Pat Bertram's Blog, page 31

Grief is Universal

I got an email from Germany today from someone I didn’t know. It was written in German, and one of the few words I recognized was “sex,” so I assumed it was some sort of spam. (The subject line in the email was: Trauer, Sex, Hauthunger und Minimierung.) I was scrolling down to find the “unsubscribe” link when I noticed a translation of the email, and realized it actually was a message to me, a response to my blog post: Grief, Sex, Skin Hunger, and Minimization. I wondered how he got my email, but when I checked that blog, there it was, posted for all to see. (It’s actually not an email address; it’s more of a forwarding service that WordPress offers.)

Until I saw my email address in the body of the post, I thought I got his comment via email in error, so I went ahead and posted his comment on the blog. I hope he’s okay with that, because he had done what I asked in the post — added to the discussion about sex and grief. I did respond to his email and told him what I did, so if he wants me to remove the comment, I will.

Two things came to mind when I read his comment.

First, that intense grief over the death of spouse seems to be universal. The lack of information not just about the realities of grief but also the various affects grief has on us and the additional losses (such as the loss of sex and the problem with skin hunger) also seems to be universal. We all tend to suffer in silence, thinking we are the only ones who are dealing with such pain. Although I mostly kept quiet in my offline life, here on this blog, I’ve been anything but silent, which turned out to be a good thing. Now people all over the world know my experience and my belief that grief is hard, grief takes a long time, and grief should not be suffered in silence.

Second, many men don’t remarry and aren’t interested in remarrying, despite the prevalent idea that men who lose a wife immediately remarry, not just to have someone to take care of them, but so they can have sex. Some bereaved men don’t miss sex in general, though they intensely miss sex with their wives. Some men do remarry, but often it’s to have someone to be emotionally intimate with because for many men, their spouse is the only emotional support they have, the only person they feel comfortable hugging or talking about personal issues with.

These are just generalities, of course. Although I have learned that despite the cliché, not everyone’s grief at the loss of a spouse is different from everyone else’s — grief for many of us followed the same pattern and timeline — when it comes to marriage and new relationships, the cliché is true: everyone is different. We will each of us find our way to a new relationship when we feel the need, when the time is right, or when we meet the right person.

In my case, it’s a done deal. I’m okay most of the time with the idea of growing old alone (the idea of it, you understand; not necessarily the reality of it). I certainly don’t want to have to deal with the possibility of caring for someone else in their old age, especially since I’d be old myself. Besides, there’s no room in my house for another person, and I won’t give up my house for anyone. But this sort of life isn’t for everyone, though it is forced on so many of us without our having a choice in the matter.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One. “Grief: The Inside Story is perfect and that is not hyperbole! It is exactly what folk who are grieving need to read.” –Leesa Healy, RN, GDAS GDAT, Emotional/Mental Health Therapist & Educator.

Body Memory

Occasionally during the past few days, I’ve been overcome by a momentary sense of panic and dread, as if I’d forgotten something I was supposed to or as if something terrible was about to happen. It’s not a big deal, more of a frisson than true panic, but I can’t think of anything that is currently happening (or not happening) that would prompt such a feeling.

Although I would have thought I was long past the time of grief-related body memory, this feeling seems like something being resurrected from the past. Twelve years past, to be exact.

At this time twelve years ago, I was dealing with Jeff’s various end of life issues, such as terminal restlessness and confusion. Some people, toward the end, can’t sit still, and so it was for Jeff. Because of the cancer that had spread to his brain as well as the potent pain killers he needed, he was unsteady on his feet, and he tended to fall. So, sleep-deprived me stayed with him all night, pacing with him, getting him to back bed in the hopes he could fall asleep, and then pacing again.

I didn’t talk about any of this back then, at least not here on my blog, because it seemed such a betrayal of him, but after he died, which seemed to me to be the ultimate betrayal, all bets were off, so I wrote about what I felt. Until then, I had hospice to talk to.

