The Really Last Christmas

My mother's first brush with death was almost exactly 11 years ago, when she was hospitalized in critical condition.  After that, she'd proclaim each impending birthday or Christmas her last. On the day after, snarkasaurus that I am, I would point out that she was still among the living. Then she obsessed about particular days or birthday, like the year she turned 67, which was her father's age when he died. She even started giving away family heirlooms to us. She was so sure that she'd die on that birthday that she seemed almost disappointed when she didn't. Of course, 2011 was, once again, the Last Christmas. This time, she was right. It wasn't only her last Christmas, but Bunny's, as well.

Of course, Bunny had reason to announce that 2011 would be his last Christmas. His oncologist had told us as much. Still, having been conditioned by my mother, I held out hope that maybe the doctors were wrong: maybe he could squeak by with just one more. But since it was most likely his last Christmas, I said I'd go anywhere he wanted. He picked Louisiana. I don't really know why he was so set on going there, other than to see family and friends one last time. The last Christmas we'd celebrated in Louisiana was when Joey was about eight. But going there was only part of the plan--he also wanted Joey, Corey, the kids and me to pile into a rented RV and DRIVE there. I told him I'd sooner slit my throat on the spot, and promptly booked airline tickets. Once we landed we'd have a nice minivan rented to tool around in. He was happy with that solution.

At the beginning of December, his health started declining. He was in the hospital three times before Christmas, coming out each time resolved to continue with his plans. Finally, his doctors started to discourage the plan, and after hospitalization #3, I did, as well. Even so, we had a nice Christmas with our immediate family--the noisy bunch that was initally supposed to have made a 12 hour drive together. I cooked his favorite holiday foods and did everything I could to make it as nice as I could. We enjoyed being together and playing with the kids. I thought it had been a good alternate Christmas.

My sister Julie came the next day to visit for a few days. Almost as soon as she arrived, I came down with a wicked stomach virus. I shut myself (head pounding and stomach churning) in the bedroom to try to recover. Just as I was about to drift off to sleep, I overheard Bunny telling Julie that it had been the worst Christmas ever. I was so angry and hurt, but also too ill to address his comment at the time. I never got the chance to, because by the time I was well, he was admitted to the hospital for the last time.

My mother was a crier. Happy occasions or sad, she'd cry. We all used to tease her about one particular outburst over a Hallmark commercial. We also had side bets going on whether she'd cry at my sister Jan's wedding. Jan was her baby, and she's similar to Mama in the crying department. I'm just the opposite: I hate to cry. My maternal grandmother was that way, as well. To us, crying was just so...messy. Unseemly. Weak. Even as a child, I was loathe to cry. During some family disaster I've long since fogotten, I once overheard Mama tell someone that we would all hold up unless I cried. "If Liz cries, we're done, for sure." She knew how much I hated to cry.

When Julie returned to Louisiana, it fell to her to break the news that Bunny's death was imminent. I couldn't

call her with that kind of news, because I knew I wouldn't be able to control my emotions, and I was certain she couldn't control hers. The day before he died was a Saturday. I always talked to Mama on Saturdays, but I told Julie and Todd (my brother-in-law) that I couldn't talk to Mama until she had cried it all out. They were going to keep her away from the phone until she was in a suitable state, then she would call me.

My cell phone rang during the mid-afternoon, and her name was on the caller ID. It had been several hours since she'd gotten the news, so I figured she'd passed the crying screen. In reality, she'd given Julie and Tood the slip and called without them knowing it.

"How are you doing?" she asked, voice even and calm.

"I'm okay," I lied. I had managed to hold myself together all day up to that point.

"No you're not!!!" she wailed. Then she was off to the races: she wanted to be with me, needed to be with me and she couldn't. Of course I understood, knowing the precarious state of her health. Nothing I said could calm her or ease the anguish in her voice. By the time I hung up, I was a sobbing, hot mess. Fortunately, Joey walked in just then and I fell into his arms, a soggy heap of his former Supermom.

