". . . where I've been . . ."

 THE LULU CHRONICLES

I’m visiting my family in Memphis and this morning I woke to sleet, a tiny bit of snow, and icy roads, windshields and tree branches that looked like popsicles. I left Wisconsin for this? However, I have heard that at one point last night the North Country recorded a -30 wind chill.  Makes Memphis seem quite balmy in comparison.

I’ve come south to help take care of my parents. Dad is in the nursing home and Mom was admitted to the hospital on Sunday. For 87-year-olds, they’ve been pretty healthy until recently, strong, and spry with a little kick in their steps. Unfortunately, the hounds of aging catch up with all of us eventually. My brother and I are trying to honor our parents with care and patience. As for me, I feel I’m useless at times. While it has been sixteen month since I lost my husband to cancer, I fear grieving has taken its toll. I find it hard to ‘muster’. I tire quickly and my coping skills are spotty at best. I think I’m doing all right then Boom! Something happens and I’m back at Day One trying to navigate the turbulent emotions of loss. This time the trigger was being in a hospital room again. The last three years of my husband’s life hospital stays were a huge part of the landscape. One whiff of that sanitized air and the post-traumatic stress kicked in big time.

Benjamin Scott Allen who lost his wife and two sons to HIV says in his book, Out of the Ashes- Healing in the AfterLoss, “No matter how far I go I still had to live with where I’ve been.” As the loss scabs over and I think I’ve beaten it or at least moved far enough along to not feel so raw and edgy, the truth is I carry it with me always. The loss is now a part of my fabric. The stress of watching my husband die for three years could not be more conspicuous than if I had grown an extra limb over those three years. It takes very little to send me back there—a smell, a breeze, the feel of certain fabrics.

With that said, I do believe I’m better. I have made strides. I am healing. I’m still learning what my new normal should look like. I’m more willing to admit my limits. I’m learning how to live alone and not be held captive by loneliness. It’s hard to separate the two but I must. Living alone won’t kill me, but loneliness can.

So here I am. Freezing in the South. Keeping the roads hot from nursing home to hospital and back again, and trying to be useful, supportive and as good of a daughter as my own loss will allow. If I am to be honest, there are times when I lay my head down at night and I wonder where God is in all of this. What does God want me to see, hear, and do? I ask, but the insulation in the room seems to soak up my words.

I haven’t turned the corner yet. The light at the end of the tunnel isn’t.  But, I will get there. I’m further than I once was. A tiny light has sparked within. On cold nights, I can feel the promise of its warmth. Maybe that’s what mercy feels like?

Wishing you extra blankets and another log on the fire.

deb

"I save you..."

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THE LULU CHRONICLES

"Are you a princess? I said & she said I'm much more than a princess, but you don't have a name for it yet here on earth."

                           ~ Story People by Brian Andreas

Last weekend I got to hang with three of my grandchildren. It was a pleasant experience full of giggles and battles. Giggles, because they are so darn cute. Battles, because two/thirds of these particular grandchildren are boys. Everything is about battles—zombie war battles, monster chasing battles, dragon training battles, and small pretend woodland creatures that can suddenly sprout teeth and claws and turn on you in an instant. I came home with a cadre of new bruises. Who knew that playing hide-n-seek could be so physical? These darlin’ boys squeal, wrestle, and sword fight as their father and uncles before them. It was a trip down memory land. I was in my element.

But, it is their two-year-old sister who became the heroine of the day. As her three-year-old brother morphed into a killer gopher with a growl that could turn a heart to stone, it was she, this curly-top, dimpled-cheek, fairy-like Braveheart who protectively covered her MeMe’s head with her pudgy, little hands and declared, “I save you!” And she did. Every time.

“I save you, MeMe.” Her sweet hands would cradle me with a tenderness that took my breath away. Her unselfish, sacrificial willingness to protect me against the evils of Make-Believe Land restored my soul. I couldn’t wait for the next ambush, because I knew that Nellie Rose would rescue me and hold me in her precious arms.

“I save you.” I’ve heard those words before. In fact, during this last year, I’ve heard them lots. In the middle of the night when loneliness was about to devour me, a whispered war cry could be heard through the dark, “I save you!” And, peaceful sleep would return. When I wept so long and so loud in the middle of the day, standing in front of the kitchen sink, a small voice rumbled up through my heart and shouted, “I save you!” And the tears would stop. And just today, when I ran across an old email I’d kept from two years ago from my Beloved, a note that simply said, “I love you, Chickenblossom!” I thought my heart would burst from the pain and longing those few words evoked. I wept. I begged. I pleaded for mercy. And, just when I thought I could no longer bear the sorrow, I heard, “I save you.” And, He did... once more.

God is mysterious, and His care for us is confusing and miraculous and at times too wonderful to understand. But I’m here to bear witness to this: God saves and sometimes He employs the unlikeliest of rescuers. For me, it is a two-year old little girl. She boldly stands between me and the gnarly devastation of loss and in a tiny voice proclaims, “I save you, MeMe. I save you.”

And she does, by the grace of our God, she does.