Many people are leery of hospice, perhaps confusing them with the Hemlock Society, but I only have good things to say about the hospice in western Colorado. Although they were scheduled to come once a week (we were settling in for the three to six months the doctors said he had left to live), he deteriorated so fast that I called the hospice nurse every day with some issue I had not previously encountered, and she always responded, first by phone, and then with a visit.

During the past twelve years, I hadn’t thought about that time very often — his death and my grief were such traumatic experiences that they overshadowed everything else — but if it hadn’t been for hospice, I have no idea how I would ever have known what to do for him. Would never have known what was happening.

Next week, it will be twelve years since we admitted him to a hospice care facility. Although hospice is mostly an at-home program where they help the family and give them the tools to take care of their loved one, this particular hospice also had a nursing facility to take care of the patient for short stays to give the caregiver a rest. Oddly, although his admittance was for my benefit because it had been many days since I slept more than an hour or two — I’d been staying up all night with him and was totally exhausted — I didn’t sleep any better when he was away, knowing he was with strangers, and he was dying alone. (He didn’t die alone, though. I was with him when he took his last breath.)

There are a lot of things I can barely remember from five and ten years ago, but that whole month from twelve years ago is seared on my brain and in my body, apparently for all time.

Instead of exacerbating my grief (and despite the momentary pangs of panic), these memories today are accompanied by gratitude for the nurse and social worker who helped me through the worst time in my life.

[Hospice helped with my father, too, but by then I knew a lot about dying (from an outsider’s point of view; obviously, I know nothing about dying from the point of view of one who is dying), so although I was grateful for their help, they weren’t quite the angels of mercy that the first hospice people were.]

I wasn’t so far gone in grief after Jeff died that I neglected to thank the women who helped me with Jeff — I did, sincerely — but over the years, I haven’t often thought of that time.

And now, twelve years later, I am remembering with love and gratitude, and also, apparently, with panic and dread, though it seems silly since there is absolutely nothing I can do to change even a moment of the past.

[image error]Pexels.com" data-medium-file="https://ptbertram.files.wordpress.com..." data-large-file="https://ptbertram.files.wordpress.com..." src="https://ptbertram.files.wordpress.com..." alt="" class="wp-image-22255" width="600" />

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One. “Grief: The Inside Story is perfect and that is not hyperbole! It is exactly what folk who are grieving need to read.” –Leesa Healy, RN, GDAS GDAT, Emotional/Mental Health Therapist & Educator.

Spring Springs Forward

Early this morning, we needed to spring our clocks forward, and somehow, the crocus must have thought we were supposed to spring spring itself forward, not just the clocks, because look what I found in my yard!

I wasn’t even looking. I’d been checking on the tulips to see how they survived the latest cold spell — they did — but I caught a glimpse of yellow of the corner of my eye and went to investigate. Oh, such a lovely color!

Someday, I hope to know enough about gardening and plants to have a luxurious yard, but I doubt I’d be more pleased with a yard full of color than I am with just a single blossom. On the other hand, I could be rapturous, but I wouldn’t know since I’ve never managed to grow that many flowers at once. Still, whether one or many, I do so enjoy any plants that manage to flower despite my inexperience. I have a hunch the main thing now is to make sure the bulbs get plenty of water since we are going through a drought, though with another midweek cold spell on its way, I’m not sure how much I should give them. I suppose I could pretend we had an early rainstorm and hope the bulbs get the message.

Meantime, it’s delightful to have this colorful evidence that spring really is on the way.

***

What if God decided S/He didn’t like how the world turned out, and turned it over to a development company from the planet Xerxes for re-creation? Would you survive? Could you survive? If you haven’t yet read this book, now is the time to buy since it’s on sale.

Click here to buy Bob, The Right Hand of God.

Time

Yesterday, WordPress notified me that I had just published the 900th post on my current daily blogging streak. That surprised me because I didn’t realize it had been so long since I’d started this latest spate of daily blogging. 900 posts in a row means almost two-and-a-half years of finding something to write about every day! That’s a lot. Admittedly, not all of those posts were worth the time they took to write. If I couldn’t think of a topic, I just winged it, writing about anything, no matter how trivial.

