Truth is, I had to put this blog aside to do what some people might call healing. Or grieving. Or processing. Or reinventing. Or hurtling backward. Or moving forward. Or lurching sideways. Or living again. All synonymous, perhaps, all still happening. And taking care of a few other events along the way, because, guess what? Life doesn't stop when another life stops. True story. (Oh, just you wait, you will hear a-plenty the personal hell of my house "issue," among other things, in time). Grief is a strange journey through a strange land, with a landscape shifting and changing so frequently, often violently and unexpectedly, it was all I could do to to grasp at, cling to, something, anything familiar, to stay afloat, much less write about it.
As time went on, I found myself sinking deeper and deeper into the grief, making (and still making) the journey rather uncomfortable to share so publicly. Last thing I wanted or needed was cheerleading! or judgement, or words of "encouragement," or "wisdom" or "advice," or anything, well meaning as it may have been. Guess that's just me. We are all on our own snowflake journey, no two ever alike . . . That, and I despise the word "widow." So much that I needed to find a new way to deal with this new role, stop trying to force it to fit me, like a shrunken, misshapen satin "dry clean only" dress pulled from a hot dryer (yes, by the way, that's one reason why Bob and I did our own laundry. Marriage Saving Tip #1: Do Your Own Laundry). A dress, a life, that used to be so beautiful . . . instead, I had to separate myself from the ugly label. Or maybe finally come to terms with it. Figure out a way to allow it to fit, as it is, seeing that it can be beautiful again, on another level, shrunken, misshapen and all. Or maybe I just need another glass of wine. . .
Let's be real. I am a widow. That is a huge truth in my life and there isn't anything I can do about it, no matter how I try. I know I am a helluva lot more than a label—aren't we all?—yet I also know that this label and all that is tied it it, is exactly what defines, directs and continues to shape my life going forward. At once profoundly heartbreaking and profoundly awe-some. I used to get angry as all get-out when I'd hear someone say, "Everything happens for a reason!" and/or "God never gives us any more than we can handle!" {insert nauseating smiley face emoticon here}. "NOOOOO!" I'd scream in response. "That means you honestly believe that there is a reason my beautiful, life-loving husband had to suffer tremendously—the likes of which most of us will never know—and i the end, die a horrific death? What kind of f'ed-up reason could be behind that?! Hey! Let's play a game called Turn The Table—how about YOUR husband (or wife, or kid, or mother, or best friend, or YOU) be given that same lot in life?! hmmm. funny how it's not so funny, or precious now, is it?! Let's get one thing straight—sometimes shit just happens, for no reason. And y'know what else?! Sometimes, oftentimes, people ARE handled more shit than they can handle! Happens all the time! Look at the news! Read the paper/internet! Talk to your co-worker, or neighbor, or daycare provider, or car wash attendant . . ." All of this—the good, the bad and the ugly {insert whistling here}—all part of The F'n Process, this insane Krazee Karnival Ryde of Lyfe. . .
Funny thing is, recently, I decided that I want to start writing about all this crap again. Life, with all its heartbreaking ways, can also be incredibly, astoundingly funny, charming, disgusting, alluring, shocking, amazing, gut-wrenching, terrifying, exhilarating. And so steeped in love. Often, all at the same time. . . at the risk of sounding like a nut, it's something I've known all along: there's a helluva lot of shit in life that we don't have any control over. At all. No amount of praying, believing, head-in-the-sanding we do, it's all pretty much out of control. Horrifying thought. But you know what is pretty cool? The fact that we can control our response to the out-of-control stuff. Trust me, it's pretty simple yet powerful. Trouble is, it doesn't always fit so neatly into conventional ways of living, believing, whatevering. So maybe that's been part of my own F'n Process, to come to accept this, fiercely embrace it, no matter what. I tell my mom, over and over again, I may as well get a tattoo of it: "It'll be just my luck that I live to be 95 years old. May as well figure out how to enjoy the ride. . . "
Funny thing is, recently, I decided that I want to start writing about all this crap again. Life, with all its heartbreaking ways, can also be incredibly, astoundingly funny, charming, disgusting, alluring, shocking, amazing, gut-wrenching, terrifying, exhilarating. And so steeped in love. Often, all at the same time. . . at the risk of sounding like a nut, it's something I've known all along: there's a helluva lot of shit in life that we don't have any control over. At all. No amount of praying, believing, head-in-the-sanding we do, it's all pretty much out of control. Horrifying thought. But you know what is pretty cool? The fact that we can control our response to the out-of-control stuff. Trust me, it's pretty simple yet powerful. Trouble is, it doesn't always fit so neatly into conventional ways of living, believing, whatevering. So maybe that's been part of my own F'n Process, to come to accept this, fiercely embrace it, no matter what. I tell my mom, over and over again, I may as well get a tattoo of it: "It'll be just my luck that I live to be 95 years old. May as well figure out how to enjoy the ride. . . "
Anyhow, the entry below was written many months ago ago, but I didn't post it. I'm pretty sure shortly after I wrote it, if I remember correctly (which could just as easily be incorrectly), I bailed on this blog and went deep underground with my writing/healing/grieving/processing/living. It made me smile tremendously as I rediscovered and reread it this morning, reliving this day, and the many days that have followed. Not all as fun, not all as memorable, but all part and necessary of The F'n Journey. Since today is the first day of September, such a gorgeous cool day, I'm suddenly in Fall Mode: sick of shaving my legs (and pits) and painting my toes to peek out of sandals, and tank tops and shorts, and sweating from every orifice, and running the AC for days on end—I am so ready for another phase. Sassy boots and jeans. Sweaters (light ones, just after sundown, right now!), windows open, cool night air billowing curtains. And because the entry below was kind of a "heralding moment," a turning point, on this journey of mine, I thought it'd be a good one to start with, even though it's "old news.")
