Touch-and-go

When learning how to fly, student pilots practice something that is called a “touch-and-go”. You bring the plane in for a landing, but right as the wheels hit the runway, you pull the steering wheel toward you, fire everything back up, and take off again, barely touching down, never completing a full landing.

It makes sense to do this kind of exercise, to kill two birds with one stone, to practice these over and over again. After all, landings and take-offs are the most critical part of every flight.

I wish I had more practice at this in real life. I wish I knew how to turn a dive-bomb into a powerful take-off, an ascent of intention. A trip with a destination. Yeah, I know…it’s about the journey, the ride, and I have the “opportunity” to create a whole new life here! Well, blah. I liked the journey I was on, and it was nowhere near complete.

But apparently it wasn’t time for me to get comfortable in a marriage, to start nestling down for a family. Because here I am, airborne, jettisoned back into the search. The search for meaning, for happiness, for love—for what?

That’s how it feels when you lose your mate, no matter where you were at in your journey together. Talk about a rudely interrupted flight. A mangled, incomplete landing, from which you have to recover and take off again. Some couples just had a baby, then boom. Some couples had a rich, long history, and were finally enjoying retirement. Boom. Some, newly engaged, a wedding in the works. Others, deeply entrenched in parenting four kids (I know five different women who found themselves widowed moms to 4 kids)….

We all know there are certain climbs we make in life, toward milestones, and that after we reach them, we relax, we let go of the pressures, the anxieties. I wasn’t someone with a strict life-schedule or plan, I never assumed I would get married. But once I did, I was happy. I loved being married to my husband. Of course there are no guarantees in life, or in a marriage; a successful take-off doesn’t guarantee a smooth flight, or a successful landing.

I accept that this is now the place, from where I have to take off, that there is no other choice. I can’t land back in the past, I can only rev up the engines and hope to get lift. A feat of nature it will be, flying with directional instruments all messed-up, fuel-tank on empty, flight-plan in flames, control-tower on strike, and my co-pilot, gone.

Wish me luck, steep climb ahead…but I also see mystical mountainous cumulonimbus, if ever there was a dream-cloud to take respite in…

Looking for signs of life…

(Or Movie Mash-up: “Get busy living, or get busy dying, Dude.”)

Shawshank Redemption. Good movie. No, GREAT movie. It was on last week and I watched it for the hundredth time. I was reminded of the quote, “get busy living, or get busy dying.” I also watched the Big Lebowski…the Dude. I had forgotten most of it, and it had me busting out laughing. Every morning now, I hear the soundtrack in my head, asking to “see what condition my condition is in”….

I was in a very dark place recently. And while in this “condition”, many things happened. Mostly, I was mourning the loss of my husband, remembering the months we spent in the hospital, worrying that I will forget his wonderful qualities, wondering if I will ever come out of my grief. Have I made a single step forward? I often feel stagnant, boxed in by a very narrow vision of my self.

When I started this blog, I didn’t know what I was doing, or why. Stuff was just pouring out of me. It had to come out. But not without some trepidation, about sharing publicly. Worried that no one would read it, worried that anyone would read it. When I got my first follower, I had a panic attack. Then, as others started following, I got even more confused. Why are they even reading this dark shit? I haven’t posted anything funny for weeks! And why do I even feel the need to be funny? This is a blog about loss. Again…what am I doing? Why?

Under it.

Man. I’m under it today.

And it’s only Saturday.

I know why they are afraid to ask, “how was your weekend”? On Monday, it will be written all over my face. The signature look of grief. It would be a compliment to call it a “hot mess”.

Most of the week, I am in “zombie mode”. On Fridays, I crumble. Saturday is “mad dog” day. I walk around in circles trying to remember where I hid my bone, or put my keys, unable to settle in a comfortable spot. But better drop that ass quickly because here comes Sunday! The variety-pack of anxiety, fear, and what-the-hell-happened-to-my-life?

Monday. It’s just not something people can take – early in the morning – seeing the big gaping hole in my chest, the dark circles under my eyes. Weekends are for rest and recovery, aren’t they? I’d be afraid to ask, too. So away we go, allowing clients, deadlines and pressing needs distract, derail and lead us all astray from the important things in life.

A presumptuous young doctor, (strutting around in his self-perceived cloak of immortality), asked my husband what he would “do” with his precious remaining time. I think the guy was seriously expecting some kind of fantastical answer about blasting up into space, base jumping from the Eiffel Tower, or frolicking over to Disney, and sucking on Mickey Mouse’s dick. Is that offensive? Well, so is asking deathly-ill people what they are going to “do” before they die.