I knew exactly how my mother felt--the need to be with a child who is suffering a loss is all-consuming. Three years ago, Joey and Corey lost a baby at birth--Peyton Skye--and as soon as he called to tell me, my first instinct was to get to him as quickly as I could. I felt sadness not just for myself, but for Joey and Corey and Trinity, who was so excited about getting a little sister. My heart broke in ways I had never before thought possible. Now here was my mother, feeling the same instincts and feelings I had felt, but powerless to act upon them.

Bunny died on New Year's night, which was a Sunday. My mother entered the hospital for her last time that Thursday. No one thought anything particularly alarming at the time, because she usually went into the hospital at least once during the winter. This time, though, she couldn't bounce back.

Now the fresh scars on my heart from Bunny's loss have been ripped open and torn in new directions. The sense of loss I feel is nearly overwhelming at times. My sadness is like a bottomless well. The title of an old Cyndi Lauper song describes my feelings right now pretty succinctly: There's a Hole in My Heart That Goes all the Way to China.

When it Rains, it Pours

Tomorrow will mark the 28th day since Bunny died.  Today, I held my mother's hand as she slipped away from this earth.  A more paranoid person might think there was a cloud over her head, or question why her loved ones keep dying.  I'm more pragmatic: my husband and my mother were both chronically ill, and either of them could have gone at any time.  Really, any of us could go at any time.

I've always tried to make sense of loss, but especially since Bunny found out he had cancer.  Bunny didn't really take good care of himself up to that point--he was very overweight, had high blood pressure and didn't exercise.   He could have taken better care of himself once he got diagnosed, but didn't.  My mom's situation was similar.  She got extremely ill--near death--10 years ago.  Once she recovered, she could have taken better care of herself, but didn't.  Would it have made a difference in either of their cases if they had changed their ways?  Maybe.  But I think not.  I have a cousin who likes to say that none of us has an expiration date stamped on the bottom of his or her foot.  I've come to believe that when a person's time is up, it's up.  Period.

That point was driven home to me over and over again and I helped Bunny with his fight.  During those almost three years, young, healthy people made the news constantly, dying in plane crashes or skiing or just--quite literally--dropping dead.  In one heartbreaking circumstance, a good friend of mine suddenly became widowed when her husband was hit by a glider when he was jogging on a beach.   He was only in his mid-thirties.  Deaths like his are the ones I have a harder time accepting and understanding.  Here was a guy who took excellent care of himself and he was gone in the blink of an eye while taking care of himself.  How does that make sense?

The short answer is, it doesn't.  Maybe it's not meant to.  Who knows, except God?  The fact is, we've all got to go at some point.  While we're here, we should treasure our loved ones, be kind to others, and try to be the best people we can be.

You Can't Take it With You

While Bunny and I were on the same page in most areas, money wasn't one of them.  He'd grown up an only child of indulgent parents, and thought nothing of fearless spending.   My parents weren't poor, but they weren't wealthy, either.  We had the things we needed, but luxuries were few and far between.  Plus, my depression-era grandparents (on my dad's side) instilled in us the idea that frugality was one of the best virtues one could have.  That, and if you don't want to lose all your money when the bank fails, keep a healthy supply in the deep freezer.  I ignored the second part--besides, I don't own a deep freezer.  Shocking, I know!  But the first--frugality--that stuck with me to this day.  I can pinch a penny until Mr. Lincoln screams.  It was a skill that came in especially handy during the lean times.   

My maternal grandmother had been raised in a very wealthy family, but by the time she married, the money was all gone.  Her family must not have had a deep freezer, either.  However, while she lacked monetary wealth, she was an expert in manners, etiquette and social graces.  We dreaded dinners at her house, because she constantly corrected us during the meals.  One of us ate "like a truck driver."  Another couldn't keep her elbows off the table.  Nowadays, we're thankful for those lessons--no Pretty Woman fork moments--but they didn't seem worth the hassle at the time.    

Aside from table manners, she coached us in every other area where she could see room for improvement.  Our "simply awful" Cajun pronunciations were a frequent area for critiques.  One weekend when she stayed with us while our mother was away, I asked if we could go to the THEE-ay-ter.  If I'd whacked her with a hammer, I don't think I'd have gotten as pained a response.  We were taught that polite conversation did not include religion, politics, or money.  One certainly did not discuss how much one made or spent.

