So many things. Today it was tools - tools from a life's work of carpentry and cabinetmaking and woodworking - those that were in our basement, anyway (many more of them are in the shop). Seamus came over to sort through the tools Jerry had stored in one of the rooms in the basement, as well as some of Jerry's papers, family photographs and the like. When he left, he had some of the tools, Jerry's mandolins (which he never did have the time to learn to play - part of that future we foolishly thought we had. I do remember him sitting on the couch with a mandolin and the Sacred Harp, picking out tunes), Jerry's violin, my old classical guitar from those guitar lessons in high school I never had the discipline to practice for - and how pleased I am that finally that guitar will be with someone who can make it sing, after all these decades. Also family photos, some of Jerry's philosophy books and old notebooks, other papers. We couldn't find the trumpet Jerry played in college, nor his copy of O'Neill's Music of Ireland, which are here somewhere. There are so many boxes and piles, though, between the basement and the Buddha Bedroom, that I'm sure they'll show up. I remember Jerry showing me the trumpet once, and talking about selling it - I felt sad that he might sell it, even though he hadn't played it in decades, but I don't think he had sold it, so it must still be in the house.
Why are these things all still here? Why is anything still here? Why are we all still alive? Why hasn't the world ended, the way it ought to? If he is dead, what possible reason can I have to keep breathing?
And when will I stop feeling guilty about going through his things, having Seamus take some of them away, because I know Jerry will be back soon and want those tools back again, maybe, for the next project he'll be working on? And when I do - when I stop expecting him to walk back in this house and put his arms around me and tell me this was all just a horrible nightmare, and I'm safe now, in his arms - will I be able to bear that pain?
30 June 2010
29 June 2010
JME and Penguins
Jerry and I called ourselves "Penguin people" (but it was our dark secret... no one was to know... unless a visit to our home slowly brought on the realization that there are penguins in lots of rooms... calendar... figurines here and there... homemade anniversary cards... even, oh dear, more than one plush penguin toy...). Occasionally, we got the chance to see real ones, most often at the Central Park Zoo, where we'd make penguin pilgrimages now and then. Here's Jerry on one in August 2005.
No doubt we'd smile later
I'm sitting here at my computer, waiting for Jerry to finish "smurfing," as he'd say, on the computer upstairs and come down for our "evening entertainment" (whatever we decide to watch on TV).
No, I know I'm not really. But if life were fair, if life weren't horrible and brutal, that's what I'd be doing.
Anyway, I need to post this photo now and get it over with. This is the last photo that was ever taken of Jerry. It was 20 May, just over a week after he'd been admitted to the hospital, and I had put a wet washcloth on his forehead because he was nauseated and I hoped it would make him feel a bit better. He said that with the washcloth on his head he probably looked like Mooch, the cat in the comic strip Mutts (which Jerry loved), in his guise as his alter ego "the Shphinx." So we agreed I would take a picture of him with my cellphone, and no doubt we'd smile over the photo later when Jerry got better.
First Dream
Jerry appeared in my dreams for the first time last night since he died. I don't remember much: just that he was home and someone wanted to put a Foley catheter back in, and I was upset because I thought it would hurt him, but then it had been done and hadn't caused him more pain. That's it.
The death certificate lists three causes of death: metastatic colon cancer, acute renal failure, and pleural effusion. Short, clinical words to stand in for so much suffering.
The death certificate lists three causes of death: metastatic colon cancer, acute renal failure, and pleural effusion. Short, clinical words to stand in for so much suffering.
Proceeding
The guy who's cleaning the gutters arrived at 7:30 this morning, before the 8 to noon window even opened. And the woman from the water district has come and changed out the water meter and gone. I remember making the appointment for that, at their request, when Jerry was home in hospice, and thinking "29 June? He won't be here by then..." And he wasn't.
