This is my first letter since you passed away. I’m sorry it took awhile. I guess you can think of the journal entries as letters of a sort but they are without the “Dear Bette” and it does make a difference; I’m not sure why.

It’s hard to say where my mind is at. The other night before falling asleep I thought back to my youth and being at camp. I don’t know where that came from but there it was. The memory of feeling homesick swept over me. I remember writing a letter to Mom and feeling a connection to her and less homesick in the writing. I wanted to be brave and I think the words betrayed that a little but I continued writing. I thought of survival as being dependent on the writing. The letter got me trough the night with the day bringing activity and fun. In less then 36 hours I grew accustomed to the place.

So the other night I fell asleep knowing the place where I’m at now will suffer no acclimation. Grief will not be appeased but I have to write the letter anyway.

My words are molecules begging for structure. They ache for a design captivating enough to rock your world. I can’t think of them as futile attempts to connect. I can’t. It is unacceptable.

So back to the letter.

I miss you. I think about your life prior to meeting me. I think about our time together. I try to give the memories a consoling nostalgic spin buy it hurts too much. Every time I bring you to the forefront of my mind my eyes well up and you know the rest… When I say hurt I mean ‘stop what I’m doing, sit down before the lightheadedness causes me to lose balance and I reach out for your hand knowing my heart can withstand only so many breaks before it surrenders; which it dare not consider for fear of inciting your wrath my Dear One’.

I wonder about your new life. Is any of US with you? Does the LOVE that surrounds you allow for memory? I would like to believe ‘yes’ to both questions but that would be selfish of me. There should be no room for my grief in your world.

With that being written when the letter is completed and sent it may very well come back with ‘return to sender-no forwarding address’. I would be happy with that.

But what if it wasn’t returned and how do I interpret that. Is there a part of you that lets in the world left behind? What in the previous life can compare to what you are experiencing now; our love?

And maybe it’s better up there if they entertain the concept of ‘a clean break’.

Am I writing myself out of an exchange with you? Am I that stupid and juvenile to risk sacrificing any understanding of the spirits absorption of the past into the present with equanimity? I shall quit this line of inquiry and, pray God, while I’m ahead.

Not much has changed since you been gone. Now that is funny and of course I mean only; I haven’t moved to another address, Enya and Tammy are doing fine, I’m still retired and somehow manage to get through another day.

What has changed is everything else.

I think of my heart as an empty chamber echoing with words of love spoken when I had you in my arms.

The new words take flight searching for the mountain high enough to reach you.

Enya, Tammy and I had a talk one night, not long ago, (well I did the talking) about Mommy being here and Daddy gone. God love them for they were attentive to a degree then something caught their attention and off they went. I love them dearly but for their sake I wish Mommy was here.

Enya walks by your recliner and she stops for a moment to look up then continues walking.

When I lie in bed and turn to my right side facing your pillow Tammy will come up and face bump my forehead then curl up next to me right next to your pillow.

They are killing me.

They also seem to be more interested in shadows then ever before. That is curious, don’t you think love?

Last night I dreamed you knocked on the front door and came in. I started shaking when I saw you and not in fear, of course but in euphoria. You appeared healthy and the smile and look in your eyes knew you would find me surprised. I was thinking my heart is going to stop due to unfathomable happiness. I let out a shout for joy and then you were gone. I woke up crying. How can a dream be so cruel?

How am I going to get there, hon. I don’t even know where there is for God’s sake. And if there is a there I know I’m not anywhere near it.

Hurting Times.

The kitchen in the evening is one of the worse. It was the first room you saw when you found the apartment. I was at work and I get the call saying the worker is doing finishing touches on the cabinet and no you are not bothering him as you peer through the patio glass door smiling and he smiles back. I said yes to the place on your assessment and it’s been home ever since. Now at dinner time I leave for the fast food to sit on the car’s dashboard and be reluctantly eaten.

The other day I was in the library looking for a movie to watch and I realized the ones I watched with you will never be seen again. And that is how it should be.

You loved the “islands” as a young woman and soon after we met said we have to go. We never went and I will never go. And that is how it should be.

There are restaurants we frequented and I will never go back. And that is how it should be.

There are songs we danced to and I will never dance to them again. And that is how it should be.