Bunny did not grow up with all the guidelines we did.  I gave up trying to teach him table manners after the first year.  The most I could get him to do was put his napkin in his lap.  He would blurt out his salary, how much he paid for anything, his credit score--any financial information was fair game.  I hold my financial information very close to the vest--it's probably one of the very few things I don't talk about.  A few years ago, I interviewed for a job where the employer insisted that all potential hires fill out a credit-check authorization.  I instinctively balked at this requirement, and told him if my credit-worthiness was good enough for the Florida Bar, it was good enough for anyone.

He couldn't convince me otherwise, and noted that of the three people who'd ever refused, all were women.  I told him it was probably because women were more careful with their private information, and thanked him for his time.  I did wonder why none of the men would have refused this invasion of privacy.  I knew Bunny wouldn't have hesitated, so I asked him why it wouldn't have bothered him.  To him, and probably to most men, the credit score was a mark of success--a bragging right.  Kind of like other <ahem> measurements guys like to compare. 

One of Bunny's hobbies was investing-stocks, mutual funds, etc., telling anyone who'd listen how much he'd made or lost along the way.  He made enough money between investments and his various jobs that I wasn't able to curtail his spending.  "It's only money!" he'd say.   He never went without whatever he wanted, while I stuck to my save up/do without/plot and plan approach.  One of the most spectacular clashes of our money philosophies came during our second trip to Vegas, where he liked to go for his birthday.  We were both out of school, each earning a good living, and had booked a room at The Paris for a week.   It was a big step up from the hotel where we'd first stayed (The Excalibur--avoid it if at all possible), and was more than I had, to that point, ever paid for a hotel room.  

We checked in and went up to the room, swung open the door, and walked into a suite!  I was astonished as he told me how he'd upgraded without my knowing it.  My first thought was panic--how much would this cost?  When he told me, I burst into tears.   "It's only money!" he said for the millionth time.  He got upset with me because I was ruining his birthday.  Note--my birthday was exactly 10 days later, and it was a joint birthday trip.  Anyway, I calmed down, enjoyed the suite, and didn't go hungry paying for it.

About a year ago, when it was no longer a question of if but when the cancer would do him in, I asked him if there was anything he wanted to do that he already hadn't.  I knew there would come a point where he would no longer be able to travel, and wanted to make sure that he had no regrets about not having done something.  His being diagnosed with cancer was finally the thing that convinced me that it was "only money."  If he'd said he wanted to charter a rocket to the moon, I'd have agreed without hesitation.  But It took him no time at all to answer: he'd done everything he'd wanted to do, and had everything he'd wanted to have.

So, oddly enough, his cancer brought about a change in my money philosophy.  Now, if I really want something and I can afford it, I buy it.  Most of the time. 

Cleaning House

It's been three weeks since Bunny died.  If there's anything good about dying on New Year's Day, it's that it makes it easy for your survivors to mark the passage of time.  I've very slowly been cleaning out some of the clutter that he collected over the last 25 years.  I say slowly, because there's SO MUCH of it!  Let's just say, Bunny had some hoarding tendencies--which is like saying a woman is a little bit pregnant.  He called it "collecting," which, if you've ever seen the show Hoarders, is what all the hoarders call it.  We tried to watch Hoarders once, but it hit just a little too close to home. 

He made stacks of magazines and books, receipts, notes and messages, business cards--you name it, he saved it and put it in a pile.  He never threw anything away.  If he took up a hobby, like chess or poker, he bought every single book, VHS tape, DVD, and software program on the subject he could find.   He bought clothes at least once a month.  Shoes, not so much.   Medicines, herbal remedies and vitamins were another favorite.  And shampoo, of all things!  Every time he went to Big Lots (his favorite store), he'd come back with shampoo, no matter how many times I told him we had too much already.

