Love is forever…One woman’s journey with grief

There’s a guy at work with the same name as my sweetheart.  For probably 2 months after my boy passed, saying or writing this guy’s name, to him or to anyone else, was a knife in my heart.  Now, it just gives me a little twinge, although I have come to find that some unnamed part of me is appeased to be able to speak his name regularly, however out of context.

When I got back from lunch today, there was a little flashing button on the bottom of my screen letting me know I had an instant message waiting.  It had his, or rather, their name on it and lit up orange, just as the button for my sweetheart had twice a day, every day, at work.  And I caught my breath and just stared at it.  It was probably just a split second before I recognized that it was my coworker, but there was an infinity in that moment.

You know, it all started innocently enough.  I just wanted to put a little hummingbird on my guitar in honor of my sweetheart.  So I contacted a custom inlay guy, and he said it’d take three weeks and about $300.  And it seemed reasonable for the work.  But then I got the idea that I could do it myself.

Five months later…well…you know, I keep all the receipts for the books, materials, and tools I’ve bought during my educational process.  I stuff them in an envelope and never ever look at them.  Because I know damn well I’ve spent way more than $300 on this stuff.  If I actually totaled it up, my heart wouldn’t survive the shock of the aggregate reality.

I was sitting at dinner at a friend’s parents’ house Saturday night.  She’s currently a veterinarian, but would like to be a luthier.  She just hasn’t found a lot of time to start working on her first kit to see how the reality compares to the dream.  Her father asked me if I wanted to build guitars, too, and I said, “No, I want to put inlays into B’s guitars.  I’ve got a whole business planned for the two of us.”  I’ve done some reading on luthiery, and while the process fascinates me, it’s more on a theoretical level than one that makes me want to try it myself.  But the fact is, there’s a pretty heavy woodworking component to this inlay stuff, and understanding woodworking techniques and tools kind of goes with the territory, though most everything is on a smaller scale.  And I buy a lot of my stuff from luthier supply companies.

Similarly, woodworking in general fascinates me.  I would ask endless questions of A about his work, learning as much as I could, and it’s served me well as I continue educate myself on my own now.  I have lots of questions, far more intelligent and informed questions, now that I’d love to ask him, of course.  And while I’m not really sure I will ever feel called to build a cabinet, I find that the more I learn, the more impressed I am with his work.  And I was blown away as it was.

I keep telling myself I’m no woodworker, and have no woodworking aspirations beyond what I need to know to do inlay with some competence.  Yet, how do I explain the 4 woodworking books and 2 more on finishing alone on my shelf, not to mention the catalogs and the new subscription to Woodcraft magazine?

Um…

It’s a slippery slope, this hobby stuff, and I will admit a past (and continuing) problem with guitar/gadget/gear-of-all-kinds acquisition syndrome.  So I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that what started out as a few bits of shell, some superglue, and a jeweler’s saw has spiraled into something much more tool intensive.  Today I bought a circular saw.  A nice one.

If I’d just gone with my original plan, I’d have a hummingbird that I’m probably a year away from even now on my guitar, and would’ve saved a lot of money.  But learning inlay has become more than a means to that specific end for me.  The fact is, I feel good working in what I have started calling “the shop.”  I feel peaceful when I’m out there (except for when I’m cussing at my mistakes).  I always feel good creating something real, but this is even more special, because it also makes me feel closer to A, to be doing things that I know he must’ve done, with versions of tools he must’ve owned.  Plus, I feel like the legacy of his shop and work lives on through me.  It’s different work, and wholly my own (he was never a fan of inlay; he preferred a clean, simple aesthetic), but there’s a connection that seems both fitting and appropriate.  I take a lot of comfort from that.  The truth is, despite having cried a lot of places in the last 8+ months, I haven’t cried once while working out in the shop.  I think that’s telling.

And it’s been both therapy and evidence of healing.  The inlay project is the first new thing I’ve done since he died.  It’s hard to explain the significance of starting something new if you haven’t gone through a loss like that, but regaining (and retaining) interest in even the things that once brought me pleasure has been a huge challenge.  To try something new, to initiate more change when your life has changed so drastically, without your consent, seems impossible for a really long time.  You don’t want to change the scenery, even though one of the stars has made his exit.  For a long time, you leave your life in state.  Planning for the future seems pointless, even if you could muster up the energy to do so.  At least, it’s been true for me. As I was buying tools, more than once I thought, “Shit, I could be dead before they even arrive.”  It’s still true, but I don’t really care.  As the sages say, it’s the journey, not the destination.  

Every time I sit down at the bench, it’s a step forward.  I think “No matter what else I’m doing or not doing, no matter how I’m feeling, this is evidence that I’m ‘getting on with my life.’  I’m learning and creating, and therefore, I’m living.”  It’s new, different, and it requires a personal investment in the process.  On the surface, I’m buying tools to build inlays.  But with every tool I purchase and use, I’m also rebuilding myself.

And for that, you need a good circular saw, dammit!