January 6, 2013 Okay, I should clarify the heading for this entry: First of all, I know that "funnest" isn't a grammatically acceptable word (yet), okay?—I'm an MFA graduate student in Creative Writing, DUH!! But to clarify further: what I should say is that today was the "funnest day, ever, in the past three years of my life!" I can with all truthfulness say that not one whole day in the past three years can hold that title, not for the entire duration of the day. Oh, there have been moments, here and there—hours, even—even in the midst of great sadness, trauma, grief and horror of the past three years, that have been truly astounding to behold, but an entire day? Nope. Hasn't happened in three years . . . so why was today so different than any other? Well, let's back up and examine it, shall we ('cause I know y'all are just dying to find out . . . and so am I . . .)
So, this morning, I got up early for a lovely, invigorating Pilates class in St. Paul (I'm pretty sure, thanks to my very sporadic posts, that I haven't mentioned in any previous post that I will soon be starting the certification process to become a Pilates instructor—but that story will have to wait another couple months, till I have time/interest to write again . . . ). I was meeting a dear friend for breakfast afterward, but had nearly an hour to kill before we were to meet, so I buzzed up to Roseville and ran the Jeep through a do-it-yourself car wash, scrubbing and soaping and hosing off weeks upon weeks of salt and crud from the exterior till Bob's dark blue Jeep actually looked dark blue again, not grey . . . even taking time to vigorously dry off the doors, windows, mirrors, etc. to keep from freezing, I still ended up being early to the restaurant (another first, peeps! I'm never early for anything, a poor habit has gotten even worse in the past years, mainly due, I quite certain, to my serious aversion to being around most people for the past few years. Nothing personal, you have to understand, just kinda how it's been on this journey for me . . . ).
Okay, so anyhow, I met my friend at the Cheeky Monkey back in my old beloved Selby Ave. 'hood, where we partook (wait—is partook a word? hmmmm—spell-check isn't calling me on it, so yes. Yes, it must be.) of good grub (both of us were licking our plates clean at the end, it was that good—nothing like Eggs Benedict and a slab of hash browns to undo a good Pilates workout! But really, it all evens itself out, in my book . . . that's my rationale, anyhoodles), good conversation, lots of good laughs, but before I knew it, we were hugging our goodbyes in the parking lot, and I was off for home, to get Rocco on a walk before Jill and Amelia came over, as we had plans to head to Afton Alps to go tubing for the day, something none of us have ever done before! Yikes!
Let me first say this about tubing: if you've never done it before, get your ass out to Afton at least once this season, before winter is over! Holy cow, tubing ROX {insert arm pumping, air guitaring, whatevering here}! I have to admit, I didn't have that opinion when we arrived at Afton Alps, when Jill parked the car and we started toward the base of the tubing hill. In fact, as I shielded my eyes from the sun, gazing Heaven-ward in the direction of the top of the tubing hill, I suddenly felt a little queasy as I sharply recalled our sledding days back at Sibley Park in Mankato, where the long, steep ice-packed hillside was honest-to-God splattered in bloodstains from sledders colliding, cracking open heads like eggs, snapping limbs—possibly even losing a few here and there . . . and for once, I'm not exaggerating. True story. Ask anyone you know who has ever lived in Mankato and survived Satan's Tongue. (Okay, I did make that part up. As far as I know, no one called it Satan's Tongue. But it should have been called Satan's Tongue, because it was that evil. And because it sounds cool.)
