One More Time

I couldn't begin to count the times I've left the house and told the dogs be good, I'll be back later. Crazy dog people like me say things like that. A friend of mine instructs her dog each day to keep the elephants away. She doesn't live anywhere near elephants. Saying things like this are a term of endearment. A love language of sorts. A ritual, a transition, from being in the presence of our beloved pets, to going out into the world. Leaving them is hard sometimes.

I had to leave Layla for the last time. I held her and whispered, I've got you, I've got you, I've got you. Until all I had left were memories. It sucks. Big time. Letting go is so hard. In reality she left me, way before I was ready.

I've had to let lots of things go. We all do. It never gets easier.

Pets give love in such a pure and nonjudgmental way. I mean, they could judge me, lol. I am far from perfect. I'll admit I've wondered if when I leave, they put their heads together and say, whew, she's a nut job. But she's our nutjob and we love her.

I've felt that way about Layla. She was a wild child for years. She did miles and miles of perimeter checks. Barked the night animals away that came near her yard. Retrieved a zillion tennis balls. Tried repeatedly to crawl into my skin when it thundered. Did pet therapy visits and never met a stranger. In fact, she was always disappointed if a passerby neglected to stop to pet her. Rude.

I'd like to be a bit like she was. A little on the cray cray side. But completely adorable. I'd like to give a good side eye like she did. I'd like to have her joy, her resilience, her stamina.  Mostly, I'd like to kiss her one more time, say I've got you and I love you. One more time.

 

For me, and for you.

I haven't had a lot of words lately; I've been lost in feelings and memories. 

Memories are funny that way. Not ha-ha funny, sad funny. Sometimes the other way around. I look back a lot this time of year. Because life changed dramatically. You don't forget the events that change your very being. 

You remember who broke the news. You remember who helped clean up the messes. You remember who stood with you. You remember life flights, honor walks, and new titles like, widow and survivor. You remember going home for the first time afterwards. Life is divided by before and after. 

Now, there will always be those who think by now you should be over it. Years pass, life goes on. They say it's in the past. They say you'll love again. There is some truth in that. Live does go on. In different ways. You do love again. If you're lucky, you love yourself. You have a greater appreciation for those who bless your life. Some memories, however, carry into the future. That's not a bad thing. 

I realize I'd never be who and where I am without the experiences that shaped me. That the trauma serves a purpose. The life changes bring new blessings. The pain builds my faith. That gratitude is as necessary as breathing. That sharing is caring. That I need to put words to paper. For me, and for you. 

No Good Outcomes

I have a friend going through a time in life where there are no good outcomes. A different situation than my loss, but my heart weighs heavy for her. It triggers memories of seven years ago when there were no good outcomes in my life. 

We hadn't gotten to the worst, but we were on the downhill slide. Each day we lost more ground. Each day, especially in retrospect, it became clearer that things were not right and would never be. 

We were worried and stressed. Friends were concerned for his safety, and for mine. I worried about the dog's safety. So many prayers, so few answers. Each day I'd come home wondering what I'd walk in to. I'd count noses, I'd assess the mood, look for clues, sometimes I'd even do a mental inventory of what might have gone missing while I was gone. Part of me was always on high alert and had been for ages. I can't speak for his progression down the slippery slope, because his reality was different than mine. His pain and experiences were mostly held within. Except for the times they came out sideways. Few people were aware of how it was unfolding. Some knew from what I shared, even then it didn't feel safe to let on.

Therein is a lesson. So often we don't share the pain we are going through. I mostly didn't, but I didn't have much of a voice then. Sometimes in the midst of the storm we can't see how bad it is. We trudge on, in pain, in worry. We do the best we can with the knowledge we have at the time. 

I wish, and always will, that the choices faced ended differently. But we cannot choose for another. We can only choose for ourselves. Choice is a mix of instinct, faith, hope and ownership. It's a process that moves in slow motion or in light speed. Sometimes simultaneously.

I don't know where you are in life. I know we're only as alone as we chose to be. I know sometimes there are no good outcomes. Even in that we have a choice on how we respond. I pray it is with the faith and trust that we can survive the worst storms life offers. 

One Person's Journey

Anniversaries of the heart are not limited to one day. Often, there are days or weeks of memories. Flashbacks of trauma, days of stress and confusion. Sometimes a clear view of the dysfunction doesn't happen until long after the event.  I kept a journal during the hard times in life. It served me well then, and it serves me well now. Why do I look back? Because it helps to remember that I did all I could. That things were so completely messed up. That I made choices based on what I knew at the time. That I did the best I could. And, that I am a human prone to human moments. We all are.

At times we think back and say, self, it really wasn't that bad. The journal reminds me otherwise. It reminds also me how prayerful I was every day in unbearable circumstances. I understand that while specific prayers went unanswered, other prayers I never put words to were.

