, was he HIV positive, etc.) I remember when she asked me if he had ever engaged in homosexual sex I sarcastically retorted, “I think he’d rather be where he is right now than do that.” Then the gravity of the situation hit me again and I realized I was talking about my dead husband- I felt guilty for making light of it. The topic of conversation was too heavy to handle at the moment…

I just received a draft version of my will and advanced directive in the mail from my estate attorney. I have to review it and make sure that I made all the right decisions about what goes where, and who gets my kids, and how my money will be handled if I die. We should have done this before Andie died but of course we thought we had more time. It’s utterly depressing to think about your own mortality especially when the wound of grief is so fresh and you don’t have the “if this should ever happen to us” buffer that most of us carry with us when we’re young. I guess we never got around to doing it because the thought of tragedy was too heavy to handle at the time…

The hardest part is trying to decide what to put on his gravestone. I mean, how do you reduce a person to just a few words on a gravestone? I’m writing a letter to the girls about him and it is already 5 typed pages long. How do I condense all that into something meaningful and true and honest? I’m just not sure that anything I put on there will really do him justice, because he is after all, so much more than what a few words can convey.

It weighs heavy on my mind these days,

this business of dying...