Anyhoooooo (this story is getting to kinda be like that song, "this is the song that never ends, it just goes on and on my friend . . ." isnt' it? Just stay with me, folks—the end is in sight. Maybe.), we went into the little warming house at the base of the hill to get our passes for the day, hooked 'em to our zippers and then back outside to pick out our tubes. Big rubber inner tubes in our mitts, we began walking toward the hill, which is when my pulse really began racing. Beneath the many layers of winter wear I had on, I started sweating profusely, my heart was drumming in my chest, and my breathing had become shallow, bordering on hyperventilating. As I looked around, I watched people of all ages—kids even smaller than Amelia—tearing down the hill, at break-neck speed, all hootin' and hollerin' like crazy at the bottom! Smiling and laughing, even! And not one was wearing a helmet! Gulp! Well, it's gotta be safe then, right?
Amelia stopped in her tracks as we walked toward the conveyor belt that would bring us to the top of the hill—yes, I said conveyor belt. Because the hill is that high. Satan's Tongue didn't have a conveyor belt. Then again, Satan's Tongue was maybe a quarter the length of what we were about to ascend . . . "I'm scared, Mom!" Amelia's sweet little voice squeaked with fear. "I don't want to go!" Oh no! We've come this far! (50 yards from the car . . .) I had to be brave for my niece, and perked right up, "Don't be afraid, Amelia—look at all the little kids going up and down the hill! They're all smiling! They're having fun! And look! You and I can hook our tubes together and go down at the same time, like those people streaking by us just did! Won't that be fun? What do you mean you didn't see them, because they were going so fast?" We reached the conveyor belt, gingerly stepped onto the moving surface and began our ascent. I turned to again look at the long line of people forming behind us. No way we could turn back now. I looked down and gave Amelia a huge smile. She didn't smile back. I then looked at Jill, who was staring over Amelia's head at me with huge eyes, very distinctly mouthed the words, "What. The. F*ck. Are. We. Doing?!?" It didn't help our situation at all, to hear a man in line behind us say, "Why do I feel like we're a big heard of cattle, being lead to the slaughter house . . ."
"C'mon, you guys! This is gonna be fun!" I sang, my voice saturated with the most artificially-enhanced enthusiasm I could possibly muster. I might have sounded slightly insane. Jill rolled her eyes at me. Amelia stared straight ahead.
Slowly, we ambled our way to the top of the hill, carefully stepped off the conveyor lift and shuffled to our place in line behind other tubers. The tubes had long straps attached to them, so I looped Amelia's tube and mine together with the straps and we slowly made our way to the top of the hill. A young man with "STAFF" emblazoned on the back of his jacket pointed at us and said, "Are you two going down together?" Yes, sir, I said to this young man who could easily be my own son. "Well, just position your tubes at the edge here, and have a seat. I'll give you the signal when it's clear for you to go, okay?" Okay! I said with far more conviction than I felt, which was none, so we can only go UP from there, right? Umm. . . yeah. I couldn't stop the barrage of images assaulting my brain, all involving massive amounts of blood, all graphically portraying the potentially horrific ways we might die in the next 45 seconds. Amelia still wasn't smiling, while I was grinning like a homicidal maniac. We set our tubes down, parked our butts inside the round opening, our legs dangling over the edges. Amelia took an immediate death-grip to the handles on the tube and clamped her eyes shut tight.
All too soon, I heard the words, "Okay, ladies, your turn!"And the young man who could be my son waved his arm at us. Jill got behind us and pushed, as I used my hands and feet to drag ourselves along the snow-packed hillside closer to the edge. As we scraped ourselves closer and closer to the precipice, resistance suddenly gave way to the pull of gravity and we began to slide down the surface of the hillside, rapidly gaining speed by the second. My throat constricted so tight, I couldn't even squeak out a pathetic version of a scream, but Amelia took care of that—she was screaming loud and enough for the both of us. Surprisingly, I kept my eyes open the entire time as we whizzed down the hill, watching the smeared line of people slowly gliding up the hillside for their turn as they watched us sail by, not because I wanted to watch the scenery streak by—but because they were permanently blasted open by the g-force. I was terrified, I was certain all blood had rushed from my head, had pooled at the bottoms of my feet, and any second, I was going to pass out, my limp body catapulted from the tube, leaving poor Amelia to fend for herself on this Hill of Death. No, that can't happen! I screamed inside my brain. Or maybe I screamed it out loud—I have no clear recollection, but I did know that I had to be strong for Amelia—I had to remain conscious and survive this ride, for her, to save her, if need be!
