Abigail Carter's Blog, page 12

How my Husband's Death on 9/11 Improved my Life

[image error]This past weekend, I was honored to speak at Seattle University for their Search for Meaning Book Fair. One of the highlights was to see Mary Oliver read a bunch of her poems. I have been a huge fan of Mary Oliver for quite some time. She writes of animals and nature and spirituality in a way that combines them into one entity, always with a tiny unexpected twist, her wry sense of humor nipping you at the ankles just as you're about to take your leave. She talked of her "Percy poems," those written about a beloved dog, no longer of this world, but very much still part of Mary's consciousness. She spoke of flying home on Sunday in time to see the Superbowl which cracked everyone up to her apparent bewilderment. She is a wry one.

When asked her instructions for living a full life, she responded with her usual refrain: "Pay attention, be astonished and tell about it"

Oddly enough, the homework that I gave my grief and loss class this week, the class I teach at The Recovery Cafe was to "pay attention" by taking a shape or color walk where you choose a shape or a color to look for as you walk.

I entitled my talk "How my Husband's Death on 9/11 Improved my Life." My mother, now living in BC, drove down to see me speak and was horrified, certain I would have a lynch-mob for an audience. But this was a spiritual book fair. I knew it would be understood, just as any widow(er) would understand. We understand that guilt we feel when the scab of grief has withered and fallen off, leaving that pink new skin underneath and we realize the richness of our new lives.

Reborn. Risen from the ashes. Alive.

A read of my preface, the part of my book that explains Alchemy as a spiritual journey of sorts, just as the grief journey is a spiritual one settled even those of my audience that were looking uncomfortable. There was more black widow humour and good questions. I sold a few books. People came up to me afterwards thanking me for my words, my honesty, authenticity, vulnerability – the traits that combined to constitute my audacious title.

The next day there was a fundraiser for the girls in Rwanda. A larger audience than last year. A new group of kids infused with emotion, empathy, a need to make a difference. They are the generation that will change the world. They already are. Everyone in that room was most definitely "astonished."

My mom left with a new sense of our lives.

A new and "improved" lives of giving back and sharing our stories. Our life of "paying attention, being astonished and telling about it."

 

Sometimes

1.

Something came up
out of the dark.
It wasn't anything I had ever seen before.
It wasn't an animal
or a flower,
unless it was both.

Something came up out of the water,
a head the size of a cat
but muddy and without ears.
I don't know what God is.
I don't know what death is.

But I believe they have between them
some fervent and necessary arrangement.

2.

Sometime
melancholy leaves me breathless…

3.

Water from the heavens! Electricity from the source!
Both of them mad to create something!

The lighting brighter than any flower.
The thunder without a drowsy bone in its body.

4.

Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.

5.
Two or three times in my life I discovered love.
Each time it seemed to solve everything.
Each time it solved a great many things
but not everything.
Yet left me as grateful as if it had indeed, and
thoroughly, solved everything.

6.

God, rest in  my heart
and fortify me,
take away my hunger for answers,
let the hours play upon my body

like the hands of my beloved.
Let the cathead appear again-
the smallest of your mysteries,
some wild cousin of my own blood probably-
some cousin of my own wild blood probably,
in the black dinner-bowl of the pond.

7.

Death waits for me, I know it, around
one corner or another.
This doesn't amuse me.
Neither does it frighten me.

After the rain, I went back into the field of sunflowers.
It was cool, and I was anything but drowsy.
I walked slowly, and listened

to the crazy roots, in the drenched earth, laughing and growing.

– Mary Oliver

Red Bird (Beacon Press, 2008)

 

Grief as Mental Illness

[image error]A Huffington Post article posted today discussed the idea of grief being medically classified as a mental illness, treatable with medications much the way depression is handled by the medical community. The article was based on an article that was published in The New York Times on Jan 25th.

While I can see that many of the symptoms of grief are the same as that of depression, I don't necessarily agree that medicating grief is always the way to go.You can't avoid grief when dealing with loss. Trying to avoid it simply prolongs it, ensuring that at some unexpected point in the future, often during a time of secondary loss, that same grief will come back with a solid shot right between the eyes.