Many times during those 900 days, especially on days when I had little time and little in my head, I considered forgoing the day’s blog, but daily blogging is a good habit for a writer. This writer, anyway. So, despite those less than wise and witty and wonderful posts, in the end, it was worth the time. After all, it did force me —- allow me? — to sit and focus on words and writing and thoughts (or no thoughts) for the hour and a half it took to write, edit, add tags, and publish each piece. That in itself was worth the time.

What surprised me more than learning about that 900th post, is learning that daylight savings time starts tomorrow. Huh? How is that possible? Didn’t we just turn back the clocks? I get so confused. I know the clock hands spring forward an hour (spring forward in the spring is how I remember it), but does that mean I lose an hour of sleep in the morning? I think so. If six become 7, that also means according to clock time, I will get to sleep in a bit longer before the rising sun wakes me up. In body time, it comes out to be the same because I’ll be going to bed later, too.

Colorado is attempting to go on permanent daylight savings time, which is weird to me. If the legislators decide not to dicker with time changes anymore, why not just leave it at regular time? Studies have shown that, despite the reason for daylight saving — saving energy — there is little or no effect on energy savings. Still, whichever time they choose, it’s good to stick with it because car accidents and work-related injuries increase the week after the spring and fall changes.

What didn’t surprise me is what a good time I had today. I went with friends on a day-long trek to the big city. I jokingly refer to a nearby town with a Walmart and a Safeway as “the big city,” but today’s excursion really was to a big city. For most people, a metro area with a population of 160,000 isn’t a big city, but compared to where I live, it’s immense with immense stores and more restaurants than a person can visit in two lifetimes. We stopped at a sporting goods store where I bought some shoes, wandered around a bookstore, checked out a discount clothing store and picked up a few groceries. On the way home, we stopped at a new Asian restaurant in a nearby town and had Thai food. In respect for what they thought were my more plebian tastes, they ordered the Thai food without a lot of heat, though I don’t think that was necessary. As long as the hot spices don’t sear my esophagus, I like spicy foods. Still, heat or no, the food was good. Even my friends — an Asian and an American who’s back temporarily from a year-long stay in Bangkok — enjoyed the food.

That’s about all I can think of tonight on the topic of time, which is good because it’s late and I am out of time. Pleasant dreams.

***

What if God decided S/He didn’t like how the world turned out, and turned it over to a development company from the planet Xerxes for re-creation? Would you survive? Could you survive?

A fun book for not-so-fun times.

Click here to buy Bob, The Right Hand of God.

Lazing and Lolling

Despite the end of winter coming in just over a week, there are very few signs of spring, though generally by this time the snow drops are coming up and the tulips are poking through the soil. There are no snow drops yet, but a couple of tulip tips were visible before this latest round of snow and single digit temperatures. (Last night, it got down to 7 degrees Fahrenheit.) From what I can see, those brave tulips are still green beneath the snow, but the sort of up and down weather we’ve been having is hard on spring blooms.

I suppose this kamikaze weather — warm spells interrupted every week by winter storms blowing through — doesn’t give the bulbs much impetus to wake up and be perky. Come to think of it, this weather doesn’t give me much impetus to wake up and be perky, either, but ever since I moved here, I can’t sleep past first light so, perky or not, I do get up. I’m hoping the bulbs will eventually do the same, though there’s not much I can do about it if the drought exacerbated by this peculiar weather pattern has killed their interest in waking up.

Surprisingly, the ground isn’t frozen. I went out in the mid-morning chill to loosen the ground around my newly planted trees, and I was able to get down pretty far. The person who planted them for me dug post holes rather than a big bowl, and I needed to loosen the dirt to give the roots an easier time of spreading when growing season starts. I might not have gotten down far enough to make any difference to the roots, but at least the loose dirt will help soak up moisture, which will then loosen the deeper soil. At least, that’s my surmise. It might not make any difference at all, but I worried about the trees, so I needed to make the effort to my quiet my mind.