~ deb

The perfect thwack . . .

THE LULU CHRONICLES

The other day I shot my bow. We are in our January thaw here in Wisconsin, so I took advantage of it. It felt good to pull back the string, relax my breathing and let go. It’s my new happy place. I was surprised how natural I now feel with the bow in my hands. For some unknown reason, I have an instinct for this. Of course, that doesn’t mean I’m any good at it. But, it feels right. I draw the bow string, inhale, aim, release. My heart slows as my breathing cleanses my nerves, body and mind of its clutter. And, oh, how I love the thwack!

Thwack? Yes, the thwack. It’s the sound the tip of the arrow makes when it connects with the target. I know where on the target my arrow has hit just by the sound. It’s louder around the edges, but the closer I get to the center, the sweet spot, the thwack is solid, fluid and reminds me of the sound and splash a diver makes when she hits the water at just the right angle.

I had had a couple of days of blinding sorrow, sideswiped by grief and longing. Unfortunately, I have discovered that year two of mourning the loss of my husband is no less painful than the first year. It just manifests itself differently. I had been made painfully aware in the last few days that this life I now live is permanent. Gary really isn’t coming back. Of course, my head has known this all along, but somewhere hidden behind my heart was this hope, this unrealistic, fantasy-type hope that he would. We did the hard stuff, now we get to move on with our life together, right?  Sadly, no. The right side of my bed is still empty. And, every morning when I open my eyes, it all begins again. Where am I and what has happened to my life?  I spend the rest of the day trying to figure that out.

But, the other day, when I released that first arrow and heard the thwack, the bull’s eye thwack, the perfect thwack, something inside of me broke loose. I stood very still with the bow at my side, my quiver full of arrows and my left shoulder still in position toward the target. Then, it dawned on me what it was. For the first time in fifteen months I felt alive.

I’m pretty sure I’m going to cry some more, long some more, and wish him back, but it won’t kill me. And one day after I’ve shot a thousand arrows or more, my heart may hurt just a little less.

God still keeps watch.

~ deb

I got nothing...

THE LULU CHRONICLES

There are days I’ve got nothing. No insights. No words of wisdom. No perspectives. No feelings. No stories. No dreams. No goals. Nothing. I’m a blank page.

I thank God for those days.

It is in those times I cocoon and shut out all the voices, and God, the Father, the Protector, The Prince of Peace takes over. He stands over me with a baseball bat and slugs away at all the sorrow, sadness, decisions, anxiety, fearfulness, loneliness, and longing.

And, I get to rest.

The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures...

~ deb

I'm not a princess anymore...

THE LULU CHRONICLES

I miss my husband in many ways. I miss hearing him sing. I miss the way he placed his hand gently on my back as he ushered me through a doorway. I miss hearing him breathe in the middle of the night. Oh, the list goes on. I also miss the thousand things he did for me to save me the trouble and frustration, not to mention that I didn’t know how to do them anyway. For example, finding a stud in the wall, re-wiring a lamp, or changing a flat tire on LuLu, my pink bike.

Also, there were things he did that just made my life easier; that made me feel like a princess. Like, changing the light bulbs in all lamps, porch lights, and ceiling fans. Gary was also the battery-master around here. Changing batteries in all remotes, flashlights, and the scale in the bathroom among other battery-operated gizmos. If something broke, he fixed it. If I was in need of a picture being hung, or a hole being dug, or a bush being re-located, he hopped on it without complaint. He hung my porch swing, moved my iron gate all around the yard until I found the perfect spot for it, and built the rose arbor I wanted. My wish was his command, most of the time. I was the princess whose hands bore no calluses and he was the hard-working prince/handyman who was always digging a splinter out of his finger or the palm of his hand.

Well, those days are over. Just this week two boards fell from the basement ceiling for no apparent reason, my garage door fell off its hinges, and I got my snowblower in a bad fix. Oh, and there was this smell in the house that I couldn’t track down. These days, there’s not a good prince/handyman when I need one. He’s gone to live with Jesus so I’m on my own.

The ceiling boards weren’t too hard to deal with. I know my way around a hammer and a nail. Of course, hammering over my head was tricky. The snowblower problem was a bear. While blowing snow off of my sidewalk, I accidently ran over the corner of the tarp that was covering my woodpile. It was hidden under the snow and I just didn’t see it. It took thirty minutes of hacking and chopping to get the shredded tarp pieces untangled from the snowblower blade. Did I mention that it was 4 degrees outside?

As for the garage door, it’s true what they say. You can fix anything with Duct Tape. It ain’t pretty, but it got the job done. As for that strange smell? Turns out it was gases being back up from the mound system caused by the extreme cold air and wind chill, and the odor was being pushed up through the shower drain. Solution: Water in an ice cream bucket placed over the shower drain. Who knew?!

I’m not a princess anymore. I’ve traded my tiara in for a Carhartt ball cap with earflaps and a pair of Gary’s old work gloves. I shutter to think about what’s going to happen next. But, something will. I’m preparing for Armageddon by stockpiling Duct Tape.