Had a couple of messages from the funeral home. The "cremains" are in, as are the death certificates, and they will deliver them at some time today (calling first, they said). And I'm thinking, where do I put the "cremains"? I guess they'll be in some sort of box. Upstairs bedroom? Never imagined I'd be sitting here in June 2010 wondering about where I would put a box of pulverized bone particles that would be all that would be physically left of my honey.
Afraid of this. Hate this. Want my honey back. Feeling guilty that I let them destroy his body. I know logically this is insane, but how could I let them do that? I want him back.
Update: chickened out. When they called just now from the funeral home and asked if the urn was made, and I said it's not quite finished yet, and they asked if I wanted them just to bring the death certificates now, I said yes. When Seamus finishes the urn, we can bring it to them and have them transfer the ashes then. Putting it off, I know. Small steps.
Had a couple of messages from the funeral home. The "cremains" are in, as are the death certificates, and they will deliver them at some time today (calling first, they said). And I'm thinking, where do I put the "cremains"? I guess they'll be in some sort of box. Upstairs bedroom? Never imagined I'd be sitting here in June 2010 wondering about where I would put a box of pulverized bone particles that would be all that would be physically left of my honey.
Afraid of this. Hate this. Want my honey back. Feeling guilty that I let them destroy his body. I know logically this is insane, but how could I let them do that? I want him back.
Update: chickened out. When they called just now from the funeral home and asked if the urn was made, and I said it's not quite finished yet, and they asked if I wanted them just to bring the death certificates now, I said yes. When Seamus finishes the urn, we can bring it to them and have them transfer the ashes then. Putting it off, I know. Small steps.
28 June 2010
Something my brain is doing
Although on one level I know Jerry died, I do catch myself on some other level being pretty damn sure that the person who died in our bedroom two weeks ago wasn't him - it just wasn't, that wasn't him - and soon Jerry, alive and well, will come back.
(Have I already said this?)
(Have I already said this?)
Unemployment
Called the funeral home twice; even stopped by there on the way home from the shop this afternoon. Each time I called, I was told someone would check on the death certificates and "cremains" and get back to me. When I stopped by, no one answered the doorbell. The firm has more than one location, so I'm going to try to be charitable and think that they were at their other location and/or conducting a funeral somewhere, so they didn't have a chance to let me know if my husband, aka a box of crushed bone particles, is ready for pickup. (Not sure I want to do this, not until Seamus has finished the urn. Well, I don't want to do this at all.)
I applied online for unemployment benefits today (but had to do it at work, because you need to use Internet Explorer if you want to apply online with the Illinois Department of Employment Security, or "IDES," and here at home we long since broke free of the shackles of Microsoft and switched to Macs). Given the way the business has been going, this was going to happen someday, whether Jerry was alive or not, but doing it two weeks after he died just adds to the general feeling of Things Falling Apart. There's actually still at least one more job still to be done by Wood Bros. - I think it's a wall unit for a return customer (one that hasn't picked a color yet, just to carry the tradition of frustrating customers to the bitter, and I mean bitter, end). But given that there's no salary involved, applying for unemployment makes sense. Another month or two of health insurance, and then I'll have to figure that question out as well. Meanwhile, we'll do a last ditch mailing to see if anyone wants to buy Wood Bros. I wish.
In the scheme of things, I'm lucky, though - lucky in the financial sense, in that I have time to breathe before looking around and trying to find a new job - I paid off the mortgage on the house last fall, when Jerry and I thought about how much more interest I'd be paying if I didn't, plus the fact that we kept ending up taking the standard deduction on our taxes anyway, so there was no tax benefit to paying mortgage interest. So I don't have mortgage payments to worry about. And while the real estate taxes are annoyingly high, the next tranche isn't due until September. Of course, it's looking like a bunch of home repair stuff is going to have to be done by people I'll have to hire and pay, which is why I hope the life insurance policy pans out - it would be nice to have that cushion.