Dear A,

It was all Elton John’s fault today.  “Burn Down the Mission” came on shuffle, from the same album as your beloved “Amoreena,” and very much in the same style.  I’d been keeping myself busy all day.  When I’m busy I can pretend I’m strong and coping and all that shit.  And maybe I am.  But all it took was a few bars of a song, not even the one I know was a favorite of yourn, and I was missing you badly, touching your picture on my monitor, feeling the now-familiar ache in my heart and my eyes hot with tears behind them, threatening to spill.

I miss you, Babe.  I never stop missing you.

I’ve gotten better, stronger, but even so, it’s STILL the hardest thing I’ve ever done, living without you here every day.  I still can’t believe it, even as I live it.

Love,
Your Girl Left Behind

I sat outside in my back yard Saturday afternoon.  It was a beautiful day out, 76 degrees with a breeze and a few fluffy clouds.  The birds were a symphony, and Herb was flitting between his favorite perches.  I was taking a break from sawing shell, just relaxing.  And the thought that came to mind was “This would be a perfect day, if…”

I caught myself, then, because the rest of the thought was “if only my Sweetie weren’t dead.”  And I pondered that one for awhile.  Was the day any less perfect because he’s not here?  Or am I just unwilling to let it be because he isn’t?  I think it’s more the latter.

It was the kind of day I would’ve told him about.  It was the kind of day where, if I didn’t know my own life story, I would say, “This is the life.  This is really a wonderful moment.”  Eight months ago, I would’ve been able to thoroughly enjoy the peace and beauty and perfection of a half-hour in my own backyard on a sunny Saturday.  To tell the truth, I prided myself on appreciating such moments.

I don’t have too many of them anymore.  That is to say, I think the moments are there, but I am unwilling to enjoy them entirely.  Even if I enjoy them 99%, there’s still 1% of my mind says “Yeah, but…”  I cannot be 100% happy anymore, I seem to be telling myself, however subconsciously.  Some days I just can’t; but other days…other days I think I trip myself up, sabotage myself if I approach too near sheer delight.

He’s still gone; my dog is still dying; I still am having dizziness problems; and who knows what the next week, day, hour, minute will bring.  But right then I was content, and I had to go and ruin it for myself.  And I don’t know why; but it’s become habit after all these months.  It’s hardly necessary.  Perfect beautiful moments don’t last, life intrudes, and difficulty is always within shouting distance.  I now understand, through the hardest lesson of them all, the impermanence of everything.  You’d think I could accept and fully appreciate moments of respite as the gifts they are instead of always thinking, “Well, it’s nice, but…”  Honestly, if anything, I should be thinking, “Dang, it’s sure a nice change of pace to feel good for awhile.”  Or if I want to get really sassy with the universe after it’s done me wrong, I could say “Who deserves this perfect moment more right now???”  But I don’t.  I have to observe the lovely moment, and while its loveliness is not lost on me, I have to make some mental comment to reduce some of the joy in it, like some nasty mother-in-law.

Is it guilt?  Is it that I want to make myself out to be some kind of victim or martyr?  What do I possibly have to gain from being a victim of, and only known to, myself?  No one else is paying any attention to me most of the time.  They have no idea the debate that goes on between my 1% and my 99% in those moments.  So why?

I don’t know.  Maybe it’s enough to ask myself why I’m doing it; shining a light on things tends to make demons in darkness into robes on the back of a chair.  It’s a strange result of grief, though.  You struggle so long to learn to accept the worst, and as you finally start to, you realize that it’s now more difficult than ever to accept the good.  I would’ve never believed that I could accept that my beloved passed, but couldn’t fully accept a sunny day.  It certainly gives me pause.

I spent a good portion of last night lying on the floor with my dog.  She’s not doing well at all.  She labors to breathe and is panting constantly, because her heart is so enlarged that there seems to be no room for her lungs to work.  And because the heart isn’t pumping the blood as it should, she is starved for oxygen.  She cannot get ahead.

I pet her, and fed her ice cubes, since she turned up her nose at food.  It took a heavy sell job and the threat of her brother stealing her treat to get her to take the pill that eases her coughing caused by her enlarged heart pressing on her trachea.  It’s not working very well anymore, but it’s all I have.  I told her I loved her.  I told her that I’m sorry I couldn’t save her from this, couldn’t do better by her.  And then I just cried.  My baby is dying.  Other people may not love their animals like people, but I do.  She has been my child for 10 years.  And it seems that I am going to lose my child on the heels of losing my beloved.

That seems like a lot in less than a year.  Too much.  Not that it coming at any other time would be any less heart-wrenching.  But damn.

The vet is coming over tonight to see what can be done to make her more comfortable.  She hasn’t given up food entirely, just mostly.  She isn’t sleeping all the time.  She seems to be pretty chipper despite everything, and I don’t understand how.  But she’s still trying to beg my dinner off of me, despite the fact that it’s too full of salt for me to give her any anymore.  I don’t want her to suffer, and I don’t want her to go.  And I hope that she will just slip away in her sleep one of these nights.  But I’m not giving up until she does, and I’m not seeing that quite yet.  I have a feeling it will be soon.

And I now know firsthand:  It is no better to watch someone you love die slowly than to lose them suddenly.  Either way, it’s the worst.