Our tandem tubes at some point on our deathly descent somehow decided (seriously, are these things remotely controlled??!!) to rotate in their path as we sped down the hill, so for the last half of the ride we careened down the hill backward. If we were going to plow into the guard rail or into another unsuspecting tuber at the bottom of the hill, we wouldn't even know it, until impact . . . I don't know if it's good or bad to not see the pending crash occur . . . Amelia's piercing scream trailed behind us like a wind-carried scarf as we reached the bottom of the hill and plowed into the huge crash pads that lined the far edge of the tubing path. I sat in stunned silence, head in my hands breathing heavily, absorbing the peace and stillness around me that might easily be Heaven. Before I could speak, Amelia sprang from the tube, gave a couple of fist-pumps in the air and screamed, "That was awesome! Let's go again, Jen!" Shit. I sometimes hate this role of Awesome Aunt.
We did go again, and again and again, for nearly two hours straight. I can't say tubing won me over immediately, as it did Amelia. It took switching lanes—over an hour into our day—to the side of the sledding hill that was punctuated with deep, undulating peaks and valleys, that made me a complete convert, though not before Jill and I had a serious discussion with other veteran tubers, of the implications and ramifications of big dips versus flatter surfaces, projection vs. velocity (ummm, yea? Hell to the what??) And the conclusion: less dips=lightning bolt speed; more dips=serious air time (tubers become literally airborn as they and tube shoot over the dips in the run). I prefer the weightless airborn sensation to flat-out breakneck speed, I discovered. Spoken like a true tuber. Hang ten, dudes.
Finally, we broke for hot chocolate and vending machine brownies (yum! Not!) in the warming house, and before, Jill had to play bad cop and cut our tubing escapades just shy of our 2 hour pass, as Amelia was heading back to school the next morning, after the long holiday break. We ended up back at my house, where we made maple-syrup roasted Brussels sprouts with cashews and a killer salad of roasted squash with greens, dried cranberries, toasted pecans and a home-made citrus vinaigrette. Amelia took two bites of our gourmet dinner, wrinkled her nose and asked, "Jenny, can you make me some peanut butter and jelly toast the way you did last time I was here?" Anything for you, precious Defier of Death. . . I was sad to see Jill and Amelia finally head out, yet after our patented, 20 Minute Hildebrandt Good-bye™, my feel-good day continued until I brushed my teeth, donned my jammies and slid into bed. blisssssss. . .
So why is this day so remarkably different than any other? Since Bob's death, I've been a part of endless joyful events—countless music concerts, earning my motorcycle license, getting together with family and friends more now than (I think) ever, am in grad school and writing my heart out, teaching kettlebells—even went to the Caribbean with my youngest sister, Gretchen, over Thanksgiving. On the outside, one might believe that widowhood shit suits me quite well. Yes, all of those events had joyful moments, but are still, very heavily overshadowed by immense darkness and sadness. For a year and a half, most of what I've done is just going through the motions, hoping, hoping, hoping that some day, something will click, and I will be back to my "old self" again. But along with all of the above, has come tremendous work on my behalf. Oftentimes, begrudging work, frustrating work, disheartening work. Work that doesn't give me a 100% guarantee that when it's done, I'll be "all better." If that's not reason enough to quit, I don't know what is.
I have been taking part in some pretty unconventional therapy that I give enormous amounts of credit to, for creating this shift in my life. It's not your run-of-the-mill talk therapy, I'm not on medication (and I'm not knocking medication, either, just not the path I chose to take. As you raise the eyebrow at the three empty wine bottles in my recycling bin. From this week. And it's only Monday.). I began with the talk therapy route and am pretty sure I scared my first therapist shitless with the story I dumped on her. Very quickly, I learned that I can sit and talk till the end of time about what Bob went through, what I watched him go through, what I now have had to deal with, and never resolve anything to my satisfaction. "Giving it up to God" means nothing to me other than rolling over and playing helpless victim. God (if there is a god) doesn't want a bunch of victims in his/her/its flock. Trust me. God told me. Yup, me.
This day was freakin' awesome, because it is the first day, from the time I opened my eyes to the sun to when I slipped into bed at night, that I absolutely, genuinely felt pure joy in my life. Start to finish. A bizarre juxtaposition of tremendous sadness alongside tremendous joy was laced throughout the day, as well, and get this: I survived this surge of emotional overload! I was completely bowled over, that the two polarities could coexist peacefully, and reveled in the discovery. Yet, there was a sense in my very being, that this wouldn't be "the norm," that many difficult days may follow. Over and over and over again. But a settling in my cells, to know this, explicitly. That may be very difficult for some to believe, and even harder for lowly me to explain, for whatever reason and I get that. I don't expect anyone to "get" my journey, my experiences, or ever fully understand what I've gone through. Same as I would never believe I could possibly understand anyone else's earthly journey. For me, this didn't just "suddenly" happen with time, overnight, due to some kind of "miracle" or whatever. But it does start with an open heart.