"Cushion" - a word Jerry pronounced in a very distinctive way. In all the years I spent listening to him talk, I never did stop hearing his accent ("Accent? What accent?" he'd say, with a twinkle in his eye). Those of you who knew him know what I mean. Those who were unlucky enough not to, let's just say this was a man who definitely came from the Chicago suburbs. I'm keeping a list of Jerry's pronunciations, as well as his silly word-mangling, which I loved (never say a word as it's written when you could just as easily reverse some of the letters or add some to have more fun - the company that rents us the DVDs is invariably "Fletnix," for example, or there's that sandwich shop chain, "Snubway"). Every time I remember one, I write it down, against the day when I may forget them. I don't want to forget.
I had to call DirecTV back again - I thought trimming a few fir tree branches near the satellite dish had fixed the problem with the signal, but it hasn't. It's possible the large trees in the front yard have grown enough to block the dish's line to the satellite, in which case, if a technician can't adjust the dish and find open sky, I'll just have to cancel the service. But someone will come out on Saturday and give it a shot, without charge. And since I'm not actually paying for the service at the moment (cf. earlier blog post...), I'm not bothered about it too much. What making the appointment just now did remind me, though, was that the 4th of July is this weekend - I keep remembering that and then forgetting it again. I can't tell if time is crawling or speeding by. Whatever it's doing, I don't like it, not at all. If only I could process grief while unconscious: I'd try to find a way to be unconscious for a few years, get this horror farther behind me, and then come back when I can cope better. There are widows and widowers on the bulletin board I read, those who are, in the lingo, "farther out," who assure the rest of us that it does get more doable, this surviving thing. So they claim.
I was sitting at Jerry's desk at work this morning, about to tackle the task of trying to find the life insurance policy in his files and piles - oh, Jerry, love of my life, organization was not your strong suit - when I noticed that his work boots were still lined up on the floor by the desk, sitting there covered in years' worth of lacquer and dust. And there was a post-it note on a credenza top that read, in his handwriting, "Back in 20 minutes." I don't know why some things make me cry now and some things that have equal claim to don't.
I have this horrible feeling that in some ways I'm thinking I just have to get through to Lookout Mountain. As if Lookout Mountain's going to get here, and somehow after that it'll all be all right - which can only mean that I'm thinking somehow Jerry will be back here after Lookout Mountain, maybe he'll show up at Lookout Mountain. Which also can only mean that life after Lookout Mountain is going to be even harder that it already is.
27 June 2010
Lots of insulation
I went downstairs this morning to see how much more insulation I needed to get for the cold water pipes... and discovered, right in front of me, a pile of pipe insulation that Jerry had obviously bought at some time, intending to do that job himself. I don't remember him buying it... but I felt so ridiculous not having seen it before, right there in plain sight. But it saved us a trip back up to the Despot.
We had a big thunderstorm this morning, meaning more water seeping into the basement. I hope the gutter people show up when they claim they will. And after that's done, I'll contact the contractor. I went upstairs just now and turned the hot water off to the upstairs bathroom sink, which stopped the leak in the tap.
Laura's headed back to Midway. It was good to have her here. I'm still not sure what kind of balance of solitude and company I need to strike for my own sanity, but Laura's visit turned out to be well-timed and a good thing.
Seamus hasn't called the funeral home, so I'll do that tomorrow. Not looking forward to it. Not looking forward to much, though, these days.
We had a big thunderstorm this morning, meaning more water seeping into the basement. I hope the gutter people show up when they claim they will. And after that's done, I'll contact the contractor. I went upstairs just now and turned the hot water off to the upstairs bathroom sink, which stopped the leak in the tap.
Laura's headed back to Midway. It was good to have her here. I'm still not sure what kind of balance of solitude and company I need to strike for my own sanity, but Laura's visit turned out to be well-timed and a good thing.
Seamus hasn't called the funeral home, so I'll do that tomorrow. Not looking forward to it. Not looking forward to much, though, these days.
