Widowhood ain't for sissies. And I'm a sissy.

I just wanted to announce to my three faithful audience members, that I will be taking an indefinite 'sabbatical' from this blog, (and knowing me, which I'm pretty sure don't any more, "indefinite sabbatical" could mean 24 hours, could mean forever). I thank you from the depths of my being for your unwavering love and support. I am, have always been, will forever be nothing if not so full of gratitude and love back, for that, for you. But I'm discovering that it's just too damn much work, to share this f'n journey with "the world," far too much than I'm willing to invest in, right now.

The first oh, maybe eight or nine months since Bob died, I barely remember, but the fog is sort of starting to clear and now, I just kinda feel like I'm circus freak on display, which is kinda what a blog is, quite frankly, but that circus freak blogger should also be entertaining, enlightening, interesting, insightful, intentional, have a purpose and often funny and/or witty—I am here to say I feel none of that. At. All. My world is still pretty narrow. Very few things really amuse me. I still cry. A lot. I'm not being true to it—the f'n journey—to me, to Bob, or to those who have been so sweet and faithful in traveling with me on this ugly road. I just can't keep up with all the twists and turns of this f'd up ride; I can't be honest because it still feels thisclosetoinsanity, this road I'm on, and even though the world loves a train wreck, I don't want to be it. I still feel so assaulted, so insulted by the world (and vice versa), continue to encounter endless new incidents and situations that literally stop me dead in my tracks—case in point, got a letter from the esteemed U of M Medical Center/Fairview today—the little shop of horrors that was the main setting of our year-long nightmare, before coming home to hospice, where we started a new 4 month nightmare, under the care of Fairview hospice, until Bob died—the letter is addressed to Bob, and I quote: University of Minnesota Medical Center, Fairview is interested in following the progress of former patients. It has been some time since you were seen in our hospital. We are interested in your care and with the progress you are making. Would you please give us a brief report of your health status and also answer the questions that follow . . .

All of these little encounters, incidents continually drive the point home: Bob is dead. I am a fucking widow. HATE that word. hatehatehatehate it. I've tried reasoning with it, tried embracing it ('member my really cool {dilusional} idea about making widows trendy, like pregnant women now are?! Yeah, me either), tried "not caring" about it, tried to come up with a new name—I've started calling myself Warrior Princess! (yes, with an exclamation point, because Bob always signed his signature with an exclamation point at the end—his abbreviated way to literally exclaim that "life is an emergency!"), but, there's that faking again . . . just a coverup. Nothing fits. Speaking of new names, I've seen this floating around facebook now and then: A person who loses their partner is called a "widow," a child who lost a parent, an "orphan," but there is no word to describe a parent who has lost a child because the loss is like no other. Please post this for one hour, I'm pretty sure I know who will . . . I could go on and on why I loathe this thing—I "get" what it's "trying" to say, no clarification needed there—the main point is that someone wrote this (and others continue to post and repost and repost) with the intention of creating a conflict, of creating divisiveness . . . so not fair, so not right, to compare or rate losses, to take sides, drawing a line in the sand between the has and has nots . . . people fight hard to eradicate the world of labels, of things that divide. Please, take my label. I'd rather not be defined by one ugly little world and all the ugly little connotations that go with it. But I also get that whomever created this concept likely did so in the depths of deep grief, out of a feeling of being so lost, more alone than he/she has ever and will ever feel, an identity stripped but badly wanting one back, a huge, gaping, gasping hole in their heart, in their soul that they are trying hard fill by making others understand that immense, consuming loss and pain that comes with the full meal deal, desperately wanting to make that lost person matter and live forever in everyone's minds the way they live for the mourning, wanting to lash out at everyone who has not ever experienced something like what they are going through, their world suffering a seismic shift that is going to take a long time—forever—to become reoriented within again, if ever, the wanting so badly to be seen and heard but there are no words, but even if there were, no on sticks around to listen or see, everyone else has long moved on, leaving you behind to figure the shit out for yourself . . . all of that, I so get . . .