That bit of digging made me look forward to gardening weather. The last frost here generally comes around the fifth of May, so I can’t do any planting until then, but there will certainly be plenty to do once the weather is consistently warmer. If nothing else, I can water my grass and my bulbs. The lilies (which may or may not come up depending on whether I planted them deep enough), like a lot of water in spring, and not so much later in the summer. I also still have a few patches of weeds to dig up. I wanted to wait until after the trees were planted, thinking the weeds would be dug up when the holes were dug, but that didn’t happen. Still, it’s a small area, and I got started on that today.

I’ve been rather lazy this winter, lolling about, reading and doing as little as possible (though come to think of it, I’ve been working a lot more hours at my job the past few months, so that cut into my lolling time). It makes me wonder how I will cope with having a lot to do when gardening season rolls around. I suppose I’ll do what I always do — do what I can when I can. Of course, I won’t know what all I’ll have to do until May when I see what comes up and what I need to replace or replant. Until then, I’ll continue my winter ways, lazing and lolling.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of intriguing fiction and insightful works of grief.

Plum Dreaming

On Monday, I received the greengage plum trees to replace those that didn’t make it through last winter. Yesterday, my contractor finally sent someone to help me plant them. (Meaning the “someone” did all the work; I just held the trees upright to make sure they weren’t out of plumb.) These two trees seem much stronger than the previous batch, which is good because the poor things are certainly dealing with a lot of transplant trauma right now. First, they had to deal with the trauma of being uprooted. Then they were packaged and sent halfway across the country. After sitting here in the cold for two days, they were put to rest in their new, permanent home. And then came snow.

The poor things really are having to deal with a lot, but luckily, they are still dormant, and even luckier, they don’t have to go through an entire winter — after all, despite the wintry weather, spring will be here in ten days.

It’s supposed to snow again tonight, but I can’t imagine the additional snow will make any difference. At this point, I’ve done all I could. They are on their own.

Meantime, I am dreaming of a time when I can pick a plum from my tree. The place where Jeff and I lived had a whole thicket of greengage plums, and they were by far the best fruit I’d ever eaten. (Think of the sweetest plum you’ve ever eaten, the most perfect apricot, combine them, add a hint of lime and you have the food of the gods — greengage plums.)

When I was in California, a friend brought me a bunch of greengages from her tree, and they were terrible. In retrospect, they weren’t that bad, I suppose, but they weren’t at all like “my” greengages.

I have no idea what the plums I just planted will be like. These trees are grafted to a black plum root, where mine weren’t, which is why I had a whole thicket of the plum trees — the “volunteers” that sprang from the roots grew wildly in that uncultivated field, and that is something that can’t happen with these trees. The soil, too, is different here, so who knows what I will end up with.

If the trees grow, and if they blossom, and if the blossoms become fruit, and if there are any plums left for me after the birds feast on the fruit . . .

That’s a lot of “if”s between now and a possible harvest. If, after all that, they are no good, well, there’s always plum jam. Or I could simply leave them for the birds.

But that’s a problem for another time. For now, I will be satisfied with healthy trees that can survive this mutable climate, though I can’t help dreaming of the delectable plums I once knew.

***

What if God decided S/He didn’t like how the world turned out, and turned it over to a development company from the planet Xerxes for re-creation? Would you survive? Could you survive?

A fun book for not-so-fun times.

Click here to buy Bob, The Right Hand of God.

Handling the News

For much of human history, news only traveled as fast as a man could run. Later, it traveled only as fast a horse, and later, as humans expanded over the face of the earth, news traveled as fast as the wind via sailing ships.

Now, news is instantaneous. What happens in one part of the world is instantly known, so not only do we have to deal with what we see, hear, feel in our personal space, and deal with what we learn from friends and neighbors about what is going on in our nearby vicinity, we have to deal with crisis all over the world. And if that wasn’t bad enough, we are constantly being inundated with stories of decades-old atrocities, lest we forget.

