Bravery and Joy

The above quote was written by English author Neil Gaiman and here's another of his quotes below that speaks to me and, hopefully, to other widows reading this blog:
 
“I hope that in this year to come, you make mistakes. Because if you are making mistakes, then you are making new things, trying new things, learning, living, pushing yourself, changing yourself, changing your world. You’re doing things you’ve never done before, and more importantly, you’re doing something. So that’s my wish for you, and all of us, and my wish for myself. Make New Mistakes. Make glorious, amazing mistakes. Make mistakes nobody’s ever made before. Don’t freeze, don’t stop, don’t worry that it isn’t good enough, or it isn’t perfect, whatever it is: art, or love, or work or family or life. Whatever it is you’re scared of doing, Do it. Make your mistakes, next year and forever." 

Written by Neil Gaiman

To Do Lists, Coroners and Purging Stuff

I created a new way of dealing with the daily job list. I start out with a sheet of paper labeled ‘To Do List’---no other words---and as I complete tasks through out the day I write them down on that paper then I strike a line through the words I just wrote. It makes me feel good to write things like pick up dog poop, shovel snow or feed the birds knowing I can immediately cross it off with a force that says, “You’re a good girl who deserves a gold star!” Brushed my teeth? Ya, why not---write it down. I don’t want to die during the middle of the day, have the coroner find my blank job list and think I was lazy on my last day on earth. That reminds me. I should check to see if I have any naughty underwear left over from the ‘60s in the back of my closet that should get purged before I die. Who am I kidding? I’m still too busy purging my deceased husband’s stuff from the house to worry about my own silly belongings.

Yesterday I shoveled snow for the first time this winter. I’ve always liked shoveling snow in the past. I still do but since last January, when Don passed away, I’ve gotten more careful about wearing a coat and boots when I’m outside. I’d been in the habit of shoveling a path for the dog in the mornings while wearing just my nightgown, robe and slippers. After Don died every time I’d do that I’d scare myself by remembering that old people living alone die of exposure when there is no one in the house to call 911 if you fall and don’t come back inside. I find myself basing too many decisions, now, on what the coroner would think and on trying to avoid making the 6:00 news for the way I eventually pass over to the other side.

My good friend since grade school says she refuses to think like an old person. Since becoming a widow I’ve done enough of that for two people so she’s off the hook. I have another good friend who put ‘skydiving’ on her ‘To Do List’ for 2013. But they both still have their husbands. Living alone is different. For one thing I still have too much widow-work to do, reallocating the space in the house that my dearly departed and his stuff took up, before I can plan the next chapter in my life. I guarantee, though, I will never, ever have a desire to go skydiving, climb a mountain or any of the other activities that have become a fad in the geriatric set to prove---what?---that you’re still young at heart, adventurous? Adventurous in my world means going to the grocery store on Tuesday instead of Monday. Well, I’m not that bad but you get the idea. When I do pick my rite-of-passage-back-to-spirited-living it’s more likely to include a recumbent bike, art classes and getting dressed before noon. See, I do have a plan.

As a widow living alone, along with purging your husband’s stuff from the house you also can’t help thinking about all the hidden ‘treasures’ in the back of your own dresser drawers and who will find them when you die. Will they recognize the importance of those Mardi Gras beads you’ve kept for 20 years? Going through your spouse’s things you know the back story on every single trinket you find which, of course, is what makes the job of sorting through his life’s accumulation of stuff so difficult….yet strangely comforting at the same time. He's not here to dry tears or laugh at jokes but his stuff still around me reminds me that Don was once real, not just a figment of my imagination. Not just a dream that comes in the night. He was more than just a line on the coroner’s ‘To Do List’. Sign death certificate. Check. He was more than two dates on a cemetery stone with no explanation for the dash in between. His stuff proves it. So I feel compelled to do right by it all as I purge, making room for my own future.