Living with him was the polar opposite from living in my mother's home--she threw everything away. The only things she held onto were photographs and some handmade cards that my sisters and I gave her when we were little.   In Mama's house, if it wasn't put away, it was thrown away.  Over the years, we lost Christmas checks, her newly renewed nursing license, and countless other important pieces of paper to her tidiness whirlwinds.  Occasionally, she'd venture into the attic and clean it out, too, so it wasn't safe to hide anything there.  My band-geek sister, Julie, learned that the hard way.  Before she moved away from home, she stored all the band trophies she'd collected over the years (elementary, middle, and high school, then college) in the attic.  One day, visiting from wherever her husband was stationed at the time, she went to the attic to visit her trophies.  Cue the suspense music: duhn--duhn--duhn!  Our mother had thrown the entire collection away!

At first, living with Bunny was a nice change from the way I'd grown up.  Then the stacks started growing.  If I threw things away, he'd get agitated.  If I reorganized a cabinet or drawer to make space, he'd quickly fill it.  Even when he was in the hospital, he managed to hoard things.  One day I wasn't happy with the way the foot of his bed looked (all that bed making practice in nursing school apparently never leaves), so I started straightening it and making sure his feet were properly covered.  The reason the sheets weren't lying flat?  He'd taken the cloth napkins off each of his food trays and squirreled them away under his covers.  I was appalled, and blurted out, "You're hoarding napkins??!!??"  He laughed and responded, "No.  I'm collecting them."

I grew tired of all the "collecting," and every time we moved was traumatic, because we had to expend a lot of effort deciding what parts of the "collections" he could live without.  In the meantime, when I'd undertake a clean-up, he'd refer to me as Sarita--my mother.  Then we'd laugh at his lame attempt to make me angry by comparing me to my mother.  I even reported to her from time to time when I was having a "Sarita day."

The house I live in now has four bedrooms, and we moved into it 10 years ago.  Since we don't have that many guests, we designated one bedroom the guest room, and each of us took a bedroom to turn into an office.  Mine is cluttered many times, but it's well organized and I can have everything put away in no time.  His is...breathtaking, and not in a good way.  I'd post a picture, but it's too embarrassing.  I've cleaned it out several times over the years, which was always an exhausting effort.  Until last week, I hadn't set foot in there for the last year, because I have really bad claustrophobia, and it's packed with books, computers, papers, and everything else you can imagine.  A few years ago, I had finally gotten him to agree to make his stacks in his office, rather than in the common areas, so I wasn't exposed to the collections on a daily basis. 

But slowly, about a week after he died, I started cleaning out his various collections from his various hiding places.  I've combed through countless old notes, cards, receipts and lottery tickets.  I've bagged up one closet and one tallboy dresser full of clothes.  I literally have a car full of clothes to donate to Metropolitan Ministries, most of them with the price tags still attached.  That first batch is just the tip of the iceberg, but it's a start.  I've also boxed up shampoo and other grooming collections.  But as relieved as I feel when I gain additional the additional space, I also feel somewhat remorseful.  It's almost like I'm erasing him from the house, one piece of clutter at a time.  I now have boucoup room for my stuff in the master bath--which is something I've always wanted--but it doesn't give me the satisfaction I always imagined it would. 

Joey and Corey were going to come over today to help me get Bunny's office cleaned out, but I decided to postpone that venture for awhile.  It's the only room left in the house that hasn't been touched, where his presence hasn't been erased.  It's also the room that was uniquely his.  For now, I'll just leave the door ajar--the cats (particularly Sierra, who long ago appointed herself the Office Cat), like to go in there from time to time.  One day we'll get it cleaned out and redecorated and I'll turn it into my new office.

Rainy Days and Mondays

Even on my best pre-WiDeaux days, rain almost always left me feeling down.  Today was no exception.   It's finally (17 days along) starting to sink in: he's never coming back.  Ever.  What took me so long?  It's odd--it's not that I didn't know, from the start, that he wasn't coming back.  But knowing it and feeling it are two different things.  Maybe the shock of the whole ordeal is just now starting to wear off, or maybe I'm operating on a different plane of consciousness, or maybe it's the ginko biloba.  Whatever the reason, I'm starting to really feel the loss.