And, it's because of all that "getting," that I feel I need to close shop for now. And it's because of the divisiveness, as well. I'm tired of going onandonandonandon about how alien my world is. I don't get it, how the hell can I expect anyone else to? I am offended if anyone even tries. I'm offended if no one does. Back and forth, round and round, up and down . . . all of this is far beyond what I'm capable of sharing so openly right now. I've given it the old college try, but am less than pleased with my efforts. But I'm also (kind of) confident that things will get better and am taking many, many teeny, tiny steps toward that pin-poke of light. But it will take time. And lots of work. And right now, it feels like private work. Who knows? Maybe tomorrow, my PMS will have subsided, and I'll want to start writing here again, but for now, I really need a break (and I know y'all are saying, "Break?!? You're not even f'n' working, woman!!" I can hear you).


Perhaps in the not-so-distant future, I'll feel it's worth the immense effort to start this up again. Or not.

Until then, don't worry about me (god, does that sound awesomely, melodramatically narcissistic!). I have my little Otto-man, twice a day, all day to make me laugh big. I am going to be getting certified to teach kettlebells in a month. I'm keeping busy (i.e.: therapy twice a week—it's like a part-time job—they should be paying me for the rich material I'm providing for their professional journals . . . class one night a week (maybe a summer class in there), lots of reading, lots of quiet time, lots of family time, which makes me feel like I'm wrapped in the biggest, warmest blanket, ever. I know many of you have tried to reach out to me, continue to do so, with lunch offers, whatever, and I'm sorry that I haven't made a big effort to reach out back. Please forgive me and keep trying. Or not. Either way, I "get" that, too . . .

xxoo jen

Dreams . . .

A few days before Easter, I had a dream about Bob, a beautifully complicated dream about which I won't go into details, except for the ending. I had my arms around Bob's neck, I could feel him, just as if he were alive and well, I could touch the exact lines of his neck, his silky hair in my hands, everything about him was so real, I couldn't believe it's been two and a half years since I last held his whole, healthy body next to mine, without causing excruciating pain, without cancer. That Bob died over two years ago, the Bob I have yet to mourn, still so buried beneath the trauma of his illness. In the dream, my head is on his chest, I am sobbing. "I miss you so much, I want you here with me, I can't do this by myself any more. . ." He just held me, saying over and over quietly, "I am here Jen, I am always here with you, I will never leave you." His voice was so soft and soothing, so full of love. But of course, being of pathetically earthly mind and body, I had to argue with him, crying even harder, "But you're not here with me—I can't see you, I can't feel you—this, right now, this isn't real!" He just held me, stroking my hair, allowing me to cry and carry on, saying softly, "I'm always here for you, I'm always here . . . " When I woke, my pillow was soaked with tears.

Dali's The Burning Giraffe

I've had several such dreams of Bob, each time, I wake myself with my own crying. I never had such vivid dreams before Bob died—wait—I take that back. Often, my dreams are vivid, but not in a linear, literal, message-delivering kind of way. Usually, they'd give a Hunter S. Thompson novel a run for its money (sorry for the lame wikipedia link—it was the best I could do in short time), without the aid of hallucinogens . . . there is never a story line, and often involve random, Salvador Dali-esque settings with talking goats, peeing in public, or my teeth falling out . . . my recent vivid dreams aren't frequent, maybe once every several months or so. At this point on this f'n journey (F'NJ, for short), a dream about Bob mostly feels like a form of torture—to see him, hear his voice, physically feel his beautiful, whole, well body, and then wake up empty-armed leaves an oppressive heaviness with me that lasts for days, reminding me, with deep clarity—this is my life now. Without Bob. A tiny part of me feels comforted by the dreams, and I hope in time, I'll open myself even more to that peaceful comfort, and to the possible meaning and messages behind them.