26 June 2010
Stuff done, stuff to do
At the suggestion of my father, Laura and I went up to "the Despot" today and got insulation for the cold water pipes in the basement, which sweat when the weather gets warm - thanks for that, Daddy. We got most of them covered (luckily, Laura is taller than me and could reach the high pipes), and I can go back and get a bit more insulation to get the rest done. We also removed a bunch of spiders from corners in my bedroom and in the living room. As Jerry would have told them, they know the rule... no spiders in the house. (Most of them got sucked into a tube and removed to the outdoors, actually. I guess my hard-heartedness isn't total, at least not yet.) And Laura made a huge slow-cooker full of excellent veg chili, and I'll have a lot of leftovers in the freezer - thanks, Laura!
Meanwhile, the upstairs bathroom tap is leaking and the upstairs bathroom toilet needs the handle jiggled to stop it from running after you flush it. Looking at a corner of the basement, I think it does seem to be seeping water. We went out in the morning and cut back some of the Joe-Pye weed that has taken over part of the yard, and I noticed again the landscape timber that needs to be replaced by the back door... where the storm door also needs to be replaced, as part of it is rotting away.
Tip of the iceberg. The more I look around at the house and the yard, the more overwhelmed I feel.
I received the forms I need to fill out for the life insurance company. They want a death certificate and the original policy (or an explanation of why I don't have the original policy). Seamus was going to call the funeral home to find out what's going on with things; if he hasn't by Monday, I'll gird my loins and do it myself. Don't have a clue if there's an original of the insurance policy anywhere findable.
Sitting on the back porch at the moment, in one of the chaises I got so Jerry could relax on the porch over the summer; he only got to sit out here in one of them once. It's getting dark, and I see the fireflies are back. I wish Jerry were here to see them. I wish Jerry were here.
Meanwhile, the upstairs bathroom tap is leaking and the upstairs bathroom toilet needs the handle jiggled to stop it from running after you flush it. Looking at a corner of the basement, I think it does seem to be seeping water. We went out in the morning and cut back some of the Joe-Pye weed that has taken over part of the yard, and I noticed again the landscape timber that needs to be replaced by the back door... where the storm door also needs to be replaced, as part of it is rotting away.
Tip of the iceberg. The more I look around at the house and the yard, the more overwhelmed I feel.
I received the forms I need to fill out for the life insurance company. They want a death certificate and the original policy (or an explanation of why I don't have the original policy). Seamus was going to call the funeral home to find out what's going on with things; if he hasn't by Monday, I'll gird my loins and do it myself. Don't have a clue if there's an original of the insurance policy anywhere findable.
Sitting on the back porch at the moment, in one of the chaises I got so Jerry could relax on the porch over the summer; he only got to sit out here in one of them once. It's getting dark, and I see the fireflies are back. I wish Jerry were here to see them. I wish Jerry were here.
Love this silly face, too
Jerry loved making silly faces at me. Caught one of them here while he was renovating the dining room into the gorgeous room it is now (check out that border and light rail), not even a year ago, August 2009.
25 June 2010
Up on the roof... not so much
Laura and I got a ladder out of the garage this afternoon, tried to put it stably against the house, and failed - the ground slopes, the gutter moves, how Jerry did this I have no idea (but why he didn't do it that often, I do). But after giving it a good try, we retreated and I found a company that cleans gutters on Yelp, and if they do what they say they will, they'll come out on Tuesday morning and clean the gutters for $110, plus $25 for the garage, less $10 coupon. Now I just have to cross my fingers that they do come.
It's so depressing to notice the paint peeling in the corner of the house, no doubt from all the water that's probably been pouring off and/or past the gutter. That paint job is only a couple of years old. And it's the same corner where the shingles have fallen off the roof. Yet another thing to add to the growing list of stuff I need to have taken care of.
It's so depressing to notice the paint peeling in the corner of the house, no doubt from all the water that's probably been pouring off and/or past the gutter. That paint job is only a couple of years old. And it's the same corner where the shingles have fallen off the roof. Yet another thing to add to the growing list of stuff I need to have taken care of.
