3-D: It’ll do for now

3-D: a three-dimensional form; also: an image or a picture produced in it

So says Merriam-Webster. Well, dudes, I don’t agree, and I have the experience to prove it. Nothing replaces the physical form of a person.

Nine years ago I looked at my husband in true 3-D for the last time. I didn’t much like seeing his body lying in a casket, but that was my reality. No Photoshopping a photo will be the same.

Family and friends took our turns walking by the casket, saying our good-byes. I have had my fill of seeing people in caskets.

People say odd things as they pass by.

“It looks like he’s sleeping.”

“He looks so good, so natural.”

“You can tell she’s in Heaven.”

Maybe it’s my warped sense of humor, but sometimes when I pass by a body in a casket, I get really creeped out and think, Geez. That is SO not natural looking… Lady, look at her hands. No one’s hands are that waxy… Dude, even her hair looks fake… Makeup isn’t usually that thick… and so on.

But this time it was different. This was my Mike. The funeral home got his smirk just right. I’ll never figure out how I found the photo I gave them. It was the last professional Air Force portrait he had taken… because it was the last one that was free. I had to smile—dare I say, smirk—at that.

I’d not ever kissed a corpse. I did that day.

I sat on the front row and the chaplain from the recruiting squadron placed himself directly in front of me. Just smile politely, I told myself. Inside I was screaming, Get out of my way, Sir! The casket lid is closing! I will never again see Mike in this form! Get! Out! Of! My! Way! But, he stood there and made polite chit-chat. I knew what he was there for. Later, I appreciated it.

We exited and then we followed the flag-draped casket down the aisle as people looked on. What were they thinking? I felt a rush of heat encapsulate me. I tried to look forward and not fall apart. Quick body check: Anything sticking out that shouldn’t? My hair still in place? How much mascara has run down my face? I thought. I followed up with, Yeah, but does it really matter? Besides, I’m the widow. I can look however I want.

Eulogy. Tears. Music. Tears. Attributes. Tears. Memories. Tears. Laughter. Tears.

Did I make the right choices in people to talk? music? We never talked about what he wanted. I had some choices, but there were also military requirements. I didn’t mind any of the latter. Mike deserved it all.

Lee Greenwood’s “God Bless the USA.” Mike would tear up when he heard the song. It was the right one.

Folding of the flag. Geez, these Airmen are one- and two-stripers. They are amazing. I would later share with family the meaningful words that accompany the flag folding.

Colonel Arnold presenting that flag to Mike’s parents. Crap! I’m next! No, don’t do this! It’s getting to be final! Stay away from me, Sir!

And then the words, “On behalf of a grateful nation…” as he passed the flag to me.

The worst part was still to come. I’m glad I had knowledge, but it didn’t help much.

The side door to the chapel opened. “Taps.” The song has a new meaning now.

The 21-gun salute. I shuddered with each shot fired.

And we were dismissed. I almost ran out of the chapel to the door. Then I realized I left my in-laws behind. I raced back in. Everything was swirling around me.

I was clutching the flag as we all left the chapel. Carrie Underwood was right when she sang that the widow clings to what we have left of our spouse when we hold that flag close.

I was still holding myself together. Well, sort of.

And in walks an Honor Guard member. He gave me three empty shell casings; they were cold, heavy metal. I felt the blood rush to my head. I’m fainting. Help! Someone help me! And then I caught myself.

Pack up the props, photos, Hooters take-out box and bottles of Fat Tire and other things I’d brought to celebrate Mike’s life. (He loved Hooters wings. Really did. I went to one of our local restaurants, told them the story and asked for a take-out box and bag. Two bottles of Fat Tire next to the bag. It was a perfect tribute.)

None of this stuff was the same afterwards. Yes, they represented part of Mike’s life, but they were not him. Not even the photos. Not the same. But if I close my eyes and quiet my heart, he’s right there laughing, convincing Cocoa that he’s a retriever and to go after the thrown ball, reminding Congo to behave while he’s at work, doing the Elvis face with Sebastian, teasing Lady to giggle back, driving down the long driveway in that little Toyota truck with his arm hanging out the window.