On any other roll-of-the-dice day, the previous sentence, with a little revision, could also read, with adjustments: Today, I didn't get out of bed at all, didn't go anywhere, didn't do anything, can't stand the thought of seeing anyone today, cried for so long, I thought my eyeballs would shrivel up and fall out of my sockets like dried peas, went to the bathroom and back to bed and pulled the covers over my head till the next morning.
Okay, that was maybe a slight exaggeration, peeps. But not by much. Point being, I still wouldn't say I'm "getting better!" or that "things" are "getting better!" for me, mainly because that implies that simply by the passage of time, the pain of a great loss "gets better!" No. As a very astute aunt of mine (who had lost her own beloved Bob when he was in his 40s, over 20 years ago) told me at Bob's St. James memorial service, when I tearfully begged her to tell me that some day this will all get easier, "No, Jen, it never gets easier, you just somehow, miraculously, learn to live with the pain." My grief therapist said something incredibly profound to me during one of our sessions: that even if a person does nothing after a tremendous loss, they will still move forward with their life, more like dragged forward, like a pebble under a glacier. And at the pace of a glacier.
But as always (so comforting to know that some things will never change), I digress. Why today felt so different, I'm not sure. Maybe because I went AWOL on facebook a week or so ago, and now have an inordinate amount of free time?! Haha. Just kidding. Kind of. I mean, I wasn't joking about the f-book exodus—I did bow out quietly from that time-sucking social media vampire a short while back, which has resulted in a surprising cleansing feeling of its own. I honestly would not have been on it as long as I have been, had Bob not been so sick for as long as he was. For nearly two years, it was my only connection to the "outside" world, while we were living at the U during his tortuous treatments, and then in our isolated world of hospice. I stayed on after Bob's death, more so because it was (and more often than I care to admit, still is) easier to "connect" with people electronically, as most days, I couldn't stand the idea of being with people. Kinda comes with the Dee-Lux Grief Package. Which I didn't order, for the record. I wanted the Quickie Grief Deal, which must have been mixed up with someone else's order . . .
Anyhoo, I'm giving f-book more lip service than it deserves, and rambling on for more than I intended. I have an inkling, and even though I'm hesitant to say, I will. I do believe, at least part of me does, that my response for this day has been the result of a damn lot of work on my part. Therapy (for months, twice a week, now down to once), upon therapy upon therapy . . . and the resignation to keep trying, keep trying, keep trying, going through the motions, faking it till I was making it again, till something clicked, till I found something that resonated with my soul again. Even doing what I felt in my heart I have had to do, to go underground, to protect myself, and really dig in and process the events of my past three years. And being gratefully surrounding by a tremendous support system—my family, friends, lots of new ones also made along the way, that have had a tremendous job holding me up as I stumble forward. So, when I say that I had the funnest day ever, it's not just that I was doing fun things with fun people—it's that, for the first time in three years, I felt pure joy in my heart. All day. Like I used to when Bob was alive. From the moment my eyes opened this morning, and still going strong. The fruition of hard work. . .
January 6, 2013 Okay, I should clarify the heading for this entry: First of all, I know that "funnest" isn't a grammatically acceptable word (yet), okay?—I'm an MFA graduate student in Creative Writing, DUH!! But to clarify further: what I should say is that today was the "funnest day, ever, in the past three years of my life!" I can with all truthfulness say that not one whole day in the past three years can hold that title, not for the entire duration of the day. Oh, there have been moments, here and there—hours, even—even in the midst of great sadness, trauma, grief and horror of the past three years, that have been truly astounding to behold, but an entire day? Nope. Hasn't happened in three years . . . so why was today so different than any other? Well, let's back up and examine it, shall we ('cause I know y'all are just dying to find out . . . and so am I . . .)
So, this morning, I got up early for a lovely, invigorating Pilates class in St. Paul (I'm pretty sure, thanks to my very sporadic posts, that I haven't mentioned in any previous post that I will soon be starting the certification process to become a Pilates instructor—but that story will have to wait another couple months, till I have time/interest to write again . . . ). I was meeting a dear friend for breakfast afterward, but had nearly an hour to kill before we were to meet, so I buzzed up to Roseville and ran the Jeep through a do-it-yourself car wash, scrubbing and soaping and hosing off weeks upon weeks of salt and crud from the exterior till Bob's dark blue Jeep actually looked dark blue again, not grey . . . even taking time to vigorously dry off the doors, windows, mirrors, etc. to keep from freezing, I still ended up being early to the restaurant (another first, peeps! I'm never early for anything, a poor habit has gotten even worse in the past years, mainly due, I quite certain, to my serious aversion to being around most people for the past few years. Nothing personal, you have to understand, just kinda how it's been on this journey for me . . . ).