Fear not!  I'm not going to turn him into Saint Bunny now.  He liked to say, with great pride, that he could make me angrier than anyone else on the planet.  It was true--he could.  And did.  A lot.  We both knew each other so well that we knew where each other's vulnerabilities--or hot buttons--were.   On the plus side, we could say more to each other with a glance than most people can say with paragraphs.  We could often finish each other's sentences, and could sometimes actually read each other's thoughts.  We had our own silly words for things--like if I was going to the store and he asked me to get some pinks, I knew he meant Sweet 'N Low.  Back then, the only widows in the house were at laundry time--that's what we called socks who'd lost their mates.  I have a habit of being unable to remember the proper names for TV shows, but if I asked if Crow was on, he knew I meant Antiques Roadshow.

We bickered incessantly, mostly at his instigation, but it was almost always good-natured and left us laughing 9 times out of 10.  One of the perrenial bickering topics was which of us was more intelligent.  We tested each other's IQ in every conceivable way.  What can I say?  That's what nerds bicker about.  In truth, we were pretty evenly matched, with some areas of shared strength (history, entertainment, science) and other areas where one was clearly the dominator (his--space travel, sports, geography; mine--literature, art, foreign phrases).  Of course, we played many games of Jeopardy and Trivial Pursuit.  Individually, we were formidable, but together, we were virtually unbeatable.  One group of friends went so far as to ban us from being on the same team. 

He didn't have the best fashion sense, but I always asked him how my outfits looked before I left home.  That's because I knew he would be brutally--and I do mean brutally--honest.  Once, a waxer got overzealous with me, confusing my request to give me a natural look with a desire to look like Joan Crawford--high, pencil-thin arches.  I hoped it didn't look as bad as I thought, so when I got home, I asked him if he noticed anything different.

He studied my face for a minute, then proclaimed, "You look...clownish!" Needless to say, that was the wrong thing to say.  But it was classic Bunny--totally unvarnished.  Now I won't have those brutal assessments, and I'll miss them.  I miss the stupid little things like that.  He was my sounding board, too--many times he played juror as I got cases ready for trial.  He also gave me the male perspective on different topics.

Most importantly, every day, for the past 26 or so years, we said "I love you." to each other at least once (but usually many more times) a day    So now, while I miss even his constant chattering (another source of bickering), those are the three words I miss most.

Now, pipe down, damnit--Crow's about to start.

Out of the Mouths of Babes...Greek

This past weekend was the first that Trinity's spent with me since her Poppi died.  Last night, as she played with my iPad, she asked what I was typing.  I told her I had a blog, which generated much excitement.  She asked what I wrote about, and I told her it was about my life since Poppi died. 

"So, it's about Greek?" she asked as she came to perch on the arm of my chair.

"Yes, part of it is about grief," I said with a slight smile.  She gave a coy little grin in return. 

We talked about other foreign words--widow, widower, doe (in a rabbit, rather than deer context)--and read through my prior posts.  One thing I love about kids (and this one in particular) is their natural curiosity and sense of wonder.  I've been around children all my life, and I even concentrated on pediatric nursing at one point, so I'm accustomed to the endless questions.  One thing I firmly believe is that, if the child is old enough to ask the question, he or she is old enough to hear the answer--explained in an age-appropriate way, of course.

During Bunny's second hospitalization in December, I was taking Trinity and Sarita (her little sister, almost two years old) to my house after they'd visited with Poppi.  Less than a mile into the trip, Trinity piped up from the back seat.

"Is Poppi dying?" 

"Well, we all die at some point, but I don't think he's dying today." 

"Oh, good," she was relieved that this wasn't the last chance she'd have to see him.  I didn't think it was fair not to give her some warning about the eventual outcome.

"But you know that Poppi's really sick, right?  Out of all of us, he'll probably die first.  Just not today."

She knew he had cancer, but was a bit confused about what that meant, exactly.  We talked about cancer, and the treatments Poppi was getting, and how sometimes when he was grouchy it was because he just didn't feel good.  As usual, she was full of questions and wise observations.