Seriously. I wanted to punch him. But then my husband answered. And he melted my heart.

“The only thing I want to do, is go home, and spend time with my beautiful wife, our dog,  my family. Enjoy our garden, sit out on the front deck with my coffee, listen to the birds…I don’t need to go anywhere to find what is most important.”

Is it any wonder my weekends feel like a barren landscape, leaving me with dried-out eyes, and a mouth full of sand? It’s not something happy-hour and a little mascara can fix. I’m still under it, and can only dream of being over it.

Though I guess my morning cup of coffee does help…cheers, baby. Thank you for seeing the beauty.

Holiday Creep

Of course there is currently much talk about the holidays, and how to cope with them after experiencing loss. I understand the good intentions behind discussing, thinking, and preparing for the upcoming season. And that it might not be a bad idea to have a “plan” in place….

Me and my husband – we were our own little unit. A self-sufficient satellite station. We both grew up with families that were low-key about the holidays, wonderful families with virtually no drama or expectations about where we spent our Thanksgiving, or Christmas, families that also happened to be very far away – mine, across the country, his, on an entirely different continent. So we all actually felt it was more enjoyable for everyone to visit in the off-seasons, without any of the potential holiday travel fiascos.

Survival Tips

Hope. A glimmer.

There might be quite a few Joan Didion quotes working their way into this blog. After her husband died suddenly from heart failure (whilst their daughter was in the hospital, deathly ill) she wrote “The Year of Magical Thinking”. The title itself is one I can aspire to, as I immediately thought, how about more like, “The Year of Messed-Up Thinking”, but I will get back to the title later.

Who rules this kingdom?

I just read that despite the economy, people continue to increase spending on their dogs. These four-legged creatures have become such integrated parts of our families. There is a four-legged, furry one that I share my home with. Yes, I am a dog owner. Albeit, a tormented one.

“Cleo” is just over a year old…strong-willed and still full of explosive (and destructive) puppy energy. We got Cleo as a puppy, for my husband. And to be honest, ever since his death, I swing wildly back and forth as to whether or not I can handle this dog. Owning a dog was not a decision I took lightly, and “giving one away” is not either.

She Ded

When my friend first suggested I watch the show “Go On”, about a newly widowed man (played by Matthew Perry) and the support group he joins, I was resistant. I saw the pilot and didn’t think it was funny. Plus, “widowhood” and support groups are what I am Living and Breathing right now, so I was worried the show would hit a little too close to home. Is it even “kosher” to watch a show about death, when a loved one has just died?

*Case in point: I used to watch that cleverly written show about cancer, “The C Word”, until we found out my husband actually had cancer, then I wanted to throw a rock at the tv faster than you can say “pheocromocytoma” (the type of cancerous tumor my husband died from).

But one night as I was scanning hundreds of channels in search of something escapist and numbing like “Gnomeo and Juliet”, I stumbled across “Go On” and decided to give it another try.

Um, it’s pretty dark in here…

Illustration courtesy of the New Yorker.

WTF? Why can’t I see anything? How did I get here? Ok, ok. Stay calm. Yes, it is dark. But I am OK. Still breathing, still alive. I just wish I could see something. In fact…could someone please tell me where the hell I am going????

Breathe. Just breathe. Let’s take inventory.

I still have cell reception…so it’s ok to call. I just talked to a friend in fact, and tried to explain how I feel like I am walking around in some kind of hazy gelatinous bubble. Yup, a snakey shadow of my former self.

And like I said, I am still breathing, I guess that’s a plus. I just can’t understand how I got here. It’s dark and lonely. Everything looks muddy, and even though this thing keeps moving, I have no idea where we are headed. Oh, am I repeating myself? Well, for all I know this big old serpent might only be going in circles.

I know people are out there. I can hear the muffled concern. I’m just not sure they see me clearly. And I understand how it must look from the outside! A little scary to approach… potentially venomous. I’d really like to be able to say, “I won’t bite!”, but what do you expect? I am in the belly of fucking a snake!! Obviously, I don’t have control. Or perspective. Which reminds me, could YOU please CALL ME? Even though I have your number, it’s really hard to dial from in here.

Nope, sorry, no idea how or when I will get out. But one thing is for sure, if I make it to the other side, I definitely won’t be wearing the same skin I went in with.