24 June 2010
I contacted Facebook a few days ago and had them "memorialize" Jerry's Facebook profile - basically freeze it and remove some stuff so people, including me, wouldn't keep getting messages that said "Reconnect with Jerry Enright! Write on his Wall!" But just now I looked at my own profile, and on the first page it says "Married" where it used to say "Married to Jerry Enright," and I had to catch my breath - I hadn't expected that. The "Info" page still says "Married to Jerry Enright." I can't change it. Not ready.
Huh. Update: Says "Married to Jerry Enright" on the first page again. OK, fine - mess with my mind. Because that's just what I want right now...
Huh. Update: Says "Married to Jerry Enright" on the first page again. OK, fine - mess with my mind. Because that's just what I want right now...
The Backstory
A lot of people have been very shocked by Jerry's death, because they didn't even know he had cancer. Jerry was very private and didn't want a lot of fuss, and I apologize that many of you were not told earlier. I have removed privacy controls on the CaringBridge site I kept since March - if anyone wants to read the story of Jerry's final months, that's where you'll find it. Warning: it hurts.
No, that won't be him
Came home from work today, eventually went into the bedroom and saw the message light blinking on the answering machine, and thought "It's Jerry!" Because of course my dead husband really isn't dead and is leaving me messages on the answering machine. By the way... it wasn't Jerry. It will never be Jerry. Someday I'll probably understand that, and God, I wish it were five years from now, when possibly it won't hurt as much, maybe? Or better yet, five years ago, and they can find the cancer early and treat it and save him, or better yet, five years ago and he never gets cancer, and he's healthy and he's still here and my life is as it should be, as it was, back when I had my honey with me, back when the world hadn't come to an end.
Just now I got out the videotapes I bought from Bill Windom of the 1998 Lookout Mountain Convention, and found the place on each day's tape that shows Jerry leading a song (one of the tapes was already wound to that spot). The camera is pointing at the leader from the back of the tenor section, so I, who was in the alto section, am in the shot the entire time. And there's Jerry, whom I haven't met yet on the Saturday, leading 383, and I'm singing along, not knowing that the next day my life is going to change forever, and so very obviously not knowing that almost 12 years later I'm going to be sitting on my couch in Illinois with tears streaming down my face as I watch this man whom I haven't met yet, the love of my life, a ghost on a TV screen. And in the Sunday video he's leading 77t, of course, but is sharing the leading with someone else who wanted to lead that song, and they're leading it in 4, and I think that's the only time I've ever seen him lead it in 4, and I think it was because the other leader wanted to. And if I remember right, it's after lunch, and I've already met him, and I was already so comfortable talking to this man, which was so unusual, since I'm almost always so awkward with new people, but I still didn't know what it all meant, what had just happened, that I'd finally met him, the one, the man of my dreams, the love of my life.
Please, I want to go back. I want to start again and do it again and this time go more slowly, and this time have it come out differently, and when we get to our 10th anniversary year we still have decades and decades together ahead of us. Please.
Just now I got out the videotapes I bought from Bill Windom of the 1998 Lookout Mountain Convention, and found the place on each day's tape that shows Jerry leading a song (one of the tapes was already wound to that spot). The camera is pointing at the leader from the back of the tenor section, so I, who was in the alto section, am in the shot the entire time. And there's Jerry, whom I haven't met yet on the Saturday, leading 383, and I'm singing along, not knowing that the next day my life is going to change forever, and so very obviously not knowing that almost 12 years later I'm going to be sitting on my couch in Illinois with tears streaming down my face as I watch this man whom I haven't met yet, the love of my life, a ghost on a TV screen. And in the Sunday video he's leading 77t, of course, but is sharing the leading with someone else who wanted to lead that song, and they're leading it in 4, and I think that's the only time I've ever seen him lead it in 4, and I think it was because the other leader wanted to. And if I remember right, it's after lunch, and I've already met him, and I was already so comfortable talking to this man, which was so unusual, since I'm almost always so awkward with new people, but I still didn't know what it all meant, what had just happened, that I'd finally met him, the one, the man of my dreams, the love of my life.