Okay, so anyhow, I met my friend at the Cheeky Monkey back in my old beloved Selby Ave. 'hood, where we partook (wait—is partook a word? hmmmm—spell-check isn't calling me on it, so yes. Yes, it must be.) of good grub (both of us were licking our plates clean at the end, it was that good—nothing like Eggs Benedict and a slab of hash browns to undo a good Pilates workout! But really, it all evens itself out, in my book . . . that's my rationale, anyhoodles), good conversation, lots of good laughs, but before I knew it, we were hugging our goodbyes in the parking lot, and I was off for home, to get Rocco on a walk before Jill and Amelia came over, as we had plans to head to Afton Alps to go tubing for the day, something none of us have ever done before! Yikes!
Let me first say this about tubing: if you've never done it before, get your ass out to Afton at least once this season, before winter is over! Holy cow, tubing ROX {insert arm pumping, air guitaring, whatevering here}! I have to admit, I didn't have that opinion when we arrived at Afton Alps, when Jill parked the car and we started toward the base of the tubing hill. In fact, as I shielded my eyes from the sun, gazing Heaven-ward in the direction of the top of the tubing hill, I suddenly felt a little queasy as I sharply recalled our sledding days back at Sibley Park in Mankato, where the long, steep ice-packed hillside was honest-to-God splattered in bloodstains from sledders colliding, cracking open heads like eggs, snapping limbs—possibly even losing a few here and there . . . and for once, I'm not exaggerating. True story. Ask anyone you know who has ever lived in Mankato and survived Satan's Tongue. (Okay, I did make that part up. As far as I know, no one called it Satan's Tongue. But it should have been called Satan's Tongue, because it was that evil. And because it sounds cool.)
Anyhoooooo (this story is getting to kinda be like that song, "this is the song that never ends, it just goes on and on my friend . . ." isnt' it? Just stay with me, folks—the end is in sight. Maybe.), we went into the little warming house at the base of the hill to get our passes for the day, hooked 'em to our zippers and then back outside to pick out our tubes. Big rubber inner tubes in our mitts, we began walking toward the hill, which is when my pulse really began racing. Beneath the many layers of winter wear I had on, I started sweating profusely, my heart was drumming in my chest, and my breathing had become shallow, bordering on hyperventilating. As I looked around, I watched people of all ages—kids even smaller than Amelia—tearing down the hill, at break-neck speed, all hootin' and hollerin' like crazy at the bottom! Smiling and laughing, even! And not one was wearing a helmet! Gulp! Well, it's gotta be safe then, right?
Amelia stopped in her tracks as we walked toward the conveyor belt that would bring us to the top of the hill—yes, I said conveyor belt. Because the hill is that high. Satan's Tongue didn't have a conveyor belt. Then again, Satan's Tongue was maybe a quarter the length of what we were about to ascend . . . "I'm scared, Mom!" Amelia's sweet little voice squeaked with fear. "I don't want to go!" Oh no! We've come this far! (50 yards from the car . . .) I had to be brave for my niece, and perked right up, "Don't be afraid, Amelia—look at all the little kids going up and down the hill! They're all smiling! They're having fun! And look! You and I can hook our tubes together and go down at the same time, like those people streaking by us just did! Won't that be fun? What do you mean you didn't see them, because they were going so fast?" We reached the conveyor belt, gingerly stepped onto the moving surface and began our ascent. I turned to again look at the long line of people forming behind us. No way we could turn back now. I looked down and gave Amelia a huge smile. She didn't smile back. I then looked at Jill, who was staring over Amelia's head at me with huge eyes, very distinctly mouthed the words, "What. The. F*ck. Are. We. Doing?!?" It didn't help our situation at all, to hear a man in line behind us say, "Why do I feel like we're a big heard of cattle, being lead to the slaughter house . . ."
"C'mon, you guys! This is gonna be fun!" I sang, my voice saturated with the most artificially-enhanced enthusiasm I could possibly muster. I might have sounded slightly insane. Jill rolled her eyes at me. Amelia stared straight ahead.
Slowly, we ambled our way to the top of the hill, carefully stepped off the conveyor lift and shuffled to our place in line behind other tubers. The tubes had long straps attached to them, so I looped Amelia's tube and mine together with the straps and we slowly made our way to the top of the hill. A young man with "STAFF" emblazoned on the back of his jacket pointed at us and said, "Are you two going down together?" Yes, sir, I said to this young man who could easily be my own son. "Well, just position your tubes at the edge here, and have a seat. I'll give you the signal when it's clear for you to go, okay?" Okay! I said with far more conviction than I felt, which was none, so we can only go UP from there, right? Umm. . . yeah. I couldn't stop the barrage of images assaulting my brain, all involving massive amounts of blood, all graphically portraying the potentially horrific ways we might die in the next 45 seconds. Amelia still wasn't smiling, while I was grinning like a homicidal maniac. We set our tubes down, parked our butts inside the round opening, our legs dangling over the edges. Amelia took an immediate death-grip to the handles on the tube and clamped her eyes shut tight.