I’m near the first year anniversary of Don’s passing and I’m doing better than many other widows in the purging department. All but a few shirts and some hunting clothes I forgot to sell in the fall are gone from the closet. The wheelchair friendly vehicle, the medical equipment and assorted wheelchairs are gone. His garage full of gas station collectibles and the classic car are gone. But Don loved his smaller collections and I still have more purging to do. ‘Sort’ and ‘purge’ are words that I hope will appear crossed-off on my ‘To Do List’ often through out 2013. And by 2014 I want to write finish the last of the purging then immediately draw a dark line through those words and proclaim myself to be the very best good girl in the whole Kingdom of Widowhood! TWO gold stars for you. ©

The Crank Old Man and the One Who Was Not

People who work in mental health or at nursing homes may already be aware of the poem below. I found it on Facebook a few days ago but when I cross-checked its authenticity on the web I discovered that it goes by at least five different titles and as many people have been credited for writing it. All of the versions come with an introduction that the handwritten poem was found in with the meager possessions of an old man (or an old women---there’s a version written in a female voice) who died recently. That part of the poem’s history is quite understandable because when ever a poem appears in print---which this has many times---someone ends up copying it for their own use but they fail to properly credit its source. (As a would-be writer I hate when that happens!) Then when the person with a hand-copied poem dies in Florida, Australia, Scotland or wherever---someone discovering the poem assumes their elderly patient or parent actually created the poem and they submit it to be printed in a magazine. Again. This has been going on with this poem for decades, apparently, and I have no doubt it will continue taking the same path for many more. And just to prove that point, here I am doing the same, copying the poem for my own use and for my heirs to find.

Why Can't I Join the Red Hat Society?

Growing old, one of the biggest fears I have is one we probably all share…that of being anonymous in a nursing home with no voice to tell the people around us who we are, who we used to be. To be just another patient in a sea of patients to be washed, fed and turn over in our beds is a scary thought. This is what makes this poem speak so loudly to me and no doubt to countless other people in the sunset years of their lives. It especially speaks to me as I get closer to the first anniversary of Don’s passing. It reminds me of how grateful I am that Don didn’t have to suffer the indignities of living and dying in a nursing home. He was also grateful that after his stroke he was able to come home after four months of struggling in the hospital and rehab to get the limited measure of recovery he got. In the twelve years he lived post-stroke he never lost sight of what a hard-earned gift that was and he woke up every morning singing at the top of his lungs. We could all take a lesson from his heart that was so full of gratitude and love for the routines of just living an ordinary life. ©

The Cranky Old Man

What do you see nurses? . . .. . .What do you see?
What are you thinking .. . when you're looking at me?
A cranky old man, . . . . . .not very wise,
Uncertain of habit .. . . . . . . .. with faraway eyes?
Who dribbles his food .. . ... . . and makes no reply.
When you say in a loud voice . .'I do wish you'd try!'
Who seems not to notice . . .the things that you do.
And forever is losing . . . . . .. . . A sock or shoe?
Who, resisting or not . . . ... lets you do as you will,
With bathing and feeding . . . .The long day to fill?
Is that what you're thinking?. .Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse .you're not looking at me.
I'll tell you who I am . . . . .. As I sit here so still,
As I do at your bidding, .. . . . as I eat at your will.
I'm a small child of Ten . .with a father and mother,
Brothers and sisters .. . . .. . who love one another
A young boy of Sixteen . . . .. with wings on his feet
Dreaming that soon now . . .. . . a lover he'll meet.
A groom soon at Twenty . . . ..my heart gives a leap.
Remembering, the vows .. .. .that I promised to keep.
At Twenty-Five, now . . . . .I have young of my own.
Who need me to guide . . . And a secure happy home.
A man of Thirty . .. . . . . My young now grown fast,
Bound to each other . . .. With ties that should last.
At Forty, my young sons .. .have grown and are gone,
But my woman is beside me . . to see I don't mourn.
At Fifty, once more, .. ...Babies play 'round my knee,
Again, we know children . . . . My loved one and me.
Dark days are upon me . . . . My wife is now dead.
I look at the future ... . . . . I shudder with dread.
For my young are all rearing .. . . young of their own.
And I think of the years . . . And the love that I've known.
I'm now an old man . . . . . . .. and nature is cruel.
It's jest to make old age . . . . . . . look like a fool.
The body, it crumbles .. .. . grace and vigour, depart.
There is now a stone . . . where I once had a heart.
But inside this old carcass . A young man still dwells,
And now and again . . . . . my battered heart swells
I remember the joys . . . . .. . I remember the pain.
And I'm loving and living . . . . . . . life over again.
I think of the years, all too few . . .. gone too fast.
And accept the stark fact . . . that nothing can last.
So open your eyes, people .. . . . .. . . open and see.
Not a cranky old man .
Look closer . . . . see .. .. . .. .... . ME!!


Remember this poem when you next meet an older person who you might brush aside without looking at the young soul within ... . . .we will all, one day, be there, too!