Please, I want to go back. I want to start again and do it again and this time go more slowly, and this time have it come out differently, and when we get to our 10th anniversary year we still have decades and decades together ahead of us. Please.
23 June 2010
"You'll meet someone else"
The lawyer seems nice, and competent. But she said that. She said "You'll meet someone else." I didn't know what to say in response - I don't remember what I said in response. I didn't get angry or anything, not that confrontation-averse me would have managed to express that anger if it had been there, but I just felt so totally at a loss. I know she meant to be kind, meant to make me feel better. But I don't want to meet someone else. I want Jerry back. I still haven't even truly gotten it through my head or my heart that he's actually dead, that he isn't just at the hospital as he was those four weeks I was here alone at night, or somewhere else (at work?). That he isn't going to come back to me. But all I can think is, how lucky she is, my new lawyer. Because she clearly has absolutely no clue what this feels like. I wish her years and decades and a lifetime of not knowing what this feels like.
Another thunderstorm is rolling in. Fingers crossed I get to keep my electricity through this one. Although on Sunday I did buy an LED flashlight/lamp, so if I do lose power, at least I won't get candlewax all over again by trying to pick up one of the candles to go into a different room.
I wonder why I continue to have an appetite. I lost my appetite the first weekend Jerry was in the hospital, I think it was, or was it the second, I can't remember now, when the heartless "I'm just being frank" gastroenterologist Dr. Aziz first said that Jerry was in bad shape and we should go straight to hospice. I got it back when Jerry seemed to be improving and proving Dr. Aziz wrong. But through everything that's happened since, my appetite has stayed put, which is incredibly odd for me. I wonder if, once the fact of Jerry's death - his permanent, non-changeable, absolute death - starts becoming more real to me, my appetite will then disappear. I keep reading about widows who can't bring themselves to eat, and I would have thought for sure that would be me. Curious.
Another thunderstorm is rolling in. Fingers crossed I get to keep my electricity through this one. Although on Sunday I did buy an LED flashlight/lamp, so if I do lose power, at least I won't get candlewax all over again by trying to pick up one of the candles to go into a different room.
I wonder why I continue to have an appetite. I lost my appetite the first weekend Jerry was in the hospital, I think it was, or was it the second, I can't remember now, when the heartless "I'm just being frank" gastroenterologist Dr. Aziz first said that Jerry was in bad shape and we should go straight to hospice. I got it back when Jerry seemed to be improving and proving Dr. Aziz wrong. But through everything that's happened since, my appetite has stayed put, which is incredibly odd for me. I wonder if, once the fact of Jerry's death - his permanent, non-changeable, absolute death - starts becoming more real to me, my appetite will then disappear. I keep reading about widows who can't bring themselves to eat, and I would have thought for sure that would be me. Curious.
Lookout Mountain Convention / Memorial for Jerry
This is an announcement Jerry used to post every year. This year I'm heartbroken that he's not here to do it himself:
The 107th Session of the Lookout Mountain Sacred Harp Singing Convention will take place on the fourth Sunday in August and Saturday before, which this year is 21-22 August, at Pine Grove Church, near Collinsville on Lookout Mountain, Alabama. Directions to the singing can be found at http://www.fasola.org/maps/
Everyone knows that Jerry Enright loved Sacred Harp singing. The Lookout Mountain Convention held a special place in Jerry's heart; he had been attending it faithfully every year for a long time before we met, and we certainly made sure never to miss it in all the years since we first met each other there in 1998. For these reasons and more, Seamus, Erin and I feel that it is the most appropriate place for us to gather together to remember Jerry. The Lookout Mountain community has graciously agreed. So we invite everyone to join us at his beloved Lookout Mountain Sacred Harp Singing Convention this August to celebrate the life of this man that we love so very dearly.
In the photo: Jerry leads at the Lookout Mountain Convention, August 2009. Photo by Robert Chambless.
22 June 2010
JME in Ireland, March 2003
Our honeymoon took place almost three years after we got married, when we went to the west of Ireland for six days in March 2003.
