One Week Ago

Last Wednesday, I spent the better part of the day talking to Miki, reassuring her that it was okay for her to let go and to get her feet wet with her next step.  Having been unconscious for over three days, it just seemed her time was drawing near and the signs were supporting her in that direction.  As I write, it’s still raw.  I held her hand, kissed her all over, and caressed her newly grown “chicken fuzz” that adorned her previously baldhead.  I rephrased my words to her in as many ways as I could, hoping not to lose her attention, if she could indeed comprehend my plea.  As the day wore on, the volume of each breath diminished slowly but surely, until late evening, when she released the last hint of air and her chest became still.  Her humming bird heart rate ceased and the moment I had encouraged throughout the day arrived.  Simultaneously, I celebrated for her and cried for me.  And at that moment, we both began a new adventure, but this time separately.  Like this whole leg of the journey, it was the most difficult moment to participate in, yet the most freeing.  I replay it frequently, in hopes of not losing it.

My dad endured losing a spouse twice.  I am trying to figure out how to get through it once.  I wrote months ago that I felt Miki’s cancer experience was a unique struggle like no one else’s, but yet like everyone else’s.  It seems as though no two people react the same to the drugs, radiation, or whatever treatment regiment is laid out before them.  I am feeling the same thing as I come to grips with losing Miki.  I am reacting to the same event as you, yet I have my own unique feelings and reactions like no one else’s, yet like everyone else’s.  Of course I know others have lost partners in life, but why do I feel like mine is so much harder to wrap my brain around than anyone else’s?  Intellectually, I know that isn’t the case, but emotionally, how can anyone feel the same thing I am?  Okay, I am starting to write consecutive interrogative sentences, so I need to let it go.

I feel like I am doing okay, according to The Five Stages of Loss and Grief.  More importantly I rely on those that know me and see me often to keep tabs.  Jerk me back in line when needed.  The time since Miki passed is short in days, but feels like weeks or longer, as I start to come out of the eddy we stalled out in and back into the flow of life again.  Away from the imaginary safety of our cancer center and the caring nurses that made everything all right or the hospital and a false sense of security or Hospice House, where some of the burden seemed to have been dispersed, I feel like an ex-con stepping out of prison, trying to readjust to a new life on the outside.  But I can honestly say that so far, each day is slightly better in some way than the previous one.

Getting the house back in pre-cancer condition was no small feat.  Everything from hospital bed removal (thanks Greg), to vacuuming, mopping, and dusting (thanks Alice, Lynn, and John), took some time and focus I don’t have yet.  Coping with Miki’s personal items like clothing, design and decorations, and her Healing Touch business will be a longer-range goal.  But the basics are in place and there is room to place one foot in front of the other, which is a realistic daily goal.  Getting the house back is one of the accomplishments that makes each day a little better than the last.

Two things happened yesterday that keep the momentum moving forward.  One, I received Miki’s death certificates in the mail.  Many of you may already know that until you have those in hand, life can be put on hold.  They evidently unlock some doors to progress in moving forward.  The second change that occurred yesterday came in the mail with the death certificates.  I was taken aback as the cards that have been coming to Miki showing support and birthday wishes have changed over to condolences and best wishes, addressed to me.  I honestly didn’t see that coming.  Over the last few days, a light but steady stream of friends have appeared on my doorstep and good visits ensued.  The support has been unwavering for months and we both truly thank you for that.

Today I visited the local Social Security Administration office, on a tip from people in the know.  I would not have thought to seek out any type of “death benefit” in that direction, since our teacher retirement doesn’t play well together with social security.  And I learned something new.  I was told that when social security was established, they issued a $255 death benefit to the survivors of all that worked and contributed their fair share over time.  Well, Miki evidently contributed her fair share and they will issue me the same $255 as was denoted in the Social Security Act from 1935…78 years later.  A good example of the more things change, the more they…

So as plans continue to solidify for Miki’s celebration/memorial service, life slows down for no one.  I constantly dig for the last words Miki and I spoke, the last hug we clung to, and smile we shared.  Whether I recall them as they happened, create them in my mind, or pull them out of thin air, I’m reminded each day that regrouping from these last six months will be grueling at times and joyous at others.  I’m rooting for more of the latter.

My Zen from Home:  Many of you know that Miki edited all my blog entries before I posted them.  I felt a sense of accomplishment if she teared up, laughed aloud, or hopefully both while editing.  I am hoping that as I edit them myself, she is looking over my shoulder, helping to point out a correction or suggest a change.  On days she is lost in her new adventure, feel free to help her out and let me know of any blatant oversights I’ve made (you can skip the minor ones).  It may take a village to support this blog and me, where as she was pretty good at it by herself.  I’ll miss that too!

Miki was never stingy with a smile.