By now, I could write a nice little volume about Bob dreams—some that I've had, some that family members have experienced—nearly all with the same message: "I am always here with you, I'm healthy and whole again, you know this, don't you?" But right now, they are at once, confusing and precious, cryptic and sacred. I shared this one, only because it was so recent, had such an impact and that maybe in time, in a future blog, I can expand on these in more depth and detail . . . I do find it beautifully ironic, that the least religious, yet most spiritual, person I have personally known, would come to me in a dream, just before Easter, with a message of eternal life and love. I know that some, at best, may dismiss all of this as cuckoo for cocoa puffs, and at worst, be completely offended, but I guess that's not my problem, just sharing what I know right now. My hope is that more will find the beauty in the ethereal connection we all have with our loved ones—those who share this earthly life with us as well as those who have passed, that life doesn't end with death . . . I'm still wrestling with so many pieces to the puzzle—so many intricate facets to every relationship, the journey doesn't follow a linear path, doesn't follow anyone's path, anyone's prescription, no one can really, truly tell anyone else how it is . . . unique as a freakin' snowflake, we all are which just adds to the astoundingly confusing impressively infuriatingly, and sometimes brilliantly stunning nature of the journey. If only there was a specific recipe to follow, would make this whole damn thing so much easier . . .

Gibbons are scary.

So, on the topic of dreams (yea! for staying "on theme" for once!! Therapy might be working!), my sister, Jill, called this morning to tell of a horrible dream she just had about me being attacked by a gibbon. Not a plain ol', generic, run-o-the-mill monkey, not a boring textbook ape, but specifically, a gibbon. Yea, WHT??!! was my first response, too. I actually had to Google it as she was telling me this, to verify that it indeed is a monkey-like creature. Anyhoosies, in the dream, she, Bob and I were walking down a street when suddenly this gibbon (makes me giggle, just typing that) comes out of nowhere, grabs me, hauls me up into an abandoned bus up a hill, and starts beating the daylights outta me, I was crying, trying hard to fight back; Bob and Jill could see the gibbon and me through the bus windows as the killer monkey continued to maul me, but couldn't get to me, they could only watch from a distance, helplessly horrified . . . Eventually, I somehow got away from the vicious simian (learning and growing in vocabulary, peeps, thanks to Hamline University), to safety, Bob held me as I cried, trying to explain to them the terrible ordeal, showing them my cuts and bruises . . . Everyone was bewildered at what had just happened . . .

Jill was mortified by the dream, but I was laughing, a lot. During the telling of the tale, I had to have her repeat much of it because my laughter kept interrupting her. Jill finally said, "What the hell is so funny, Jen?! It was awful, just awful! You were being beaten so badly, and all we could do was stand there and watch! It was horrifying, it felt so real—all of it—Bob was there, as real as anything, he was his old self, whole and healthy again, but neither of us could do anything to help you—what could it possibly mean?!" I said, "Are you kidding?!? It's so obvious! It means I must never go to Como Zoo again!" Just kidding, peeps. I actually said, "Are you kidding?!? That monkey is grief, Jill! I've been trying so hard, without success, to come up with just the right metaphor, but you and your gibbon beat me to it . . ."

Grief is an ambushing gibbon (wouldn't that make a great bumper sticker?), impervious to anyone's efforts but the one going through it. No one can do this for me, not even Bob. It's my own journey and a tough one it is. But we can be here for each other, to help pick up the pieces, and continue on. I am so close to my family, and all adored Bob, became so intertwined with his ordeal, deeply affected by his illness and death, as well; but it's still astounding that they, too, would have such intense dreams relating to his ordeal. The interconnectedness of humankind is mind-boggling . . . well, that, and my sister is a natural born worrier, as natural to her as breathing. Believe it or not, she has an even worser case of worstcasescenarioitis than I do—in that respect, I'm not surprised she would have such a dream. She takes on the world's problems, adding them to the already heavy load she carries, feels very deeply for others' struggles . . . But I'm no dream analyst—maybe it meant something else entirely. Still, what an amazing analogy, regardless—that grief does appear so violent and dangerous at times, it feels like a vicious battering. By a gibbon. And how amazing that Jill's subconscious mind picked up on my grief so vividly and accurately, as well as the helplessness of loved ones surrounding the one grieving, too . . . grief is astoundingly universal, but we don't always know it, because it's often a hidden journey . . .