As she looked at family photos, a widow sister once said that her husband never ages, he stays the same. The kids are the same age, the background never changes. They are moments in time captured for us. They are as 3-D as we get and it will have to suffice until we see our loved ones again.

Now I have to learn a foreign language?

[Written for a widow Facebook group:]

I’ve been a widow for eight years and almost two months. Those first days, weeks and months were rough. It’s like I was speaking a foreign language that no one else spoke or even understood. Of course I don’t mean that literally, but early on, I needed to find someone that understood what was happening in my life. I knew one widow, but she had remarried a week before Mike and I got married. And I didn’t know how to get in touch with her.

Mike and I lived about 45 miles east of Colorado Springs and I felt so isolated. One day I braved being around humans and drove into town in search of a widow book to read. Maybe I can find someone there that understands, I thought. I finally found the grief section and was disappointed to find only one-and-a-half shelves of resources. Geez, people have been dying for thousands of years and books have been written about every subject and this is all they have?

I browsed through the titles and found a book written by a widow. The pages I glanced through seemed to be written well, so I bought the book. When I got home, I grabbed a drink and snack, a place on the couch, snuggled up next to one of my dogs and began to read.

As I was reading along, I noticed the author wrote certain words that I recognized.

new normal

I’m X years out/how many years out are you?

grief journey

I thought to myself, Wow! I’ve used those words and terms. Is there a widow language? How long does it take to get fluent? Do I have to learn this language?

I read on. Some of her journey was similar to mine. Then I turned the page in the chapter about eating healthy and taking care of our physical bodies. The author said that cottage cheese and chips are not the healthiest choice.

I looked down at my snack. What? Not only am I speaking widow language, I’m eating widow food?!

I paused. And I cried.

I’m a widow!

Do you remember those first days and weeks? Did it seem like no one else knew your language? that no one understood what you were saying? that you didn’t seem to have the right words to answer those asking how you were feeling? or you heard their offers to help but you didn’t know what you needed?

As I have walked along this journey, I have found that regardless of how we got here, we are on a similar road. We have similar trigger words and dates that knock us down. We also have words and actions that calm us and bring us some peace. We have each other. We know each other’s language.

No one understands like a widow.

[Just a note: for grammatical purposes, I’ve referred to those whose spouses died as widow. I am not neglecting our brothers, the widowers. It’s just easier not to do the he/she thing.]

Losing Battle

Today I start a losing battle. I want to be a loser! Will this be the “hill to die on” in this lifelong battle? Will I just make an appearance or will I be “all in”? Will I have victory or defeat?

Enough of the what-ifs and the dreaming.

I started another diet today. I’ve gained weight after moving to Kansas.

I can blame it on menopause. I had 11 years of peri-menopause. Weight gain is common in this season of life. How long does this fun phase last?

I could blame it on the humidity. For almost 20 years, I lived in Colorado. No, I didn’t hike and I didn’t ski. However, I did garden. (Yes, “garden” can be a verb.) The last house I sold had front and back yards that were a blank slate. I changed that in almost 7 years. Colorado is arid and it cools down after sundown. Kansas doesn’t. I tried to work outside and would melt in only a few minutes. Well, not melt. My body sweat into a limp, wet rag.

What else I can blame for my weight gain?

Laziness

Bad knees and back

Medications

Walking with Cocoa, but he stops to sniff everything, so it’s not cardio for me.

Going out to eat more.

Eating with parents and now ex-boyfriend and we wouldn’t always make the best, healthy choices.

The love of food and the dis-love of working out. Yeah, that’s more like it.

I’ve cut back, cut out and replaced. I’ve zipped open “food” and followed strict portion control.

I’ve weighed and measured and counted food so I wouldn’t go over the limit for the meal and day.

Last year I tried one of those diets that give you pre-measured “food.” It tasted kinda nasty, but I wanted to be committed. I committed myself to the desserts and got lax about the entrees and everything else.

One day recently I had had enough. I contacted a local hospital’s weight management program. Didn’t go.

I attended one class of zumba. My knees hurt for almost two weeks… and this was zumba for plus-sized people. I felt so defeated. I’ve not returned to the class.