There are songs we loved and I can’t listen to again. And that is how it should be.

There are TV shows we liked and to watch them would only have me looking at the recliner with immeasurable sadness; so I don’t watch them. And that is how it should be.

I don’t think we talked about death enough, hon. I know you ask what difference it would have made and I guess I agree. I don’t men to suggest discussion could have provided any kind of preparation but maybe just maybe an idea may have come up between us. I’m left now to consider this alone and I don’t mean to imply any fault on your part. I believe our death and grief talk was typical in its brevity and desire not to think about it because we gotta lot of living to do. So you ask if my grief cries out for amelioration and if we had given death and grief a little more thought could we have come up with a spell maybe even a potion I could now take and be less stricken? I like to think if we knew then what I know now we would be desperate to come up with something. I suspect this is called ‘magical thinking’.

I know you’d rather not read this love but the sad truth is all my senses are diminished since you been gone. They are functional but that is about it.  The crater in my being left by your loss is incredible.

Okay yes I hear you; the good news is I’m alive. Good for folks who care about me and the Girls of course.

We loved Sondheim’s song “Being Alive”. It is built on a loving relationship and that was the beauty of it while we listened together.

I know we can’t hold back the tide of time but it is maddening when holding onto one another with all the loving strength we have and still the tide tears us apart.

On any given day I’m sad and angry. The two emotions are coexisting. They dominate my life. It worries me that Grief is subject to analysis and judgment. The thought of any element of Grief slipping into the past is unimaginable.

 As you dear heart remain absent from this corporeal world I will countenance that absence with love and anguish.

Truly Yours

John

 

I laugh at the absurdity and cry at the futility when I know the grief barricade will fall in no time at all yet because of the pain the feeble attempt is made.

So I give it a try anyways but God knows what I was thinking.

It begins early in the day when the possibility of shoring up defenses presents itself as a possibility because you’ve gone an hour without crying. The first bulwark is communication:

“How am I doing today Bette?”

“You’re doing well John”

“In the dream last night Bette you said you had a joke for me but never got around to telling me.”

“I remember we got interrupted and sorry I didn’t get back to you.”

“That’s okay honey. I’m sure there is a lot going on up there.”

“There truly is love and regarding that joke I have to say it’s less a joke and more something I heard that made me laugh a little.”

“The suspense is killing me.”

“Christopher Hitchens is continuing to declare himself an atheist.”

“Oh, that is funny.”

“It is, isn’t it. Now that was a tale told out of heaven so don’t tell a soul. I mean a body, souls are in my realm.”

“Okay sweetheart. mum’s the word. I love and miss you-bye for now.”

Rampart number two:

Resisting Bette’s absence has to count for something. You know in your heart of hearts she is not really gone. Her life continues in a higher realm. You are in a ball game and every time you’re up at bat which in the course of a day is quite a lot you hit that thought out of the stadium-the home runs provide comfort.

Redoubt number three: You move to do little things, fast and without thinking:

Load and run the dishwasher, get those clothes in the washer and run the damn thing, make a list for the store-go directly to the aisle-pick up the item- no thinking maybe it’s okay to go down that other aisle where you know half a dozen foods she liked are-no-no stay focused, no dally in the kitchen after you clean up-your head will only hit those folded arms on the table and then the bed welcomes you once again and you know you won’t sleep, play the music she didn’t care for and play it loud,

And whatever you do don’t go anywhere near the day Bette passed away because if you do all damn bets are off and defenses are down.

If I could put a face on Grief I believe there’d be a smile followed by a snicker and all because I thought there might be a shot of feeling less hurt for a moment or two.

Love To You All

Of course you don’t know what to say-you had me relegated somewhere in the back of your mind where no voice could penetrate your grief and I am sorry for your sadness.

My trying to get through has been recent and I think it has something to do with the holidays; not so much Thanksgiving or Christmas but New Years. You know how Bette loved to celebrate the coming of the New Year.

(Why I’ll never understand-another year closer I say)

And you will say no more. My anger forbids it.

I thought I’d be heard way before now but your Grief certainly kept me in my place.

Do you have any idea how many of your tears kept my rage at bay. And you have garnered a heap of resentment.

How the hell could you just walk out of that room carrying her handprint and a lock of her hair without something breaking in your wake if not your heart and dropping dead right there.