She's held up really well through moving and having her Poppi die all within a month's time.  One thing that bothered Bunny a lot was the thought that his grandchildren wouldn't remember him.  I assured him to the contrary--Trinity has known him all her life, and they were best buddies.  Sarita is probably too young, but we will tell her all about Poppi and show her pictures of the two of them together.

On his last hospitalization, he was reluctant to have the kids visit.  He couldn't speak, and didn't want them to be overwhelmed with that and everything else going on--IVs, oxygen and other medical interventions.  Once he moved to the hospice house, I convinced him that the kids could handle seeing him.

We weren't worried so much about Sarita, but Trinity was old enough and smart enough to be terrified if she didn't know what to expect.  Corey and I prepared her for the things she'd see and the things Poppi couldn't do, like walking and talking.  We also explained that he was very much aware of what was going on, and that he'd write notes instead of talking.  I told her that sometimes even adults got uncomfortable seeing someone so sick, and not to feel badly if she didn't think she could stay in the room.

"Let's do this--if you feel like you can't stay, we'll have a code word.  You say the code word, and I'll find a reason for you to leave, and that way you don't have to worry that Poppi's feelings will be hurt if it's too much for you."  The plan was for Joey and Corey to go to my house to get some things, and Trinity and me to stay with Bunny until they got back.  Joey would go out to the car and call me after five minutes.  If the code word was invoked, I'd find a reason to send Trinity to the house, as well.

After thinking a minute, she found the code word--or code phrase--she wanted:  "I know!  I'll say I have to powder my nose!"   I'd taught her this little nicety years ago, and she always found it funny.  Once, we were at a restaurant when we'd excused ourselves with the phrase, and as we were standing to go, she looked at my nephew, Stephen, and said, "That's how ladies say they have to go to the bathroom."

So we entered the room, Joey exited, and we pulled chairs to Bunny's bedside.  He smiled at her, and she gave him a little kiss, and then sat next to him.  She was a bit timid at first, but once she got the hang of his note-making and his improvised sign language, she was chattering away like old times.  By the time Joey called, she was well into one of her stories and I hadn't heard the code word.

"T, I have to powder my nose.  Do you need to powder yours?"  I wanted to make sure I wasn't misreading her level of comfort.

"No, you go ahead."  She seemed to have forgotten all about code words.

"Are you sure?"

"Uh, yeah, I'm sure."  Like d'uh!  With an eye-roll, for emphasis.

"Watch that tone, iCarly!" I answered, referring to her favorite sitcom geared to tweens.  I stepped into the hall to assure Joey that she was fine.  In this, as in most areas, Joey is very protective of his little girl.

As it turns out, sometimes the people we worry need the most protection are the strongest of us all.

With a Little Help from My Friends

It's only been two weeks since Bunny died, but it seems like it's been longer than that.  Last week was my first week back at work, and it was more difficult than I expected.  Not emotionally, but functionally--I felt like the cogs of my brain were gunked up with oatmeal.  Everything I did seemed to take at least twice as long as usual.  I was also sssssssssoooooo tttttttttiiiiiiiirrrrrrrreeeedddd.  Various friends and relatives pointed out that I had been through a long ordeal, I hadn't had much sleep in the past month, and I'd been through some pretty heavy emotional trauma.  Still, I got a nice, big bottle of ginko biloba to start off the new week.  Hopefully, it will increase my alertness and improve my attention span, which is suddenly shorter than normal.

Emotionally, I did pretty well.  I only had very few teary spells, but they quickly passed.  My dear, sweet friend LeAnne sent me a link to a support web site for young widows.  I visited the site, mostly to confirm that my physical symptoms weren't unusual (they aren't--it seems that almost everyone gets "Widow Brain"), and read some of the stories posted by the other widows.  Holy crap!!  Of course, once I read one, I couldn't stop.  The site was kind of like the proverbial train wreck--you can't bear to watch but can't look away, either.   So many tragic stories, each worse than the last--they horrified me, but also made me feel so grateful and blessed.  My spouse wasn't an alcoholic, an addict, or an abuser.  I didn't lose him in the blink of an eye, and our last words to each other weren't harsh.  He didn't leave me homeless, or penniless, or saddled with huge debts.  I don't have small children to raise alone or a passel of greedy relatives to fend off.  He didn't linger for years on end and didn't take over so much of my life that I didn't have respites on occassion.  