I'm not saying there aren't benefits to meds when dealing with grief. I walked a very winding road to be able to write that sentence. There was a time, not that long ago when I was pretty dead set against them. But I have seen their benefits first hand, and so I now I'm a little less pugnacious on that one.

But there is a danger to medicating grief.

In grief we grasp for crutches, the way a drowning person clutches for anything that floats. Sometimes the crutches are innocuous: support groups, therapists, massage, meditation. Sometimes, the crutches are a little more destructive: alcohol, illicit drugs, gambling, shopping, sex, work, though you could make an argument that the innocuous treatments are not always innocuous and the destructive ones are not always destructive. Everyone is different.

We do these things so we don't have to feel the overwhelming emotions that come with grief. Sometimes they are just too much to bear. They exhaust us, they effect our families, our jobs, our self identities. Grief strips us bare and we have to learn the hard way how to build ourselves back into functioning human beings again.

After two completely natural childbirths I wondered what the "all natural childbirth" hubbub had been about. Would the epidural have been so bad? I know it would have allowed me to relax a little and would have caused less distress to the babies I was laboring for 30 hours to deliver.

Similarly, I think that using meds to treat the symptoms of grief can be useful. Anti-anxiety meds helped me early on, as have anti-depression meds on and off since then. They take the edge off for a while, give you a break from the most exhausting symptoms of grief, letting you gather your strength so you'll be ready for the next spin on the grief-mobile.

The danger comes when you begin to rely so heavily on external solutions to grief that you never really heal from the inside out, which is the natural way, the way humans have been overcoming grief for as long as humans have existed. Like childbirth.

So what might the effect be of taking grief from a being a normal human experience to a pathological one? More prescriptions for Xanax? Or less?

What it might do is allow a grieving person to be prescribed medications that could help them through the worst of the grief-induced depression, and as the task force making the proposed revisions to these diagnoses argues: "if a person is in distress and seeking help, then treatment ought to be offered — and covered by insurance."

Grief covered by insurance? Now there's a concept.

 

Grief Kid Syndrome? Maybe Not

[image error]As we bump down the messy path of childhood to teen-dom, I have often found myself explaining away unexplainable kid behavior as being related to the trauma of their childhoods, the lack of a dad, their grief. Irrational eruptions over homework are explained as unexpressed grief from their tumultuous childhood. Acting out and lying I attribute to not having a dad in the house (and this behavior also runs in HIS side of the family of course, so he should have to deal with it, dammit), and perfectionism and delusions of grandeur come from being raised thinking they were somehow "special" because their dad died.

But I've made an interesting discovery. Not all is as it seems. This past summer, we (I will use the collective to protect the identities of the innocent) had a diagnosis of ADD, and despite my initial reluctance, began taking meds. The difference in behavior was astounding and so we went into this year thinking issues with schoolwork, particularly schoolwork that doesn't get handed in on a regular basis would be resolved. Four months in, the problems persist. The meltdowns continue along with other troubling behavior which I immediately attributed, of course to the stress of the 10th anniversary. How very widow of me.

Not once did it occur to me that perhaps the ADD was the problem. Like many people, I was skeptical of the ADD diagnosis. I wondered if perhaps the meds' success was attributable to a placebo effect. I assumed ADD was just a condition having to do with maintaining focus in school situations, and that my child's behavior had more to do with laziness, or inattentiveness, which should have been resolved with the meds. I was off and running with the 10th anniversary theory.

When the school thing began to look dire, I started preaching. More tears and tantrums. There was some major acting out that resulted in a pretty severe punishment from the school. We were both horrified by what was happening, but neither one of us seemed to know how to handle it.

And then last night, I began speaking with a friend, one who has ADD herself, one who regularly had to advocate on behalf of her kids at their schools. One who knows everything there is to know about ADD and ADHD. I trudged over to her house in the snow this afternoon and started reading some of her books with my mouth hanging open.

It was all there. Behaviours I had always thought was a result of grief, or trauma, or normal childhood messiness suddenly made sense, had a name, a diagnosis, a medication. I discovered how pervasive ADD is, how it can be seen across a whole slew of behaviors. Suddenly even unusual toddler behaviors made sense and had a root.