It makes me wonder how all this affects us. I know how it makes us feel emotionally, and it sometimes even goads us do something, no matter how futile. But for a species that grew up in relatively newsless societies, it can’t be good for us. Even if the news is true, even if the reasons for the news as well as the backstory we are being fed is true, what possible difference can knowing make? Well, the cynical me says that it keeps those of us dealing with collateral damage, such as higher prices, pacified, because no matter how bad it gets here, it’s worse elsewhere.

Still, all day, every day, we are forced to confront and be saddened by events that a couple of hundred years ago we would never have heard of until long after those events were over.

If I sounds uncompassionate, it’s because I have my own mission (not one I chose, but one that was thrust on me because of my grief writing), succoring those reeling from the death of a spouse. Just yesterday, a woman contacted me because so much of what I have written about grief over the loss of someone intrinsic to our lives struck a chord with her. In this case, it was my saying that all grief is not the same because all losses are not the same. She’s been dealing with the typical non-support and dismissiveness we all had to deal with, such as the loss of a spouse being compared to the loss of a pet. (I’m not getting into this discussion again. I know people deal with grief for any number of losses, but the truth is, if a pet dies, it doesn’t leave you with a reduced income and three young children to raise by yourself as well as the loss of your sense of identity, the exile from your coupled friends and dozens of other horrendous changes to your life, any one of which would be occasion for grief.)

If it weren’t for modern means of communication, I wouldn’t hear from these grieving people, but I do. And it’s personal because they contact me specifically. Is their sorrow any worse than the sorrow of someone interviewed on television? Truthfully, I don’t know. As with much of life, I have no answers, just one heck of a lot of questions.

Still, I can’t help but wonder if we’re equipped to handle all the news that’s being fed to us.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One. “Grief: The Inside Story is perfect and that is not hyperbole! It is exactly what folk who are grieving need to read.” –Leesa Healy, RN, GDAS GDAT, Emotional/Mental Health Therapist & Educator.

Simple Arithmetic

I purchased a few items at the grocery store this morning. The bill came to $9.56. I had the coins plus a ten-dollar bill and seven ones. Not wanting that fistful of one-dollar bills, I gave the young clerk $14.56. She counted the money, then stared at me for a second before counting the money again. She kept the change and the ten and tried to give me back the ones because the ten was enough. I just smiled at her and told her to key in the amount I gave her as payment. When the $5.00 in change popped up, her eyes got big. She said, “I see what you did.”

I gave my stock response to such transactions, “Hard going in but easy coming out.”

It’s amazing that to me that people can’t do these kinds of calculations any more. It’s automatic for me, but obviously not for others.

I’m lucky, I suppose that simple arithmetic has always been easy. For example, adding $19.99 and $17.56 takes no mental effort. It’s obviously $37.55. Add a penny to the $19.99 to get $20.00. Subtract a penny from $17.56 to get $17.55. It’s easy, then, to add $20.00 and $17.55. Well, easy for me, even today. It was a lot easier decades ago when my mind was still blessed with the rapid synapses of youthful neurons.

I’d read once that educators had noticed some students being able to do such simple addition almost without thinking, and so they created common core math to even the playing field. Actually, that is not a good metaphor. When it comes to athletics, they still favor those with talent, but when it comes to mental exercise, they seem to want everyone to have the same advantages. Not that I blame them. Everyone should be able to do simple arithmetic in their heads without resorting to pen and paper, fingers, or calculators.

Like most others who had the benefit of learning plain old arithmetic and memorizing the times tables, I was appalled at what seemed an unnecessary complication to learning when they changed the curriculum so drastically, though their rationale made sense. When I looked up common core math to see what it actually was, however, I couldn’t understand it at all. So maybe that was what they wanted? Not to give the arithmetically unblessed a step up, but to bring the others a step down?

Not that it matters. I’m just glad my brain works well enough so that I don’t have any trouble counting out money at the grocery store. If they can’t figure it out on their end, well, that’s what the cash register is for.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of intriguing fiction and insightful works of grief.

Cheers!