A friend said to me recently never forget the sting. Which seemed an odd. Most people would hope for that, long for that. She clarified that my story needs to be told. That someone out there, who I will likely never know, needs to hear it. I don't know for sure how my words will get there, but I believe they will. It's like planting seeds and never seeing them grow. You trust the process.

There are a million different stories of loss and grief due to suicide, all different, none make it easier to accept. The loss impacts who you are to the core. So many lives forever changed by one decision.

As the days countdown to seven years since this loss. I look back and I look forward. I count blessings, I grieve losses. I remember how hard life was. I remember those who sustained me. I recall the pain and the prayers. I trust that the words of a survivor can be balm for someone else. Therein lies the grace. One person's journey can ease another's. 

Do What You Can

We do what we can. It's both simple and complex. Each person decides what they can or cannot do. Sometimes we can do a lot. Sometimes we can do a little. There are times we don't know how to do, or what to do, but we trust the way will become clear.

For me, doing what I can includes putting ice packs on a foster dog who had a leg amputated yesterday. It's telling him what a good boy he is when he balances on three legs to pee when he used to balance on 4 legs, although one pained him greatly. It's giving pain meds in the middle of the night.

For me, doing what I can is working my butt off to fill orders for a large funeral this week. For me doing what I can includes clipping foliage from own garden to help give the designs that rustic wildflower look the family wanted. 

For me doing what I can is taking time to find 5 things I'm grateful for before I go to bed each night. It's texting a friend/friends daily to share the minutia of life. It is sitting down to write, knowing the words will come.

It's sometimes looking past what I don't want to do, or can't, to with the grace of God I can. It's pushing past depression, fatigue, the never ending "I should" things that life holds to I will, I can and I do.

We do what we can. Your list is not the same as mine because your gifts and talents are different. Your worries and burdens weigh differently. Your experiences color your approaches. It is all about showing up. In all the little ways and sometimes in the big ones.

Show up, trust in the process, do what you can. 

Scott's Sweet Corn

How do we keep memories alive? How do we remember and share them? Fact is we do not forget the days past. The lucky ones have a treasure trove of good memories to draw from. 

I will own that I struggle with releasing the harsh realities of losing someone to suicide. Mental health issues are painful to witness and debilitating for those who suffer from them and their survivors. I hope there is a shift someday and the good memories come first. It's a process. I'm not there yet.

I will also own, and I suspect I'm not alone, that I wish I could just say - I lost my spouse to _______ fill in the blank. I don't wish anyone cancer or an accident, or illness. But I stumble over the stigma of suicide every time. People understand how grueling a cancer journey is. They can envision an accident, or other illness. They cannot fathom death by choice, and it frightens them to think about it. I get it. It is a daily process to make any sense of it at all.

While I'm envious of those to talk freely of those they lost, I also find joy in it. I love how it draws them out, and gives them purpose by simply sharing their passions, their loves, their life.

Case in point. Scott's Sweet Corn. They began harvesting sweet corn at Master's Hand in Tekamah, NE this week. All the signs on the property shout with joy that Scott's Sweet Corn is ready. Made me think of the Burma Shave signs, or the multitude of signs to Wall Drug. Scott loved his sweet corn. Susie loved her Scott. In a way he is with us delighting in the corn. Isn't that cause for celebration? I think so.

Those Other Lives

Do you ever think back to those other lives you've had. I do.

I remember how naive I was when I got married at 22. I was young, in love, optimistic. Did I mention naive? I was so sure we would go the distance. For 18 years we did. Boy, though, I was unprepared. Willing to learn and grow, but unprepared. Much like when the kiddos arrived. Optimistic, but unprepared. And, oh, how I love them. They are the best part of those 18 years, and I am forever grateful.

I am taken back to another life by simply donning a shirt that has a tiny speck of paint on it. I know exactly where I was at, who I was painting with, and why we were painting together. It was a hard time in life, a rebuilding season. A fresh coat of paint put on with a friend makes a difference though. 

I remember pulling up roots and beginning a journey while struggling with depression and grief. It was a bold move. Another naive and crazy move. Definitely a hard move. I floundered for months. Yet here I am.

I remember being a new widow. How impossible it seemed. Every day it slapped me in the face one way or another. So many rude awakenings. I met with a group of other widows for dinner monthly which should have been comforting. But somehow the dynamics weren't. Right concept, wrong situation. Not my people. It's entirely okay to understand that some people are just not your people. 

In other lives I worked way harder than I should have, for far less than I deserved. Now, shall we say, I am a seasoned widow. A different person than I was in those other lives. I won't say I am an old widow, or an old wife or mother. Just seasoned. Seasoned by the journey and lessons in the other lives I've lived.