I learned that "preaching" to ADD kids is a waste of breath. They tune you out. Pressuring them over getting good marks, getting homework done and handed in causes more stress and is often ineffective. In short, I've been going about things the wrong way in terms of helping my kids to be successful.

Once again, I've been blindsided by the "grief kid" syndrome, assuming any disruptive behavior stems from their early loss and grief and trauma. What I am finally realizing is that it actually contributes very little.

If you are dealing with a kid with ADD/ADHD, I found this list to help you interact with your child. Actually, come to think of it, it's a pretty good list for any parent interacting with a child.

Getting a Job to Find a Man?

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I may need to get this brown corduroy vest as part of my new work ensemble.

I seemed to have developed a certain amount of ambivalence with regard to my dating life which may be why this New York Times Article resonated with me. Sure, I still have my profile up there on OKCupid, and I answer the odd email that looks interesting, but my heart's not really in it. This article gave me some insight as to why that might be.

I've gotten pretty cozy in my single life, even though with kids I'm never really alone. But I do I worry that I'm turning into stone. I watch The Bachelor (living vicariously much?) on a Monday night without having to jump back and forth to a football game. Do they still even have "Monday Night Football"? I wouldn't know. I may be getting a little too cozy spooning with the dog (hey, don't judge me. She's small and likes to sleep under the covers). And despite my attempts to "Call in the One" by clearing out my closet, my skirts and dresses are slowly invading the empty spaces like stubborn weeds.  I gave up long ago my attempts at meditating in order to envision the relationship I hope to draw forth from some secret place in the Universe.

But it's true what the article says: I might fall and there would be no one there to pick me up. I like the author's conclusion that men have an instinct to protect and provide and thus need a partner to take care of the nest while they are out cavorting around the forest. Women, instinctively take care of the nest, and retreat there when the going gets tough. So, OK. I've retreated. No doubt its a widow's instinct – a way of protecting themselves when they have lost their protector.

See? I have an excuse. It's instinctual widow behavior. Yes, I've just played the widow card.

But the truth is, I've grown to love my single life. I like taking up the entire closet with nothing but my clothes; I like not being judged for watching the Bachelor (who needs a guy for that?); And I love spooning with the dog.

Recently, I've begun looking for another full time job. As much as I would like to finish my book, my lifestyle of leisure is not particularly sustainable. At least, not until my book becomes a best seller.

I've been a little surprised by the reaction I'm getting with my news that I'm looking for full time employment. Just the very act of putting it out there has elicited some interesting information from my friends and family. Apparently it's unanimous that "it will be good for me to get out there." And I know that it will, which is why I'm looking. I know to them though, a big part of "good for me" equates with my finally meeting a great guy and settling down, happily partnered and no longer living the lonely, widow life.

It's interesting to me that society at large pushes us to be coupled. And sure, it would be nice in so many ways to find a partner. In little ways I know I've forgotten about: A wink from a partner across the room at a party; a slap on the ass as you're loading the dishwasher that's not meant to annoy the crap out you; a calm voice when you get that call from the school telling you need to pick up your child; someone who can pick up a gallon of milk when you run out in the middle of making dinner.

But I think getting a job will be "good for me" for other reasons: expanding my horizons, gaining new skills, challenging myself, earning cash, getting health care, teaching my kids independence, buying some new clothes. But doing it as a dating tactic is hardly my objective.

So, yeah, I'm "getting out there." But its not so I can find someone who will pick me up if I fall, its to prove to myself and the world that I can pick myself up when I do.

 

 

 

 

No Lipstick on My Wedding Day: Post Party Traumatic Stress Disorder

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The No-Lipstick Bride - Sept 29, 1990

Christmas dinner this year was hosted by my sister and brother-in-law. He made an amazing lobster bisque that took all day, she roasted an organic turkey that was juicy and wonderful. The dinner was a smashing success shared by family and friends and yet, as we were cleaning up, my sister lamented.

"Do you think it was OK? Did everyone have fun?" My mother and I assured her that it was one of her more stellar efforts, but she continued to worry into the next morning.

Her worries were reminiscent of my post-wedding days. Those 3am wake-ups where I worried that people were upset that the bar had closed too early, that people had been cut off (it was a good party!), that the food hadn't been perfect, that my purse had been left in the limo and I had no lipstick. Dumb stuff. It was over. Why was I waking up in the middle of the night years, even decades later still worrying?