Today was a day for celebration. I received flowers from my employers.

And a goodie-filled celebration station from my sister.

I also received a special gift for my house — the replacement greengage plum trees arrived today, and I have a commitment from my contractor to get them planted as soon as possible. I feel good about these trees. March 7th seems to be a lucky day for me. After all, this is the anniversary of the day I closed on my house, and for sure, that was a lucky day! So I have every expectation of these trees doing well.

While March 27th, the anniversary of Jeff’s death, is a day for me to reflect on the vagaries of life, March 7th is a day for me to celebrate the joys of life, serendipitous occasions, and unmade wishes come true.

I never wished for a house, never really even wished for a home of my own, never wanted the responsibility, and yet through a series of unlikely events such as actually finding a nice place I could afford in an area with an atmosphere that feels comfortable, here I am. It’s as if life reached inside me, pulled out a wish I’d never considered, and made it come true.

I suppose it’s fitting that the anniversaries of the two most life-changing events of my latter years occur in the same month. I’m glad this one comes first, though — I wouldn’t ever want to feel as if this house is a consolation prize for losing the love of my life. The two are separate events, and yet . . . not. Because obviously, if Jeff were still here, I wouldn’t have a house.

But that’s not a conundrum for today. Today is about celebration. And gratitude. Because I am so very grateful I have a lovely home in a nice town, with friends, a nearby library, a job. And people to help me celebrate.

Cheers!

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One. “Grief: The Inside Story is perfect and that is not hyperbole! It is exactly what folk who are grieving need to read.” –Leesa Healy, RN, GDAS GDAT, Emotional/Mental Health Therapist & Educator.

An Exercise in Hope

I had a nice surprise today: snow! We haven’t had so much snow this winter that I’m sick of it, and anyway, it wasn’t much of a snow — just enough to cover the ground and my front ramp while leaving the sidewalks clear. But it was enough to make a day spent inside feel cozy, especially when accompanied by a book and a cup of lemony spiced tea.

More snow is expected for Thursday, along with frigid temperatures, but hopefully the intervening days will be warm enough for digging.

I’d planted three 6-foot- tall greengage plum trees at the beginning of last winter, which was supposed to be the optimum time for planting, so that’s when the nursery sent the trees. One of the trees did well, but two didn’t survive the winter, though sprouts did shoot out just above the graft mark. (I was hoping to get trees with greengage roots so the inevitable volunteers would turn the tree into a greengage forest, but I took what I could get.) I lopped off the trees just above the shoot, and one of truncated trees seems to be doing well, but still, the nursery said they’d replace both trees. (I had to pay shipping, which made those replacement trees rather expensive, but hopefully it will be worth it, especially since they won’t replace the replacement trees if there is a problem.)

They decided not to take a chance on the replacement trees not making it through the winter, so they promised to send them in March, which sounded good a year ago. Well, now it’s March. Those trees are slated to arrive tomorrow, which is why I’m hoping for decent digging weather. I can’t plant those trees by myself; even if I could dig the hole deep enough (which I can’t), I couldn’t hold the tree upright and fill in the hole at the same time. My contractor said he’d send someone to help, and I’m sure he will. Eventually.

Luckily, it will be cold enough that the trees shouldn’t come out of dormancy if they have to wait a bit. I suppose if worst comes to worst, I can do the planting myself over several days, but I doubt that will happen. I have been so patient with this contractor that generally when something is time-sensitive, he figures he owes me and he gets it done. (Oddly, these extra things he does so quickly for me are more in the line of favors since they are handyman jobs rather than typical contractor projects.)

As always, though, any gardening project is an exercise in hope. I hope the trees get here safely. I hope they get planted in time. I hope they grow. I hope they blossom. I hope someday to eat plums picked off my own trees.

A lot of hope!

But first, the snow.

***

What if God decided S/He didn’t like how the world turned out, and turned it over to a development company from the planet Xerxes for re-creation? Would you survive? Could you survive?

A fun book for not-so-fun times.

Click here to buy Bob, The Right Hand of God.