One thing I had wondered about was why I wasn't sitting around, crying my eyes out every day.  Aside from the day after he died, I've been pretty even-keeled.  The site also helped explain why: anticipatory grieving.  It was true--I know from the moment I heard his initial biopsy results that it was highly unlikely our story would have a happy ending.  As more time passed, it became ever more clear that I would lose him sooner rather than later.  Each step of the way, I'd grieved his loss in advance--but always where he couldn't see my tears or hear my cries of frustration.  To him, I was always positive and encouraging and hopeful--so much so that he was sometimes aggravated by my optimism.  So it's not that I haven't done the grieving, it's just that I've done it over the last few years.

I have to admit, though, I did do some crying today.  The chaplain from the hospital where Bunny used to work sent me some mementoes from his memorial service there.  The box sat on my dining room table for a day before I opened it--unheard-of restraint for me!  I knew what was in it, but couldn't bring myself to look inside until yesterday.  The box contained a guest log, a copy of the memorial brochure, a collage (see below) and a DVD.

I didn't want to be alone when I watched the DVD, so I left it in the box.  My son (Joey) and his family were here this afternoon, and I showed them the box and asked if they wanted to see the DVD.  Joey initially didn't want to (he's still in the fresh grieving stages), but Corey did and so did Trinity, my elder granddaughter.   We three girls agreed to watch it, and if anyone couldn't bear it any longer, she would simply leave the room.  Under those circumstances, Joey decided he'd watch it, as well.  

We started it up, and there was a big photo of Bunny--taken either before his cancer was diagnosed or shortly after.  When we pressed play, The Wind Beneath My Wings started in the background.   The photos flashed across the screen one by one, all with Bunny at his photogenic best--before his hair fell out and the color left his face.   By the time it ended, both Joey and I were in tears, but neither of us had been so overwhelmed that we'd moved from our seats.

So today was a sad, but cathartic, start of the week. 

Alone, at Last

All last week, loving family members came to stay with me and give me emotional support.  They also helped to clean and straighten up my house.  You'd be surprised how quickly housework falls in priority when there's a job, a husband who's in and out of the hospital, and doctor's visits that were too important to send him to alone.  Bunny, like most men, never seemed to ask the right questions or hear what the doctors had to say.

The last of my visitors left on Friday, and I was finally alone.  For the first time in my life, I live alone.  Oddly, that realization didn't hit me until Sunday, and then I wondered how on earth I'd gotten to be as old as I am without living alone at some point.  I did a mental inventory of my various homes--with parents, roommates, husbands, child--and, except for brief stretches of time when either Bunny or I went out of town on business, I had never lived by myself.

I felt strangely empowered!  No negotiating or compromising on furniture, paint colors, or anything else.  No more carpet for me!  Those tacky manatee pictures in my guest bath?  They're history. 

Not yet, though.  When I redecorated that bathroom, Bunny insisted on hanging them in plain view, partly because he thought they were pretty, but mostly because he knew I didn't.  Seeing them every time I go in there reminds me of how he liked to tease me.  One day they'll come down, but it's too soon. 

Eventually, though, my house will be exactly as I want it.   I started by organizing my closet.  Organizing and redecorating calm me.  Once my closet was exactly as I wanted it, I turned my attention to my bedroom.  My new mattress was delivered yesterday, so I decided to start my new house in the master bedroom.  Using some accumulated gift cards, I got new lamps and new sheets.  I didn't really need either, but I didn't feel like sleeping on the sheets from my marital bed (yes, I'm quirky), no matter how many times I washed them.   As for the lamps, they softened the room and completed the zen look I was going for initially. 