I went to a couple of gyms to get information to join, but that’s a whole ‘nother story that would take too long to tell here. Ended up buying a new-to-me treadmill from Play It Again Sports.

Back to the diet part… Finally, I went to the orientation for the hospital’s program. Got excited and it felt do-able. At the end of the meeting, I met with the facilitator and realized there was no way I could afford the program.

Well, now what do I do?

I decided to do the at-home option and meet with the facilitator once a week. I won’t get the interaction of the group and the idea that I could meet new friends went out the window with the high cost. Their meals and I can add as many fruits and veggies as I want. Plenty to drink. Although they allow diet soda, I will not partake.

My parents took me to Freddy’s yesterday for Valentine’s Day and to celebrate my “last meal.” I was miserably full. Replaced the food that isn’t on the plan with the boxes and cans that are. Went to bed realizing tomorrow would start a big change.

I tossed and turned and flopped like a fish instead of sleep. Not unusual, but I knew I had to get up instead of flopping over to sleep. The alarm clock was set for 0615 hours. Grunt! Cocoa looked at me like I was crazy. He’s used to being the alarm clock. I got dressed and hit the treadmill. I did it! I really did it!

Shake for breakfast. Banana and powdered peanut butter. (Don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it.)

Entree with added black beans.

It’s 1:30 and I’ve made it this far. I think I can make it to the end of the day and start the routine over again tomorrow.

I can envision myself thin. After a 50-lb weight loss 20+ years ago, I didn’t recognize myself in a photo. I looked and felt great. I will keep that image in mind. I look forward to not recognizing myself again soon.

I wanna be a loser!

photo credit: http://www.bodyforwife.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/01/diet.jpg

Christmas presents or presence?

It’s that time of year when we’re reminded of those less fortunate than ourselves and that a gift of money or presents would help these families “have a nice Christmas.” No denying that many people have needs beyond what I can imagine. Yet my cynical side wondered, Is that what it’s all about? Does a few dollars and second-hand toys define Christmas?

For the past seven years, I have spent Christmas Day alone. My dogs have been with me, but with a couple of exceptions, no humans. I would get out my little Christmas tree and place a few memorial ornaments on it to remember those in my family that died. The house felt more like a home.

My mom would mail me some gifts or a gift card. I would often go to Kohl’s to get myself something else just to be selfish. Some years I would get a few greeting cards. Last year I joined in the Christmas card exchange with a generous Facebook group called the Corgi Nation and received almost 100 cards! Did the mailman wonder if I had joined a dog cult?

My house didn’t lack presents. It lacked presence. The last year that Christmas was full in my heart was 2007. Mike and I enjoyed the presence of his two daughters and our four dogs. I still remember the scene I didn’t capture with a camera of everyone napping and each was touching nose to  hands to paws. Sure we had presents, but more importantly, we had presence.

I was blessed one of these seven years by the presence of a dear friend, Andrew. At age 19, he understood and communicated to me that “no one should be alone on Christmas Day.” I didn’t know he would stop by, so I popped a pizza in the oven and we watched “A Christmas Story” together. Nothing extraordinary, but the memories will be forever etched in my mind.

I thought of Christmas 1982 when my dad was in the hospital. Mom packed up presents and even a traditional meal, and my brother and I celebrated the season with presents… and presence. It would be the last Christmas we would be together.

Linus Van Pelt of “Peanuts” had it right. The true meaning of Christmas, Charlie Brown, was the story of the birth of Jesus as told in Luke chapter 2. Without the comforts of a birthing room and midwife or nurse, a baby was born. This baby’s presence filled the animal’s stable. Did the innkeeper wonder back to see what had become of the young pregnant woman and her husband that he turned away? As they heard tears of a newborn baby, did anyone stop by to give this family a receiving blanket or diapers? We know shepherds visited him and his parents. It would be nearly two years later that anyone would bring this family presents. And those gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh would remind Mary and Joseph that their son had a much deeper purpose.

Even though my house didn’t occupy other humans on Christmas Day for many years, I realize I had “a nice Christmas.” I had memories of the presence of family and friends. I also knew that the baby born in an animal’s shelter thousands of years ago grew and matured and at age 33 gave His life so that one day I could be reunited in Heaven to those I loved on Earth and with my Heavenly Father. That baby’s presence was a present to us all.