This is at the Cliffs of Moher on the Atlantic coast of County Clare. Windy, as you can see. Jerry, of course, called them the "Cliffs of Mohair."
And Jerry was almost all the way through his first-ever Guinness in Ireland when I realized it was an event that should be immortalized in a photograph. Glad I didn't wait until the glass was empty to think of it. In the Boat Inn in Oughterard, County Galway.
And Jerry was almost all the way through his first-ever Guinness in Ireland when I realized it was an event that should be immortalized in a photograph. Glad I didn't wait until the glass was empty to think of it. In the Boat Inn in Oughterard, County Galway.
WD-40
Thanks for your messages and comments with advice about the basement and the house... First plan of action, I think, is going to be getting up on a ladder and cleaning out the gutters. For some reason, the sight of plants actually growing in some of the gutters never seemed to perturb Jerry, and I followed his lead on that, since he was Mr. Handy and I was Ms. Definitely-Not-Handy, and I figured, if it doesn't bother him, I guess it shouldn't bother me. But I think the time has come to see if the gutters might work better without the dirt and leaves and flora. So when Laura gets here for a long weekend visit this weekend, assuming the weather cooperates while she's here, I'll have her hold the ladder and I'll try to put aside the fear of heights that's been increasing the older I get.
As for the basement: I moved the dehumidifier a bit closer to the walls that get wet and will see if it dries things out a bit more. Meanwhile, Seamus is going to get me in touch with a contractor that they've been doing business with for years - says they might be a bit more expensive than some but are reliable, and if there's anything I've learned in the years we've been here, it's that it's worth the extra to find someone who actually shows up when he says he will and does what he says he will (one word: chimney. The shit we went through trying to find a decent company to clean the fireplace and tuckpoint the chimney definitely brought that home to me - the people we use now for that might be more expensive, but I don't know and I don't care - they're reliable). Anyway, I'm putting together a list of things that need to be at least looked at, possibly taken care of. And I'll ask them for estimates. And we'll see.
Tomorrow morning is the meeting with the lawyer. I don't have death certificates yet, so I'm not sure how far anything can proceed, but it'll be good to touch base and find out what will need to happen. Plus she's a real estate lawyer, which will come in handy at some point.
I fell asleep before 11 last night, just because I was so exhausted I really had no choice. Seamus had been at the shop all night when I got there this morning, so he took off and I stayed and finished some drawer fronts for someone's laundry room; stopped off at "the Despot" on the way home and got some WD-40 to finally take the "Obama in '08" sticker off the car bumper... and then found when I got home that the sticker peeled right off, no problem. Well, now I have WD-40, anyway. Don't suppose that'll make up for all the handyman things I can't do.
As for the basement: I moved the dehumidifier a bit closer to the walls that get wet and will see if it dries things out a bit more. Meanwhile, Seamus is going to get me in touch with a contractor that they've been doing business with for years - says they might be a bit more expensive than some but are reliable, and if there's anything I've learned in the years we've been here, it's that it's worth the extra to find someone who actually shows up when he says he will and does what he says he will (one word: chimney. The shit we went through trying to find a decent company to clean the fireplace and tuckpoint the chimney definitely brought that home to me - the people we use now for that might be more expensive, but I don't know and I don't care - they're reliable). Anyway, I'm putting together a list of things that need to be at least looked at, possibly taken care of. And I'll ask them for estimates. And we'll see.
Tomorrow morning is the meeting with the lawyer. I don't have death certificates yet, so I'm not sure how far anything can proceed, but it'll be good to touch base and find out what will need to happen. Plus she's a real estate lawyer, which will come in handy at some point.
I fell asleep before 11 last night, just because I was so exhausted I really had no choice. Seamus had been at the shop all night when I got there this morning, so he took off and I stayed and finished some drawer fronts for someone's laundry room; stopped off at "the Despot" on the way home and got some WD-40 to finally take the "Obama in '08" sticker off the car bumper... and then found when I got home that the sticker peeled right off, no problem. Well, now I have WD-40, anyway. Don't suppose that'll make up for all the handyman things I can't do.