I too had a dinner party over the holiday and overcooked the main course. It was still delicious, but I woke up in the middle of the night for a couple of nights afterward and fretted about what I SHOULD have done.

Mostly we think of PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) as a problem among veterans who return from war and shoot people as was so sadly played out yet again this past weekend when a Park Ranger at Mt. Rainier National park was killed by just such a deranged individual. She was the mother of 1 and 3 year old girls. Beyond tragic.

Thankfully the only real tragedy that Post Party PTSD ensues are overcooked roasts and sleepless nights, but I do think it's possible to have mild PTSD over even relatively innocuous events in our lives. We may not be suffering from war trauma, but regular life throws us some pretty wild rides. PTSD is why new mothers often need to recount their birth stories again and again and why there are so many stressed out travelers on airplanes. PTSD follows us through daily life.

Website research indicate there are three main types of  symptoms of PTSD:

Re-experiencing the traumatic event
Avoiding reminders of the trauma
Increased anxiety and emotional arousal

Obviously, I don't think that Post Party PTSD is life threatening, though the stress of it can be debilitating and can lead to more serious issues like depression and physical illness.

Why do we do this to ourselves? A need for perfection? A desire for everyone to think we are so amazing that they won't reject us? A need to belong? Brene Brown talks about the need for perfection and its associated shame in her book, I Thought it was Just Me (But It Wasn't), and how debilitating the pursuit of perfection can be.

Recently in the New York Times, I was comforted by this article about our pursuit for quiet in activities like yoga and meditation, potential antidotes to our daily stressors.

I wonder then if I might just be allowed one New Year's resolution despite my distaste for them. To find the quiet and enjoy even the overdone food I prepare at dinner parties, the trips I take with kids who barf all the way home, and the fact that I had no lipstick at my wedding reception.

A Fish Amongst Fishes

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A Pre-Kayak Shell Seek, Dec 22nd 2011

You would have been 50 today. Such a strange thought. Hard to imagine you with the gray hair you so desperately pined for, thinking that people would take you more seriously, or maybe pay you more. You were never a vain man, at least not when it came to a bigger pay check. I suspect that the 5-0 mark would have hit you hard though, the way it often does with men who must face their mortality. I hope you would  have gone the little red sports car route rather than the hot secretary one. I suspect you would have found the secretary too complicated, so I will picture you in your Aston Martin ala 007.

You would've been the proud parent of teenagers. How would that have suited you I wonder? A mixture of pride and consternation I suspect. Like me. She is stunningly beautiful, just as you imagined she would be. He is charming, will be suave as you were. Not the bottle wielding whining baby you remember. Hardly that. Me? More wrinkles, glasses that you would've insisted looked "cute" on me, but that I think make me look old. I am the vain one.

We began the day with a rugged 2 mile sea kayak paddle that will have us popping Aleve tomorrow. You would have loved it and would've marveled at your children and me, paddling like pros.

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Sea by Kayak, Dec 22nd, 2011

Then we went snorkeling in your honor. Underwater it's quiet, tomb-like, zennish. You are forced to hear yourself breathe. We pointed at brightly colored fish, our widened eyes our only mode of expression. I thought of you there with us as we swam, trying equally hard to express your excitement, directing us this way and that in a world you can perhaps inhabit on a whim. Maybe you were one of those fish gaping at us, quietly smiling your coy 007 smile.

Thankfully I had no pre-conceived notions as to what your 50th might look like, so breathing loudly amongst fishes seemed entirely apt.

I remember the time we were in Mexico together when your Spanish words saved a life from a wily scorpion's sting. The irony that we are in Mexico today seems all the more poignant with that memory. A life saved, a life taken away. Death is non-discretionary.

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Snorkel Beach, Dec 22nd, 2011

Another year goes by without you in it but you are remembered in the fishes that swim about us with the gray hair you never had, as the hard-nosed, marshmallow of a parent of teenagers that you never were.

Still loved. Forever loved, you fish amongst fishes.