All too soon, I heard the words, "Okay, ladies, your turn!"And the young man who could be my son waved his arm at us. Jill got behind us and pushed, as I used my hands and feet to drag ourselves along the snow-packed hillside closer to the edge. As we scraped ourselves closer and closer to the precipice, resistance suddenly gave way to the pull of gravity and we began to slide down the surface of the hillside, rapidly gaining speed by the second. My throat constricted so tight, I couldn't even squeak out a pathetic version of a scream, but Amelia took care of that—she was screaming loud and enough for the both of us. Surprisingly, I kept my eyes open the entire time as we whizzed down the hill, watching the smeared line of people slowly gliding up the hillside for their turn as they watched us sail by, not because I wanted to watch the scenery streak by—but because they were permanently blasted open by the g-force. I was terrified, I was certain all blood had rushed from my head, had pooled at the bottoms of my feet, and any second, I was going to pass out, my limp body catapulted from the tube, leaving poor Amelia to fend for herself on this Hill of Death. No, that can't happen! I screamed inside my brain. Or maybe I screamed it out loud—I have no clear recollection, but I did know that I had to be strong for Amelia—I had to remain conscious and survive this ride, for her, to save her, if need be!Our tandem tubes at some point on our deathly descent somehow decided (seriously, are these things remotely controlled??!!) to rotate in their path as we sped down the hill, so for the last half of the ride we careened down the hill backward. If we were going to plow into the guard rail or into another unsuspecting tuber at the bottom of the hill, we wouldn't even know it, until impact . . . I don't know if it's good or bad to not see the pending crash occur . . . Amelia's piercing scream trailed behind us like a wind-carried scarf as we reached the bottom of the hill and plowed into the huge crash pads that lined the far edge of the tubing path. I sat in stunned silence, head in my hands breathing heavily, absorbing the peace and stillness around me that might easily be Heaven. Before I could speak, Amelia sprang from the tube, gave a couple of fist-pumps in the air and screamed, "That was awesome! Let's go again, Jen!" Shit. I sometimes hate this role of Awesome Aunt.
We did go again, and again and again, for nearly two hours straight. I can't say tubing won me over immediately, as it did Amelia. It took switching lanes—over an hour into our day—to the side of the sledding hill that was punctuated with deep, undulating peaks and valleys, that made me a complete convert, though not before Jill and I had a serious discussion with other veteran tubers, of the implications and ramifications of big dips versus flatter surfaces, projection vs. velocity (ummm, yea? Hell to the what??) And the conclusion: less dips=lightning bolt speed; more dips=serious air time (tubers become literally airborn as they and tube shoot over the dips in the run). I prefer the weightless airborn sensation to flat-out breakneck speed, I discovered. Spoken like a true tuber. Hang ten, dudes.
Finally, we broke for hot chocolate and vending machine brownies (yum! Not!) in the warming house, and before, Jill had to play bad cop and cut our tubing escapades just shy of our 2 hour pass, as Amelia was heading back to school the next morning, after the long holiday break. We ended up back at my house, where we made maple-syrup roasted Brussels sprouts with cashews and a killer salad of roasted squash with greens, dried cranberries, toasted pecans and a home-made citrus vinaigrette. Amelia took two bites of our gourmet dinner, wrinkled her nose and asked, "Jenny, can you make me some peanut butter and jelly toast the way you did last time I was here?" Anything for you, precious Defier of Death. . . I was sad to see Jill and Amelia finally head out, yet after our patented, 20 Minute Hildebrandt Good-bye™, my feel-good day continued until I brushed my teeth, donned my jammies and slid into bed. blisssssss. . .
So why is this day so remarkably different than any other? Since Bob's death, I've been a part of endless joyful events—countless music concerts, earning my motorcycle license, getting together with family and friends more now than (I think) ever, am in grad school and writing my heart out, teaching kettlebells—even went to the Caribbean with my youngest sister, Gretchen, over Thanksgiving. On the outside, one might believe that widowhood shit suits me quite well. Yes, all of those events had joyful moments, but are still, very heavily overshadowed by immense darkness and sadness. For a year and a half, most of what I've done is just going through the motions, hoping, hoping, hoping that some day, something will click, and I will be back to my "old self" again. But along with all of the above, has come tremendous work on my behalf. Oftentimes, begrudging work, frustrating work, disheartening work. Work that doesn't give me a 100% guarantee that when it's done, I'll be "all better." If that's not reason enough to quit, I don't know what is.
