Gratitude

I've never been one who's ever stopped at Thanksgiving to really feel all the reasons she has to be thankful.  I've thought about it, I guess, but I've never felt it.  And this year, I was certain that when November rolled around I would have no reasons to be thankful at all.

And yet.

I find now, the day two days before Thanksgiving*, that I'm full of reasons to be thankful after all.  I can say, without feeling like I'm just mouthing it, without feeling like I'm going through the motions, that I'm truly, deeply grateful to my family and friends (including, in this electronically-connected world, family and friends that I've never met in person, some of whose names I don't even know) for holding me up this past year and for continuing to hold me up.  Without you all, I cannot imagine what my life would have been like by now.  You've helped me in ways I can bring to mind and in ways I probably don't even realize.  I am here, at five and a half months past Jerry's death, and able to see a future.  In June I never imagined that would be so.  In June I was sure that the world without Jerry in it would be dark and hopeless forever.

Yesterday I visited the Huntsville Botanical Garden.  From the first moments I began walking through it, I knew Jerry would have loved that place.  So many plants he'd talked about, told me about, planted in our yard or wanted to.  Beautiful Japanese maples - Jerry adored Japanese maples.  Maybe halfway through my walk, I reached the Botanical Garden's Garden of Hope; wondered what it was; walked over to a placard and began to read.  And immediately burst into tears, because the placard started out "This garden provides a place where cancer patients and their families may express their hopes, dreams, fears and faith through the color and artistry of beautiful flowers, trees and plants."  I sat on a bench in the Garden of Hope and cried for a while, feeling such a convergence of things: plants, Alabama, cancer, Jerry's absence.  When I got up from the bench, I noticed a brick walkway leading to the garden, with some of the bricks bearing dedications in honor or in memory of people.  And before I'd left the Botanical Garden I had decided that I would have one of those made for Jerry.  He has no headstone, as his remains were scattered at Pine Grove, and he loved plants, and he loved Alabama, and I know he would have loved the Botanical Garden.  So I've e-mailed them and requested information about dedicating a brick to Jerry there, a physical memorial in the world that I and everyone who loved Jerry will be able to see and visit in that beautiful place.

So, I think, it's not that I'm no longer sad.  I still cry about Jerry.  But it feels like it's coming from a different place now.  (Karen pointed out a few days ago something I'd totally forgotten about, that the Prozac might be working, now, too... and if that's the case, all hail Fluoxetine!)  It feels like a more sane, calm place than the insane, dark, dreadful, painful chasm I'd felt I was carrying around inside me.  I'm still afraid I'm somehow just ignoring that chasm right now and will find it again, probably back in Illinois.  I think I'm ready, though, when I get back there, to make a start on facing reality - start to go through the house, through Jerry's things, start to deal with the present as it really is.  It won't be easy, and it might take a while, but I think I'm ready to start.

And for that, I'm thankful.  For the progress I've made so far, for the ability to want to live again, for the ability to find joy in life again.  For everyone who is supporting me and helping me on this path.  And for having had Jerry in my life for almost 12 years.  I miss you, honey.  I love you.  I'll never stop loving you.

*ETA: I have been doing this all day, thinking today was Wednesday.