On your way home you had a good stretch of the Connecticut River to kiss and you kept on driving.

And don’t give me the Girls, Enya and Tammy; Pat and Stephen would have seen to their good care in a new home.

And now your home where I see but that is all; you crumble. The Girls don’t recognize you being as you are; face swollen and awash in tears.

And then later you look out the window and nothing has changed.

And then love, caring and condolences are there and certainly not the time for me to be hanging around suggesting something foolish.

I have felt the gravity of your silence, stillness and sadness but I refuse to be pulled in.

I don’t see a way out but you evidently do or you wouldn’t be here.

That’s harsh I know. Get used to it.

And then all you wrote about in the Journal without me interjecting this or that like: you sure you won’t have a beer and bourbon-maybe one too many, give up the coffee for Christ’s sake-you’ve given up everything else, when you sit there and eventually come around to considering going out what the hell is that about-you will only drive so far then stop and Grief will have at you, the unfair part is you having left her to be on her own and that injustice is swallowing you whole, and in my world the definition of survivor is coward. Nothing will ever be the same.

 

Glad to meet you Mr. Crawford but certainly wish it could be under different circumstances.

I wish as much, also.

Okay we’ll get started now. A member of our staff read your Grief Journal and brought it to our attention. We found it sad, compelling and disturbing.

I understand.

It must be hard to find the words sometimes?

It is.

Bette must have meant a lot to you.

The world!

I have to admit after reading a few of your entries, I’m not sure I can read more; at least not without a break of a day or two or possibly more. I don’t like to go there if you know what I mean.

Of course. When I post an entry I think of the person who will be reading it and wish them well. Grief has given me a perspective on others I never had. When I think of family, friends, strangers…I think of them as having passed away. And when our paths cross I find I’m more attentive than ever.

I imagine writing the Journal is a labor of love.

It is hard sometimes putting into words how I’m feeling but I know I would be crippled if the expression of my Grief was left only to tears and numb sadness. I’m still incredulous about Bette being gone from my physical world and I think the writing eases, ever so little, mind you, her leave taking. I do think of others who are grieving and can only hope my Grief touches theirs with solace and profound sympathy. I am in awe of how I intuitively navigate Grief’s terrain. Oh sure I stumble and fall but that is over the nuance of my Grief. What scares me is; the ground is known to me and I believe it is more than having grieved before. I wonder if this is not the first time losing Bette.

John, I’m sorry can I call you John?

Of course.

You mean as in past lives with regards to reincarnation?

Yes. I think there is something to it. Bette thought so too.

If I may; there is a tragic note in what you’re saying.

And that discordant impermanence surfaces again.

I’m sorry, I don’t understand.

That’s okay. We’ll leave it at that. I’m tired.

We thank you, John and needless to say…

That’s okay. As you said; needless.

Love To You All

 

 

It is now a past life. I don’t know how to think of it any other way.

And

It will always be in the present.

The thought of rebirth is just that.

And

If living in grief constitutes a new life then it is one of minimal expectation. curiosity, empathy and harmony.

When and if the time comes to find fulfillment I wonder how much interest will be there.

And

Will I be able to let go what I discovered in the arms of grief.

 

The kind of question we may have asked each other when the answer had relevance.

Now I’m not so sure and yet I’m haunted by it.

I find it hard coming up with a goal but if getting through the day qualifies; maybe I have.

The few people I met who have been grieving awhile tell me it is best I ask little of myself at this time.

I wonder how many days, weeks or months constitute ‘this time’?

I don’t know what you would say if you were in our home now.

It is not as kept up as you would have it. Closet doors have remain closed. Top of dressers, dresser drawers, top of end tables, end table drawers; items are all as they were…

I remember how the sunlight came through our bedroom window and that was enough for me to get up and going while you asked for more time to sleep and I patted your shoulder ‘yes dear’ I said knowing that asking for more time was code for ‘make the coffee, sweetheart’.

The coffee maker is the same.

I have not brought anything new into our home other than a couple books dealing with grief and a birthday gift from beloved sister Pat.

The thought of making changes to our home is not considered.

Every once in a while I think of roles being reversed and what would you be up to now. I honestly don’t know.

I had no idea so much of me would be with you and the question should be asked of us.