Home for Thanksgiving

For the first time in several years, I went grocery shopping for Thanksgiving dinner. The past six years, I have spent the day alone and ate whatever was available. Nothing special. No traditional food, nothing to remind me that this was a holiday and I was alone. Again.

Thanksgiving 2007 was spent in Lodi, Wisconsin. Mike had an eery feeling that it would be his dad’s last Thanksgiving on Earth, so we boarded the dogs, picked up his girls and hit the road. Our van wasn’t in good traveling condition, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was family. With a few bumps and hitches, we had an amazing time. The house was filled with family and friends. Little did we know what would happen less than two months later.

Thanksgiving 2006, a family joined us in rural Colorado, 50 miles east of town. Kids and dogs and fabulous yeast rolls. We got to host the kids while the parents went home and got up excessively early to do Christmas gift shopping the next morning. What fun we had. Four dogs. Five kids. Four adults.

Thanksgiving 2005 was in Wichita. It was a last-minute decision to head east. Dogs were boarded and we got here without any issues. Some of the family hadn’t met Mike, so that was nice to be able to introduce him. He and David bonded immediately and talked about basic training and their military service. On the way back to Colorado, I got to do what millions of people have done before. A rain storm turned into a wicked snow storm and we were stuck in Hays, Kansas. Everything west of Hays was closed. We found a hotel room and hunkered down while the ice and chill wreaked havoc outside. Three days later, the roads opened westward and so did we.

I think about the Thanksgivings of my youth: going to Grandma & Grandpa Kubik’s farm in rural Kansas. Always bittersweet. Great food. Definitely not Norman Rockwell moments. I wish I could revisit those times, stressful or not.

Family pictures. Waking up to the smell of turkey baking. People everywhere. Far too much eating. Movie watching. Card playing. Shopping on the day after long before it was called Black Friday. Saying goodbye.

Mike’s death in January 2008 changed my future, but it didn’t take away the past and the memories of laughter and tears during this time of thanks.

This year I am in Wichita and will be hosting Thanksgiving dinner. This place feels like home and it will be christened tomorrow as a place for family and friends to gather. Mom and Dale will drive from their apartment in north Wichita. My sister Lynda will come from Bartlesville, OK. New to this year are my boyfriend, his mom and sister and a friend of his. And, Cocoa will go from person to person looking emaciated just to get another morsel of goodies.

I just picked some leaves and will do the old-fashioned pressing into wax paper for a table runner. The house needs to be cleaned and my office needs straightening as we will dine there.

I will probably miss some dust puppies and perhaps the chairs will creak and squeak and at least one person will bump their toes on the table legs. But I will be home for Thanksgiving.

 

Widow warning

I met a new widow online this morning. She requested my friendship via Facebook. I noticed we had mutual friends that were widows, so I accepted. We chatted a little online and now my heart hurts a little more for this new friend whose life status has still to reach one year.

One year. That’s been years for me. How can that be? I still remember uttering the words, “One day, days will be weeks, weeks will be months, months will be years.” I said those words in 2008, most likely in February. I hadn’t reached one month of widowhood yet.

One month “in,” and I was still so numb. Less than two weeks of being sick, Mike died of complications from bacterial pneumonia. At 2112 hours on January 18, 2008, I went from being a wife/friend/lover to just me. I had never been a widow although I knew a few.

Little did I know what life would hand me in the days/weeks/months/years to come. The death of my first dog two weeks later. A move in May from the house where we lived together to a house in town to live by myself. The death of my father-in-law brought the family together again that June. Unpacking boxes of Mike’s things I had never seen. Figuring out how to get up every day and keep moving forward with little to no interest.

Fast forward to the year mark. I decided to bring together some friends that knew Mike to help me honor his life and work in the Air Force. Several people said, “How could it be a year?” and “It doesn’t seem like it’s been a year.” Yes, it’s been 365 days and I have lived every one of those. Alone. By myself. Crying myself to sleep. Awakening to puffy eyes and little glimmer of hope or interest in what lay ahead.