Tip-toeing Through The Teenagers

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Borrowed from crazyismysuperpower.blogspot.com

I've been tiptoeing through the morass of teenage angst – worst day of life, I'm stupid, I have no friends, everyone hates me, I hate everyone, why is everyone else getting As when they don't even work for it – being just a few of the themes. Mercifully, these rants seem to come one child at a time.

And then we had a whopper. In order to protect the privacy/identity of those involved, I won't go into details, but let's just say it's been a big test of my parenting skills. The jury is still out in terms of how I'm handling it and I was surprised to be sideswiped by a pity-party kick that I wasn't expecting: the ubiquitous widow lament "I NEED you, dammit!"

I hadn't had it in a while. That wallop seems to only come when I'm needing that ghostly husband of mine to kick a child's butt into submission (a whole new take on "dead-beat dad"!), which I suppose doesn't reflect well on the ol' dead hubby, but well, he can't say much to defend himself, so easy for me to say. But as many fathers are, he was the hardass in these situations.

The crisis has been good in some ways, as most crises are, as it's enabled a freer flow of communication amongst us all. It's opened my eyes to things I hadn't noticed before, and it tested my "balls" so to speak. By that I mean my ability to come down hard when necessary. But punishment was a gray area in this situation and I really had to decide if coming down hard was really what was needed.

Part of the problem was coming down hard meant a confiscation of items that are useful in the world of teenagers to both the teenager and the parent: cell phones, computers, cars, etc. All are a boon to me, and so I had to either find other things to confiscate or other consequences. The other part was that aftermath of the situation was in itself a form of punishment. Adding to that seemed cruel.

In the end, I'm finding that the open communication method seems to be working pretty well. I have a feeling that in this case, the arse-whipping would have backfired. At least as far as what I can see in the snapshot that is this moment.

I have to keep reminding myself that it would have been different if he was around, but not necessarily better. Still, that knowledge doesn't ever stop me from thinking "I NEED you, dammit!" Apparently, my inner teenaged angst is alive and well.

Hedgebrook Dreams

[image error]I taped a hopeful note to the fridge as four 12-year old boys slept upstairs and three 16-year old girls slept in the basement. "Please walk Millie and keep the kitchen clean." I snuck into the pre-dawn Saturday morning fully prepared to arrive home later that night to a kitchen that looked like a dirty dishwasher had sneezed on it and a rambunctious terrier needing a late night walk. This day would be worth it.

After picking up Kelsye, a writing group friend, we drove onto an 8am ferry headed toward Whidbey Island. Desperate for some caffeine, we clanked up to the deck of the boat. We were headed to Hedgebrook, a writer's retreat built specifically for women writers. The retreat, situated on a chunk of land overlooking "Useless Bay," on Whidbey Island, is comprised of  six "Amish" style cottages, a farmhouse kitchen  and a long room for a day-long "salon" where a group of women were about to have the opportunity of being coached by master writers and teachers.

In the ferry's "galley", getting coffee (tea in my case), we bumped into Christine, one of Hedgebrook's board members, her daughter and Storme Webber, a renowned poet, performance artist, writer, singer (I am sure the list is much longer than this) who was one of the teachers at the day's salon. Her braided mohawk was tucked under a white cap which seemed to float above her head, giving her the jaunty look of a child actor from the 30s – both innocent and street-wise. I expected her to have a loud, booming voice so was surprised by her delicate, quiet cadence as she told us of her recent trip to perform at another retreat on Martha's Vineyard.

Just two days before, invited by Christine, I "observed" my first Board Meeting for Hedgebrook as a prelude to being considered (wooed?) for a position on the Board. I couldn't be more thrilled by the possibility of making a contribution to an organization that welcomes, nourishes and creates a community for women writers.

Evidence of Hedgebrook's "extreme hospitality" was found in the buttery smell of hot croissants and buttered bagels, fresh fruit, tea and coffee that were offered for breakfast upon arrival. The long room was chilly, but quickly warmed with the stoking of the wood stove and the warmth of the women who began to fill the room. Before I'd been there 15 minutes I'd been asked about my project several times and I found myself digging into my bag for my business cards, wishing I'd thought to pack more. I was equally entranced by the women sitting near me and quickly made new friends.