The monkey could also represent what those who practice mindfulness/medication call "monkey mind," referring to the incessant chattering, inattentive, overactive worrying, fretting, giving in to doubts and fears of our mind that we all engage in from time to time, but can be especially pronounced when processing a huge loss . . . the really funny thing about Jill's dream came about when I called my mom to tell her about it. She listened intently, astounded at Jill's perceptive story, as well. Later in the day, my mom called me back, and said, "Jen, when you told me about Jill's dream, I kept thinking, 'why does the word gibbon sound so familiar?' Later, it dawned on me—the doctor who delivered you was named Dr. Gibbon!" Seemingly random, but it could easily be entwined into the dream meaning, as well . . . the cool thing about dreams—so many facets, layers, symbolisms, one could spend days picking just one dream apart . . . of course, it doesn't help that I just spent the past week reading and analyzing a collection of short stories by Argentinean writer, Jorges Luis Borges, who delighted in concocting wildly bizarre labyrinth-ical stories that blurred fact with fantasy . . . holy hell, that's enough thinking for one day, and it's only 9 am. . .

Widow doesn't (w)rite

I'm thinking of changing the name of the blog, since it appears I don't write any more . . . that couldn't be further (farther? I think my first guess was right . . . MFA much, Jen?) from the truth, but y'all wouldn't know that, by the lack of entries lately (and by "y'all," I mean the three of you who are still following my diarrhea of the keyboard—Mom, Jill, and . . . who's that third one again . . .)? Believe it or not, school is kicking my butt—it's only one class, I'm not working (well, I do watch my awesome nephew, Otto, two full days a week, but can I call something that brings me pure joy work?!)—you'd think I'd still have monumental amounts of time on my hands to ramble along here, even with schoolwork. I do, but I don't. . .this whole grief thing is a pretty big deal, intensely personal, insanely life-altering, a full-time job, it feels like some days, a sacred journey, on others; as such, the intricacies of it difficult to share, especially when I am not even close to understanding the the whole big mess myself. It's been almost a year since my best friend was taken from me, but I still have much work to do. I am hopeful to one day be at a place where I'm not "living and reliving the past" but instead, "living with my past, moving forward;" I see little glimmers of this happening now and then, but it requires so much work, work that is all consuming and so often feels like it just doesn't fit into the context of the world as I once knew it. Just where I am on the F'N Journey as I so affectionately call this (F'NJ, for short . . .). As much as I long for the CliffNotes to grieving, there's no shortcut. I'm still not okay with any of this "reinventing." Not one bit. Right now, I'm still in the mindset of "I'm doing all this shit because I have to, not because I want to." But I'm also trying to be okay with that, too, respecting it as part of the F'NJ. I like to fool myself into thinking that by getting crazy out of the way in the beginning here, I'll spare myself from being taken out by it sometime down the road, unexpectedly . . . work with me here—just smile and nod, okay? Thanks.

In my writing class, I'm actually required to write things other than a blog—real stuff, that requires heavy editing, purposeful stuff, stuff with a point, with structure, meaning, use of real literary elements and all—a beginning, middle and end, even). Not only that, I am also required to read things other than grief self-help books. Holy hell, that's asking a lot of me, especially without that prescription for Ritalin. . . but I am excited to announce I got an A on my first big writing assignment, an assignment that threw me into such a tailspin, I nearly gave myself a heart attack over the whole ordeal, almost dropped the class entirely, I was so worked up over the thing. Overreacting, perhaps to some, but not in this world. Overreacting is still part of the full meal deal (which makes it easier to avoid most human contact, at this point . . .)

See, we have to read our pieces in class, after which we get to endure "constructive criticism" heaped upon us by the other class members. Can we say Firing Squad?! I ended up being 20 minutes late the night our first big assignment was due to hand it (which is highly unusual, since I've earned the reputation of uber-geek in class, arriving 20 minutes early, sit right in front, next to my professor). Turns out, we ran out of time, and I didn't have to read my piece that night; in fact, have yet to read my piece—I will finally get my turn this coming Monday. The big trigger is that I had this lofty aspiration of starting the "first chapter" of Bob's story in this class (which was my big ol' goal when I applied to Hamline—to eventually tell Bob's story—at least that's what I wrote on my application materials). What a great opportunity to start, here in this first class, I thought! Well, "thinking" and "doing" are two hugely different activities . . . I encounter that damn lesson every day, you'd think it would start to sink in by now. I'm a slow learner. . . halfway through, I panicked and decided I just can't share his story in public yet, to a room of young—20-something—strangers who are going to tear it apart. I'm already torn wide open . . . so, what do I do? I change my mind in the middle of the whole deal, and instead, start a whole new story—abou Gaia dying. And can we guess what happened? Ultimately ended up being a story about Bob, anyhow . . . which just goes to show me that still, everything in life, and I mean everything, is so tightly wrapped up with Bob, that I cannot extricate them, yet . . . I don't expect anyone to understand this, just sharing, for what it's worth. But, I got that "A," and even though my paper was so marked up by editorial comments by my prof, he ended it with the underlined words, "Powerful piece. You have talent." Thank God I waited till I was in my car before reading his comments because I started sobbing immediately . . .

