“Separation is an illusion. Though your loved ones are not physically with you, they are with you spiritually and energetically. They live in you and through you. They are ever with you, as close as your breath. When you are overwhelmed with missing their ‘form’, remember that their essence is woven into the fabric of you, now and forever.”
Transcending Loss by Ashley Davis Bush
Time takes on a new dimension for widows. There are times when it feels like it just happened and those memories come flooding back. Yet other times it feels like it’s been forever. I’m feeling both of those timeframes these days. For both Jim and Vern.
Good ol’ Facebook memories can be a blessing or a curse, don’t you think? There are times I love the memories and photos – and there are other times when they just plain hurt. And I’ll admit that much of my reaction depends on how I’m feeling on that particular day. So maybe it’s good to read them, view the photos and comments and just embrace whatever emotions they bring.
This week’s Facebook memories included ‘An 8 Month Update” from after Vern died that I had written in my old blog. I shared a lovely experience I had with the hospice’s butterfly release. It was too windy at the place we gathered, so I took mine home to release in Vern’s rose garden in the side yard. He took off high into sky when I opened his box, but when I came back outside 2 hours later … there he was floating around the front porch. He landed on some flowers and waited for me to grab my camera and snap a photo before he flew off. This was a lovely memory.
And then I realized that today marks 8 months since Jim passed.
He had been discharged from the hospital just 36 hours before, with no indication that he had so little time left. He was on some antibiotics that required a strict schedule, with his last dose at midnight. When I gave him that dose I reminded him we’d have 6 lovely hours to get some sleep before I’d need to wake him for the next dose (I had been waking him every 4 hours for the previous doses). He took my hand and kissed it and said, “Thank you for taking such good care of me. I love you.” I had no idea those would be his last words. I woke up a few minutes before my 6am alarm went off, so I slid out of bed and actually said out loud to him … “You look so peaceful, I’ll give you a few more moments while I use the restroom.” When I returned to his bedside I found he was gone – and realized he had been gone for quite some time. The shock, the panic attack, the 911 call, the kind dispatcher who kept asking me to take some deep breaths and wanted to stay on the line with me until the paramedics arrived, the kind police officer. Those minutes are a hard memory.
Good and bad memories can intermingle, come and go, and I think that’s a good thing. Sometimes they bring a smile. Sometimes some tears. I talk to both of my guys most every day. Yes, out loud. That’s one of the good things about living alone, I guess. No one here to look at me strangely as I have these conversations. And I’ve had lots of conversations with Jim during these past 8 months. About his family disappearing. About the changes I’ve made inside our home. About me getting older and those related not-so-fun issues. About how the lovely backyard he created has saved me. And while it will be 16 years in September since I lost Vern, there are still many times I need to talk to him, too. Maybe it’s because I’m living alone and there’s no one else to talk to. Although I do also talk to Sheila quite often. She doesn’t answer me either.