I have been taking part in some pretty unconventional therapy that I give enormous amounts of credit to, for creating this shift in my life. It's not your run-of-the-mill talk therapy, I'm not on medication (and I'm not knocking medication, either, just not the path I chose to take. As you raise the eyebrow at the three empty wine bottles in my recycling bin. From this week. And it's only Monday.). I began with the talk therapy route and am pretty sure I scared my first therapist shitless with the story I dumped on her. Very quickly, I learned that I can sit and talk till the end of time about what Bob went through, what I watched him go through, what I now have had to deal with, and never resolve anything to my satisfaction. "Giving it up to God" means nothing to me other than rolling over and playing helpless victim. God (if there is a god) doesn't want a bunch of victims in his/her/its flock. Trust me. God told me. Yup, me.
This day was freakin' awesome, because it is the first day, from the time I opened my eyes to the sun to when I slipped into bed at night, that I absolutely, genuinely felt pure joy in my life. Start to finish. A bizarre juxtaposition of tremendous sadness alongside tremendous joy was laced throughout the day, as well, and get this: I survived this surge of emotional overload! I was completely bowled over, that the two polarities could coexist peacefully, and reveled in the discovery. Yet, there was a sense in my very being, that this wouldn't be "the norm," that many difficult days may follow. Over and over and over again. But a settling in my cells, to know this, explicitly. That may be very difficult for some to believe, and even harder for lowly me to explain, for whatever reason and I get that. I don't expect anyone to "get" my journey, my experiences, or ever fully understand what I've gone through. Same as I would never believe I could possibly understand anyone else's earthly journey. For me, this didn't just "suddenly" happen with time, overnight, due to some kind of "miracle" or whatever. But it does start with an open heart.
On any other roll-of-the-dice day, the previous sentence, with a little revision, could also read, with adjustments: Today, I didn't get out of bed at all, didn't go anywhere, didn't do anything, can't stand the thought of seeing anyone today, cried for so long, I thought my eyeballs would shrivel up and fall out of my sockets like dried peas, went to the bathroom and back to bed and pulled the covers over my head till the next morning.
Okay, that was maybe a slight exaggeration, peeps. But not by much. Point being, I still wouldn't say I'm "getting better!" or that "things" are "getting better!" for me, mainly because that implies that simply by the passage of time, the pain of a great loss "gets better!" No. As a very astute aunt of mine (who had lost her own beloved Bob when he was in his 40s, over 20 years ago) told me at Bob's St. James memorial service, when I tearfully begged her to tell me that some day this will all get easier, "No, Jen, it never gets easier, you just somehow, miraculously, learn to live with the pain." My grief therapist said something incredibly profound to me during one of our sessions: that even if a person does nothing after a tremendous loss, they will still move forward with their life, more like dragged forward, like a pebble under a glacier. And at the pace of a glacier.
But as always (so comforting to know that some things will never change), I digress. Why today felt so different, I'm not sure. Maybe because I went AWOL on facebook a week or so ago, and now have an inordinate amount of free time?! Haha. Just kidding. Kind of. I mean, I wasn't joking about the f-book exodus—I did bow out quietly from that time-sucking social media vampire a short while back, which has resulted in a surprising cleansing feeling of its own. I honestly would not have been on it as long as I have been, had Bob not been so sick for as long as he was. For nearly two years, it was my only connection to the "outside" world, while we were living at the U during his tortuous treatments, and then in our isolated world of hospice. I stayed on after Bob's death, more so because it was (and more often than I care to admit, still is) easier to "connect" with people electronically, as most days, I couldn't stand the idea of being with people. Kinda comes with the Dee-Lux Grief Package. Which I didn't order, for the record. I wanted the Quickie Grief Deal, which must have been mixed up with someone else's order . . .
Anyhoo, I'm giving f-book more lip service than it deserves, and rambling on for more than I intended. I have an inkling, and even though I'm hesitant to say, I will. I do believe, at least part of me does, that my response for this day has been the result of a damn lot of work on my part. Therapy (for months, twice a week, now down to once), upon therapy upon therapy . . . and the resignation to keep trying, keep trying, keep trying, going through the motions, faking it till I was making it again, till something clicked, till I found something that resonated with my soul again. Even doing what I felt in my heart I have had to do, to go underground, to protect myself, and really dig in and process the events of my past three years. And being gratefully surrounding by a tremendous support system—my family, friends, lots of new ones also made along the way, that have had a tremendous job holding me up as I stumble forward. So, when I say that I had the funnest day ever, it's not just that I was doing fun things with fun people—it's that, for the first time in three years, I felt pure joy in my heart. All day. Like I used to when Bob was alive. From the moment my eyes opened this morning, and still going strong. The fruition of hard work. . .
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