After an initial greeting from Amy, the Director of Hedgebrook, we eagerly headed off in small groups toward the tiny cottages that normally held just one, industrious writer. Paths were matted with pine needles, and we passed a large wood shed stacked neatly with kindling for the tiny wood stoves that heated each cottage. I felt as if I had escaped into an enchanted forest and was about to meet face-to-face with Frodo. I snuggled into the cushioned window seat of "Owl" cottage for my morning session called "Screenwriting Tools for Fiction Writers" and was likely the only person to notice the sprite who tiptoed onto the porch to leave a bundle of wood.

We settled in and learned. Were inspired. Made friends. Gained community. Breathed deeply in appreciation. Laughed. Ate beautiful, lovingly made food.

It was easy to feel the magic.

At day's end, we gathered back in the longhouse once more, fulfilled, giddy, warmed. Storme led us with her ethereal voice, bending notes, bending words, bending minds. I looked around to see eyes closed, and heard those low belly grumbles of appreciation when she was finished. Other volunteers stood up to regale us with their stories, their voices, their bravery, their laughter.

That night when I got home, the dog had not been walked, the dishes had indeed been sneezed around the kitchen, and I walked into a teenage drama unfolding. But for the opportunity of becoming a "Hedgebrook alum" and all that entails, it was a small price to pay.

Turkeys in a Row

I've been doing as many people are doing right now: getting ready to have a bunch of family descend upon them and cooking a great big feast. I like Thanksgiving a whole lot better than Christmas. For me Thanksgiving is calmer than the Christmas frenzy. And so much simpler. No gift anxiety to contend with. It's about being with the people you love and great food.

What I fail to remember every year is just how much work it entails.

This year, it's been very Egg and I. For those of you who don't know of Betty MacDonald, she was an author, a very funny memoirist actually, who lived in Seattle in the 40s and wrote a number of books about the many crazy mishaps that seemed to occur in her life on a regular basis.

A few years ago, I bought her house on Vashon Island, about a 20 minute ferry ride from Seattle. Like her, it's a bit of a kooky house, and in 1946, after selling the movies rights to her book The Egg and I, she had constructed an even kookier road to get there. At this time of year with all the leaves and rain, the road can get pretty treacherous, which is why perhaps, without fail, I always seem to choose this time of year to have large pieces of furniture delivered.

This year I decided to replace a dilapidated single bed. I called "Sleep Country USA" (If you live in the US, you now you have that song stuck in your head) and ordered the bed over the phone. I could do this because I have ordered beds from Sleep Country USA before, so I knew what I wanted. When it came time to talk about the delivery I did my usual, "Make sure they send a small truck" thing.

And wouldn't you know it, on delivery day, we wake up to a storm. A deluge of rain. With puppy in lap I sit in the car on the ferry and congratulate myself on my brilliance when I think to write out a shopping list and to to get all the food for Thanksgiving and leave it at the house so it will be done. I figure I have just enough time before the delivery dudes arrive.

I do the entire Thanksgiving shopping at 9am on a Tuesday morning. I don't have enough reusable bags for it all. I unload it in the pouring rain, managing not to slip on the leaves on the path, so that no turkeys are harmed in the process.

And then I wait anxiously for the delivery.

They call and I give them detailed directions because GPS always sends people to the wrong place. They call again. They have used the GPS and are in the wrong place. I hop in the car and drive up to meet them in the right place. When they arrive, I jump out of the car in the pouring rain and run up to the truck to suggest that I drive them down the road first so they can see the road and how tricky it is, to decide whether or not they want to drive the truck down. They don't want to take this precautionary step. They look about 16 years old and are in a hurry. I can tell they think I am a crazy person in a pink raincoat standing beside their truck in the pouring rain with water dripping off my nose.

But they don't understand Betty's Road. It has hairpin turns. It's barely wide enough for my Prius, let alone their paneled van. On the passenger side of the road, it's a steep drop down about 300 feet.

"We'll be fine," they insist.

