Tag Archives: life

18 ……

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…… is the number this year.
Eighteen.

It’s a large-ish number.
A child born on the same day Jim died is now getting ready to go to college.
That puts it in a clearer perspective.

But 18, like 17, is so much better than 10.
Or 5. Or 12.
Or the worst of them all, 2.

This day used to have so much power.
It used to bring me to my knees.
Not so much the day itself but the days leading up to it, starting with Thanksgiving.
That used to be the start of my “death march”.
(For those not in this club, the death march refers to the days surrounding the death date. Maybe it started with a diagnosis, or an “I’m sorry” from a doctor, or maybe it began with a significant event, like mine. We didn’t spend our last Thanksgiving together because I was exhausted from returning the Sunday before from a mission trip to Kenya. We were supposed to go to my inlaws’ farm for the holiday, but I wasn’t up to it and one daughter couldn’t get off of work so I sent Jim and the boys to his parents’ house for the holiday and the girls and I celebrated at home. I’m so very thankful that I sent him. It would be the last time they were together.)

Sadness and depression used to creep on me at Thanksgiving and then hang around to spend Christmas and New Year’s with me. It was awful.
But I noticed last year that I hadn’t been sad at Thanksgiving. In fact, I hadn’t been sad for a few years.
My death march has faded away.
And that is wonderful.

I don’t look at December 18 in the same way anymore.
Sometimes I see it and don’t associate it with anything at all (like earlier this month).
It’s actually a big day in my extended family because it’s the birthday of my sister, brother and step-dad.
Which means that they’ve had a few very sucky birthdays because of what else it is.
I hope that they’ve started enjoying this day more now.
I have.

Don’t get me wrong.
I still think of Jim every single day.
I miss him every single day.
I wish he were here every single day.
But …… he’s not.
And I can’t live like he might be.

But I can live a life that would make him proud.
I can love my children and grandchildren for both of us.
I can enjoy the time I have with my family and friends and make the most of my time.
I can support the people and causes that I care about, knowing he would be at my side if he could.

But mostly, I can remember him with love and joy.
I can feel peace when I think of him.
I can feel secure in knowing that I had more love in 27 years than many people get in a lifetime.
Of course there will always be moments that bring tears.
But thankfully they are few and far between now.

That’s what 18 years has done.
Thankfully.


The Lack of Touch ……

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…… has changed me.

First, you should know that this is not something I sit around thinking about. It’s not something I ponder, obsess over or even mourn.
On a regular basis.

In fact, I hadn’t really thought about it in years.
And then one day recently …… I did.
It was after I went to Texas to stay with my grands for a few days while their parents when out of town.

I need to regress a bit for some backstory.
I came from a pretty affectionate family. We kissed and hugged on the regular. Still do when we see each other.
Jim came from a …… a family with German ancestors. On both sides.
Nuff said.

However, he was very affectionate towards me and the kids. And with my family.
And so it went.
Until almost 18 years ago.
And then, all that affection from him was gone.
In the blink of an eye.
And slowly but ever so surely, the kids’ German DNA started kicking in.
(It had already kicked in before then for a couple of them.)
Kisses were pretty much gone, replaced by hugs.
And I was okay with that because a good hug is usally better than a kiss.

Time went on, as time tends to do.
The kids moved out and on with their lives.
And touch moved out with them.

And now, I have realized that its absence has changed me.
I forget to hug.
I’m usually surprised when a friend opens up their arms to hug.
I totally love it, but I’m surprised.

Funnily enough, my grandkids have helped me to forget to hug.
A few of them are not huggers and thankfully, their parents don’t force them to hug people when they don’t want to.
I’m proud of them for that.
But truthfully, it also makes me sad.
I miss those hugs I never got.

I never expect anyone to hug me.
So on this past trip to Texas, I forgot to hug my daughter until the day after I arrived, when it occurred to me that I hadn’t done it.
It bothered me.
Yes, seeing the grands is exciting and distracting …… but still.

I did it again when they came to visit me here a couple of weeks ago.
When I remembered, I started to ponder.
I have lived alone so long now that I have forgotten to hug.
Or maybe, just maybe, I have made myself forget.

When I really sat with this, I thought that maybe, in order to not miss touch …… I forgot
about it.
I blocked it.
Perhaps I thought that you can’t miss something if you don’t remember it.

But the body is a pretty amazing and complicated thing.
I don’t know what any “professional” would say, but I can say with 100% certainty that any widowed person or parent who’s lost a child will tell you that the body has a remarkable memory.
Even when the mind doesn’t.

So when I sat down and made myself remember …… I was okay.
I can think about the lack of touch and hugs (long, strong hugs, not those awkward side things!) and not feel sad.

Then I remembered what I deeply, deeply miss but forgot …… and the tears came.
Just as they are now as I type these words.
I miss being held.
Being held because I’m sad.
Being held because I’m sobbing.
Being held because I’m angry.
Being held because I’m hurting.
Being held because I’m happy.
And yes, being held because I’m loved.

The lack of touch has changed me.
But it hasn’t changed my body’s memory.



It’s Been a Minute ……

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…… since I’ve posted.
More than a minute.
I guess it’s time (past time) for an update.

Last year I really thought that I was going to leave NY and move to Tulsa.
As I told you.
But then …… there’s no other way to put this …… the election happened.
And I knew that I couldn’t move to a red state.
I’ve lived in one for the majority of my life …… over 50 years …… and I was done.

Last month I went to Tulsa and closed out the apartment. Unfortunately/fortunatley I met several people in my building during this visit that I hadn’t before. They were all lovely people and I would’ve enjoyed getting to know them more …… had things gone differently.

Okay, change of topic.
Here’s a quick family update:
Grandchildren: 7 (5 boys, 2 girls, 10 (11 next month!) to 20 months, all live in Texas.
Oldest child lives in Philadelphia and is doing great.
Youngest child lives here in NYC and is doing great.
The rest live in Texas and are doing great.
I wish I could magically move them here.

I realized that NYC is THE only place I’ve ever lived that makes me excited to get back.
Don’t get me wrong …… I’ve always been happy to get back home, no matter where we lived, because that’s where my family/heart was.
And I was happy to return to them.
I was happy.
And that’s saying something because (I hesitate to tell you this, but I don’t think I’m alone here) …… I have not been the same kind of “happy” for almost 18 years. But that’s a whole ‘nother post.

Whenever I’m traveling, no matter where or for how long, if you see me stare off into the distance, and then smile broadly, it’s most likely because I’m thinking of going back home. Truly, the thought of flying back into the city ALWAYS makes me smile. I always look forward to returning.
I love this city.
I’m at home in this city.
I’m happy in this city.