When the snowblower got tangled up, the garage door had already run off its track and was hanging there half up and half down. I had boards lying on my basement floor, and my house smelled like one big toot. The snowblower incident was the last straw. Tears started boiling up behind my eyes, but then I just got mad. I refused to cry over stupid stuff. What I did was start praying the loudest prayer I’d ever prayed. My tone was a little harsh, but my heart was in the right place. “God, help me! It’s the least You can do!”

The Hubs always took good care of me. This former princess had it good for a long time. I will always be thankful for my tiara time, but it’s a new day. Gary made sure I was not left helpless. After all, it was his Duct tape. I miss him in more ways than I have words. But, he taught me well. I will get the hang of this.

Later,

deb

Temple repair...

THE LULU CHRONICLES

What is it about new beginnings that instantly turn our attention to the weight loss and good health aspect of new starts? A page in my book has turned, a very important one. I am now a single woman who has lost her husband and feel it’s time to take steps toward a new life. Once I knew I was there, I started contemplating what my new health routines were going to be. I don’t think this is a bad thing, but it’s curious how often weight loss and healthy eating attach themselves to new beginnings.

Of course, my thoughts go to LuLu, my pink bike. As I write this, I am upstairs in my writing room looking out over our three acres. Three acres of snow. The snow is blowing sideways. Not a good day to ride a bike. It’s not a good day to even peek my nose out the door. But I know she sits out in the garage in all her pink glory waiting, waiting for me to get my *cowgirl in gear. If you’re a follower of this blog, you know that it was LuLu, the pink bike, who got me started on this blog journey. My husband gave her to me on my sixtieth birthday. I began chronicling lessons learned on the road with LuLu. Three years later, my great love, my Hubs, is gone and LuLu waits for me. My period of mourning cause periods lethargic and sporadic behavior when it came to bike riding or any other exercise for that matter. As a matter of fact, lethargic just about sums up this whole last year as I was forced to adjusted to the trauma of loss. Everything in my life became hit and miss. For some people, a trauma like this pushes them to obsess and overdosing on exercise and other pain numbing activities. For folks like me who have always used food as an emotional painkiller, homemade bread with real butter melting over its crust became my drug of choice. Both extremes can harm the psyche.

Well, my knees, back and other muscles and joints have had enough, not to even mention my blood sugars. They have all sent up an S.O.S. My Fibromyalgia is also squeezing my muscles and nerves and will soon crush them if I don’t get moving soon. The Grade C miracle in all this is that I haven’t gained any weight, in fact, I’ve lost weight. The harm to my health isn’t about weight as much as deterioration.

Enough of this talk. It’s time to pull out Belle, the exercise Ball, Hildegard, the elliptical, and Rusty II, the stationary bike. Loss. Trauma. Mourning and Lamenting has taken its toll. It’s time to beat them all over the head with some free-weights. Who’s with me?

“Or do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit who is in you, whom you have from God, and that you are not your own?” I Cor. 6:19.

*cowgirl code for: rear, butt, bum,

Bad wife!

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THE LULU CHRONICLES

Is she ready?

So here we are, a brand new year spread out before us. What to do? What to do? Repeat? Or change? Isn’t that the million-dollar question at the beginning of every new year?  I, for one, do not want to repeat anything from last year, but am I ready for a change? Which is a silly question because change will come whether I want it to or not. Change has already come. So, will I embrace it and take control, or go kicking and screaming the rest of the way?

If the truth were told, I’ve done a little bit of both. But now, in this fresh new day, I’m ready for my own terms. I’m ready to step out and discover instead of just letting what will happen happen. I’ve had a whole year of that. Honestly, I didn’t have much strength for anything else. I lost my husband to a deadly, hideous disease. I’ve mourned and lamented for a year. I probably will mourn the loss of his presence till the end of my days. But I’m ready to accept the fact that God expects more from me than sackcloth and ashes. That season had to be. But this widow’s clothes no longer become her.

You don’t have to lose a spouse to know loss, or to feel like it’s time to either break from or build upon your past. For me, its time to build upon the foundation of what I’ve been given. I’ve been loved by someone very special. I’ve had the privilege of loving a rock star (at least he was to me). It’s time to embrace what that love has given and what it has prepared me for.

How about you? Is it time to move forward? Is it time to embrace change or be the one responsible for change?  What will it take? What will it cost you?

For me, I need to sell my house, move to a new town, and build a new home. I don’t mean bricks and mortar ‘build’; I mean awaken my dreams and goals. Brush off my gifts and discover new talents... also pick out new curtains. I also have to fight the guilt that moving forward brings. For those of us who’ve lost someone, moving forward can feel like a betrayal. How dare I be happy without my loved one? Bad wife! How can I enjoy myself even a smidgeon, won’t that mean I’m dishonoring his memory? What will people think? What will they say? Bad wife!

No, I must still the inner doubts, the inner critic and take that first step.  And so should you. Easier said than done, I know. No one knows that better than me. But step out we must.

“I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.”(Phil 4:13) I choose to believe that’s true. So... here goes!

Later,

deb