OK. I don’t mean to be “Debbie Downer,” but some days the only reason I got out of bed was to let the dogs out. I would stumble into the living room with a cup of coffee and “minutes” later, it was time to feed the dogs again, time to turn on the lights so I wouldn’t be sitting in the dark. True story.

My new friend this morning asked, “I heard the second year is worse.”

What do I say to this friend? I knew better than to lie, but I didn’t want to discourage her. Here’s what I said: ” Unfortunately, what you’ve heard is true. That second year, nothing is new or the first anymore. Friends and family have definitely gone back to their own lives and routines and you might think have forgotten your life changed drastically. The upside is that the paperwork and legal issues aren’t hitting you every day. I’ve learned that no one else understands like a widow and even though all of our situations are different, the end result is the same. I’ve been part of very good Facebook groups and they’ve helped me through some rough times. You can’t do this alone.”

True story.

Fast forward to almost eight years. It brings about issues of its own. I’ve moved from Colorado, the place where I met and married Mike. The same place where he died. No longer do I pass by the places we ate, watched movies, shopped, experienced life together. His ashes sat in the front seat of the 500 miles of my transition. I moved here–to the place where I was born and lived until I was 17–to be closer to my parents, to be here when they need me to accompany them to doctor’s appointments, to ease their transitions. Bluntly, to be here when they die.

Geesh. There’s that death theme again. I guess it’s as much part of my life now as it was eight years ago or from 1978 to 1983 when three grandparents and my dad died. I am familiar with death and living with death and after death.

But there’s a difference in being familiar and being okay with it. I’m still waiting for the last part.

The Blessing of the Bologna Sandwiches

Yeah, bologna, although I prefer to spell it baloney and I will throughout this blog. Here’s the story…

Shortly after moving to Colorado Springs in 1995, I joined a small Baptist church. I had been raised, nurtured, educated, and employed by Baptists, so it was natural I would seek out a church “of my own kind.”

I had moved from Nashville, the “Mecca” of Baptist-dom. And, I worked for their publishing house. I was taken many miles away from my comfort zone. No stretch of the truth when Baptist leaders said that states like Colorado–and many west of the Mississippi River–were still in the pioneer stage of work for Baptists. Churches were small and struggling.

I took a big pay cut for this job, but I took the job anyway. I began to understand the meaning of the phrase “more month than money” because of that pay cut. I had to get creative to help make the financial ends meet. It’s where I first discovered my love of thrift stores, but that’s for another blog.

Back to the church. I was used to being involved in church life, so I joined several groups and started leading a weekly Bible study using some of the products I had helped to produce.

On a particularly normal week, I was having a rough time. The new job was uncomfortable, and I missed my former co-workers very much. Sunday’s church service brought the news of several evening meetings that week. At least that would get me out of my apartment and be among humans, I thought. And I figured I would enjoy a break from my culinary experiments.

For the first dinner meeting, we indulged in bologna sandwiches, chips, cookies, and iced tea. Yum! The menu provided a casual environment for our meeting. Nothing fancy, generic brands, paper plates.

The second dinner meeting provided the same bill of fare and it was still MIY: make it yourself.

The third, repeat.

At first, I kind of groused at the thought of consuming boloney three times that week, although I was one of those rare types that liked boloney. Yeah, I’d read the ingredients and at the moment, chose not to focus on them so I could eat every bite.

I saw those three meal meetings as an opportunity to meet new people and engage in conversation and plans for the future. It really didn’t matter what we ate. It was the gathering together of people that made a difference. And the boloney extended the food in my pantry by three meals.

The blessing of the boloney sandwiches comes to mind every now and then when my cupboards are getting bare and my checkbook is getting easier to balance as it reduces more than increases. And I know God will remain faithful to provide for my real needs in creative ways.

Pass the boloney, please!

Blog 2

Yippee! So excited! Opportunities are endless… and I stare at a blank screen. Really? Writer’s block already? The problem isn’t the lack of subject options. A lot of things swirl around in my ‘ol brain, but narrowing it down is the issue. Do I scratch the surface or dig deeper?

This week’s activities included dinner with my parents, the demise of the 17-year old clothes dryer and purchase of one new to me, family visitation and memorial service of Marie, a dear mother of friends, pulling weeds, taking walks with my dog Cocoa. A normal week.