I'm spending an inordinate amount of time in my bedroom lately, so it was a good place to start.  For some reason, I can't seem to sleep enough.  Maybe I'm catching up on all the sleep I've lost over the last few months, maybe my brain just shuts down at some point, or maybe the stress of my WiDeaux status overwhelms me.  Whatever the reason, the cats and I pile into the king size bed and sleep whenever the urge strikes.   But even though we've got more than enough room, none of us sleeps on Bunny's side.  It's just too soon.

The End...and The Beginning

This time last week, I was lying in bed with my husband--snuggled close, with our arms around each other.  We weren't vacationing in some distant locale or just lazing about after seeing in the new year--we were in a hospice house, where he had come to die.

He had been diagnosed with prostate cancer in June 2009, and the disease was relentlessly aggressive as it spread throughout his body.  Doctors don't start screening for prostate cancer until age 50, but my husband ("Bunny" to family and friends) was only 47 when he was diagnosed.  For nearly three years, we'd fought through radiation, chemotherapy, hormones, hair loss, surgeries and ever-worsening pain.   He had managed to pull through every insult to his body, assisted by narcotics and humor and love.  In the last five days, though, tiny fingertips of the cancer had invaded his brain and made it bleed.

Rather than take the aggressive route and undergo brain surgery that might (or might not) stop the bleeding, he chose to let nature take its course.  If he was meant to survive, the bleeding would stop and he would recover. If not, he would go quickly, having had some say in when the end would come.  His doctors, one by one, agreed that his decision was wise, particularly given his overall prognosis.

When he was first diagnosed, I had promised him that I would fight with him as long as he wanted to fight.  "We're Team Bunny!" I'd said, drawing family members and friends into the team and making tee shirts.  He latched onto the phrase as a rallying cry, a mantra.  I also promised that, when he was ready to stop fighting, I'd fight as hard as I could to make sure he had the death he wanted.  I kept my promises to him, and he delighted in my battles against various policies that were geared more toward convenience than for the patient's well-being. 

My nickname was Deaux--a female rabbit is a doe, but we spelled it the way we did in Louisiana, where we were born and raised.  Geaux Tigers!  We'd been married for 25 years, having dated for only 11 months prior.  Our hometowns were less than 10 miles apart, and we'd actually gone to elementary school together for two years.  In fact, he sat directly behind me in sixth grade.  He annoyed me even then, confessing later that he'd had a crush on me.  We met again as adults and hit it off immediately.  I came with what some men would have considered excess baggage--a son from my first marriage--but Bunny embraced my child and raised him and considered him his own. 

The last few days of his life were, in a way, the best of the last two and a half years.  All the emotional and physical barriers he had created crumbled away, and he was as loving and sweet and funny as he'd been before cancer.  He graduallly became unable to speak, but he filled a whole notepad with scribblings before he lost the ability to write.  He always had a lot to say, and he took advantage of the captive audience of his gathered family and friends.  We talked and wept openly, taking advantage of the opportunity to say good-bye.

For all the grieving I'd done over the last few years, the day before he died was the hardest for me.  I knew his time was short (I've been a nurse most of my life), and the thought that I would finally be without him was overwhelming.  Tears flowed unchecked whenever I was out of his room, sometimes stopping as quickly as they started and sometimes giving way to huge, gulping sobs.  I was going to miss him so much!  We had hugged more in the last few days than we had in the previous two years--first because of his emotional state (he'd gone through several of the seven stages of grief at least twice) and then because he was in pain so often that hugging actually hurt him.  Now, heavily medicated, he sought affection with abandon, and I happily kept him supplied.

So, exactly a week ago, at about 8:15 p.m., he drew his last breath.  I didn't know it--I'd fallen asleep in his arms, exhausted.  "Just like The Notebook," my daughter-in-law observed.  My son woke me to tell me that his dad wasn't breathing, and I sat up to see my Bunny, no longer living, but with the most peaceful smile on his face.  I didn't feel sadness initially, just gratitutde for the last few days we'd had and for the knowledge that he was no longer in pain.

Now, my journey from Deaux to WiDeaux would begin.