"There will be no way to turn around down there," I say in the most foreboding tone I can muster. "You will have to stop half-way down and will have to carry it the rest of the way." They shrug. I'm soaked. I've made my point. They follow, with me watching them in my rear-view mirror, wondering how smart they will be. They get to the top of the cliff part of the road and stop. By now they can see how narrow the road is, and that it's coated in a thick layer of wet leaves. They have sense after all. I back up the steep incline that I have already started down. I leap out of the car again (remembering to set the parking brake). "I'm just worried about these brakes," the driver says, saving face.

As luck would have it, my landscaper is at the house, blowing wet leaves off my roof and walkways. I figure he's in need of cash for Black Friday because it's the only reason I can imagine anyone would want to blow wet leaves off a roof in the pouring rain.

He agrees to get Sleep Country USA boys and mattress (with bunky-board. Seriously. That's what it's called. It's a board that you lay in a bed-frame that holds the mattress) in his loud, coughing pick-up. A few minutes later I hear them sputtering back. The boys prop a plastic coated mattress and bunky-board against the house. Booties go on. A red mat is placed on the floor, for what I have no idea. So the mattress can make a Hollywood entrance? They haul my sad old IKEA twin mattress outside and leave it in the rain. Plastic comes off bunky board (damn spell-check keeps changing it to funky board, which I actually like better) and it's carried upstairs. But my antique bed frame has no slats. I don't know where the slats are. They can't put funky-board (oh, to hell with it) or mattress in place without slats. They leave them propped against a wall. I sign my acceptance of the mattress and funky board, but they have forgotten the sheets that were supposed to have been "thrown in."

"This sure is a nice place, but boy that's a crazy road!" Sleep Country USA boy says as he leaves.

Landscaper hauls old bed and Sleep Country USA boys back up the hill in his dying yellow pickup.

On the ferry-ride home I receive a call. A survey about the delivery.

"Is this the BEST delivery you have ever had? Press 1 for yes, 2 for no."

I press 1.

And now I am left with the slat problem. I thought they were at the house here in Seattle. They are not. I have discovered that Lowes will cut lumber for you in the store. If only I knew what size to cut that lumber to. It's pouring rain again today. Landscaper is coming back to finish his job. I've already texted him about measuring for the slats.

Now Carter is home with a stomach ache. I will to go to Lowes and buy lumber that they will cut into a size that landscaper has measured for me. I will take Carter to the doctor. I will pick up the turkey I ordered. I will meet with Olivia's math teacher, take her to DMV to replace a lost license. I will pick up my mother-in-law from the airport and in the dark and pouring rain we will ease down that kooky road. I will wake up at 7am to begin baking pies, peeling potatoes, stuffing the turkey, making cranberry sauce. And finally I will sit at a table with friends and family gathered, in front of the most delicious food and I can't even tell you how thankful I will be.

1000 Mitzvahs

I went to a reading on Sunday at Elliot Bay Books in Seattle (great independent bookstore) for a book called 1000 Mitzvahs. Linda Cohen began writing by blogging about her daily random acts of kindness – Mitzvahs – a mission she set about completing as a way of overcoming her grief after the death of her father.

I thought it was a really cool way to deal with grief, one I hadn't heard before, but that makes sense. There is no better way of getting through grief than helping others. Grief is such a selfish process, so to become selfless can seem like a huge stretch, but once achieved gives back in so many ways.

During the reading, Linda Cohen asked the audience to pair up and tell our partners about the last act of kindness we had performed. The woman beside me said she had made daily random acts of kindness her mission long ago. She told me that just that day she had given a homeless man a dollar and helped an old woman carry groceries two blocks to her home. She did it, she said because it made her feel good.

I thought I would be hard-pressed to come up with random acts of my own, but the day before I participated in a six hour strategic meeting for The Healing Center, the bereavement center whose board of directors I am a part of. And that morning while walking Millie, a woman, surrounded by suitcases and talking loudly to herself asked me for money. I only had doggie bags I explained. Then she asked for the time and if she could pat Millie. I was in a rush, but engaged her. And smiled. I acknowledged her and elicited smiles and waves back even though I wasn't able to provide her with what she needed.

Because what she needed, really was to feel like she belonged. Isn't that what mitzvahs are really about? Perhaps that too is the power of widowhood – a community to which we all, for better or worse, belong.

I challenge you today (and every day) to do just 1 Mitzvah and notice how it makes you feel and then share it in your comments.