I’m stuck on the life/death thing. At the family visitation Friday evening, I saw several women in their 80s hug one another. They will miss their friend. This isn’t the first and it won’t be the last goodbye they say to friends and loved ones. They get closer to Heaven each day and as their friends die, it draws them closer to that reality. At the service, we sang old hymns whose words focus on Heaven and walking with Jesus. I had an image of Marie walking in Heaven completely healed, young, without pain. She was at peace.

I also thought of my family members that have died. From 1978 to 1983, three grandparents and my dad died. We skipped some years and in August 1997, my maternal grandmother joined her husband in Heaven. Skipped a few more years and death got even closer. My husband of only three and a half years died after a brief illness. Two weeks later, our oldest dog died. Two more dogs crossed the Rainbow Bridge in 2013.

Each death brings memories of previous ones and I get reflective. I have learned from each death and I try to apply that to things I do and products I make for my business, Personalized Tales.

I spent the majority of time the past couple of weeks creating a memorial scrapbook for my friend Kristin to give to her niece. My friend’s niece Em was hit by a drunk driver while riding her horse Sammy. While that was one month ago, Em just went through her fifth surgery since the accident. Sammy died. A couple weeks later, this young woman’s dog died unexpectedly. These precious pets were her children. Kristin sent me hundreds of photos of Em, Sammy and Tina interacting. It wasn’t pet/owner but more of a strong friendship, a connected bond that was cut short too soon. I pour myself into everything I do. It’s no wonder that I feel a little weary, but the end result was a beautiful tribute to two years spent with this wonderful horse. The scrapbook was the largest and one with the most pages I’ve ever created.

Kristin was my first paying customer of a memorial scrapbook for her beloved chocolate Labrador retriever, Chance. Photo captions are in Chance’s “voice” and that helps to keep their bond connected. The greatest compliment I’ve ever received came from Kristin. As she looks through the pages of Chance’s book, she feels his hot breath on her leg and hears his bark. She remembers the wonderful years she had with this sweet fur kid.

I could ramble on about what I’ve learned about death from saying goodbye to family, pets, and friends, but that wisdom can wait until another blog.

My first blog

My love for writing and telling stories began in junior high school, back when the Earth was cooling. No computers, just pen or pencil on paper. A very tactile experience.

I loved the power of touch. Hot/cold, rough/smooth, squishy/pointy. It didn’t matter. I had to touch.

I played with dolls from an early age. I spent time with my Barbie dolls until I was in junior high school. There, I said it. I had a few Barbies, a Midge, and even Ken. For some reason, I chewed off Ken’s fuzzy hair, but I’ll save that for another blog.

All of my doll time was a very tactile experience. My grandmothers made clothes for them. Mabel Kubik, my paternal grandmother, even crocheted lingerie for my Barbies. My dad fashioned wire clothes hangers and I methodically hung up every outfit. True story.

When I played secretary, I had the typewriter, paper, pens, and desk. Paper clips, rubber bands, stapler, everything I thought a secretary needed. I would create workplace scenarios. I was very efficient and organized. (Geez, I’m sounding like a psycho in the making.)

Jump to contemporary time. Instead of putting pen to paper, I now write on a laptop, but I miss the tactile-ness. (Yes, let’s make that a word.) In 2007, I created my first scrapbook. I had made a few greeting cards on special occasions. One basket of cardstock and a few markers and glue sticks grew to a rainbow of colored paper. Glue, scissors, Xacto knives, and the uncanny ability to see things beyond their original usage. Game boards became gigantic greeting cards, Scrabble tiles became embellishments, ceramic tiles originally used for flooring or to cover walls became a format for photos or a stamped image.

It felt very comfortable. My mom once questioned the crazy idea of turning this re-found passion into a business. “You have a master’s degree,” she quipped. I responded back that she was the one who taught me to use these materials, to be resourceful and find multiple uses for an item. She encouraged me to be creative with what I had. Skills I still use every day.

Hmmm. I once thought a blog was taking the lazy way out of writing. Maybe it’s a lot more than that. Sure seems that way. My first blog. Hey, it’s a start.