Not to change subjects on you so quickly, but we're all used to this by now, right? I had a couple of deeply touching e-mail exchanges recently, first one from an old grade school teacher of Bob's (and by old, I don't mean OLD—this man is still teaching; I simply mean, from Bob's past!); this teacher wrote to tell me a story about a bench . . . a little over a year ago, at the benefit for Bob, there was a cute little wooden bench on the silent auction, made by Bob's dad. This teacher (I'm refraining from names, to protect the guilty!) was very interested in the bench, but because of his (and I quote), "dumb ass second guessing bidding techniques," he lost out on the bench. In his e-mail, he told me that he hadn't forgotten about the bench, or about Bob and me, and the closer we get to the anniversary of Bob's death, this teacher said he wanted to do something more than just think about it. So he asked Jim to make another bench for him. And this teacher had his 4th grade class finish the bench—sanded, stained, signed all their names on it, couple coats of protective finish—as they did, this teacher talked about Bob a little bit, to the kids, what he was like at their age as a student, said the stories probably meant more to him than they did to the kids, but who knows . . . he also added Bob's name, along with the other kids' names, on the bench, and the year 2011 . . . then, they offered the bench as a silent auction donation, a fundraiser for the school, ended up snagging something like $165 or so for the school . . . (The sign on the bench reads: Presented by Grade 4 with the generous talents of Jim Andrzejek.)

I told Penny and Jim about what this teacher and his class did with the bench, so they went to the auction to see it "in person," and were so touched by the act (Bob's name is in the upper left corner, next to the "Grade 4"). They've been in Montana for the past week, visiting Nancy, Brian, Claire and Grace, and Penny got the great idea to make another bench while they were out there, as a family project. Penny's initial idea was to paint it, then decorate it—maybe with everyone's handprints, maybe some flowers, or owls, along with the words "Uncle Bob's Bench". . . I got a text from her a few days ago, that they were heading out to get the supplies for the bench, and another just today, saying it's painted, but not yet decorated. I don't know how the finished project will turn out, but I'm looking forward to see what they come up with . . . which has me thinking, they could be onto something here, a line of memorial benches in Bob's honor, or for others' loved ones . . . but, I shouldn't prostitute Jim's time and talents, without running it by him first, so please don't bombard him with orders, just yet!

Second exchange was from a cousin of Bob's in Texas, Anne, who shares a deep connection with Bob, through her love of nature, wildflowers and photography, among other ways . . . I've never met Anne (but I hope to, some day!) and it's probably been decades since she and Bob spent time together, but she has been one of our most "vocal," (via e-mails and blog comments) and endearing supporters, and continues to be . . . she e-mailed me not long ago, asking for a digital photograph of Bob, because she's partaking in her local Relay for Life again; this year, they're doing a memory garden and she wants to honor Bob by including his picture in the garden. She's also photographing the event, because, in her words, "it is how I want to honor Bob, by using my talents with my camera." I first "met" Anne when I started the Sofa King blog over two years ago; she always has such wonderful, positive things to share; she sent Bob a beautiful self-published book of her wildflower photographs when he was in hospice; she often shares stories of her love of nature, about how Bob has been such an inspiration for her getting into photography, though "getting into" doesn't do her justice. She is and continues to grow as a gifted artist, and I have to share her website, www.anneelliottphotography, because I'm so blown away by her stunning work, and know Bob would be, too . . .

It moves me beyond words, to know that people carry Bob so close as these two do, two people who are virtual strangers to me. . . I know life moves on, people move on, it's how life works, but to get tangible little tidbits like this now and then is such a gift, it helps to underscore the impact my beautiful husband had on others, how his presence continues to reverberate within others . . . this is how he lives on . . .