21 June 2010
Tired. (And a bit incoherent. You've been warned.)
Very tired. I didn't go to sleep until almost 1 a.m. again, and I didn't sleep well, and I was up at 6:20. My head is hurting and I just feel... tired.
Worked today - I can't decide which is worse, home or the shop - I guess it's a tie - both places are filled with things Jerry has left behind, everywhere, memories of his presence. He's got to be just about to come around that corner. It's been the way life has been for 11 years - he's there, I know he is. He has to be coming back - his hat is hanging on his desk here, his sweater is hanging on a peg at work, his stuff is everywhere - and how can all this useless shit still be here and Jerry not be coming back?
Made it through the day at work with only four crying jags, if I'm counting right (I may have lost count). But at the same time... no, it's not real. Because it just makes no sense and it was all so fast and he's in all these photos all over the house, and he has to be coming back, he just has to. Because he just has to.
Because, he just has to.
I can't deal with this house and this land on my own. It was Jerry's talent and vision that turned this really ugly (on the inside) house into the beautiful, (mostly) finished place it is now; it was Jerry's vision and effort that was going to turn the yard into a sea of native plants and pathways and wildflowers. Now I've got a beautiful house with a seeping, leaking, moldy basement that'll cost I don't know how much yet to waterproof and shape up, I've got a hugely overgrown yard with out-of-control invasive buckthorn, I've got a dehumidifier that keeps making loud noises no matter how many times I go down there and try to fiddle with it (and I've got it running constantly and the basement is still wet, and oh I just can't wait to see the electric bill), I've got a garage door that I'm sure is going to pop out of its tracks any time now, I've got an almost-12-year-old minivan that I just have to hope is going to continue to hold on, I've got a leaking toilet, I've got this big old house with just non-handy me in it. And one way or another, by the end of the summer it's pretty clear I won't have a job (not that the job I have now is actually paying me anything - as Seamus and I noted weeks ago, we're basically working for insurance coverage). I don't even want to think about Jerry's business coming to an end - it will be like Death reaching back and saying "Sorry, forgot something" - and dragging the shop away too.
It's all so overwhelming. I know, I know - I must not make any big decisions right now. (On the other hand, I do need to deal with the basement, that I know. I need to talk to one of the contractors about that soon.) I found an online bulletin board for "young widows and widowers" (47 still counts as "young" in this context, I guess) and a lot of people there counsel against thinking about the future right away. They talk about making it out of bed in the morning and getting through each day. Wise. But I can't help but wonder about the future anyway. And if there will be a time when the idea of having one seems like a good thing.
On the weird side, I was going to cancel the satellite TV service this morning. I told them my husband had died, I had spent a month visiting him in the hospital and never turned the TV on, it was just me now and I didn't think I would keep the service. So they gave me a $200 credit on my account, no strings attached, and told me to keep the service for the summer and see what I thought then. Okaaaay. Guess it really is a cutthroat world for TV providers.
Worked today - I can't decide which is worse, home or the shop - I guess it's a tie - both places are filled with things Jerry has left behind, everywhere, memories of his presence. He's got to be just about to come around that corner. It's been the way life has been for 11 years - he's there, I know he is. He has to be coming back - his hat is hanging on his desk here, his sweater is hanging on a peg at work, his stuff is everywhere - and how can all this useless shit still be here and Jerry not be coming back?
Made it through the day at work with only four crying jags, if I'm counting right (I may have lost count). But at the same time... no, it's not real. Because it just makes no sense and it was all so fast and he's in all these photos all over the house, and he has to be coming back, he just has to. Because he just has to.
Because, he just has to.
I can't deal with this house and this land on my own. It was Jerry's talent and vision that turned this really ugly (on the inside) house into the beautiful, (mostly) finished place it is now; it was Jerry's vision and effort that was going to turn the yard into a sea of native plants and pathways and wildflowers. Now I've got a beautiful house with a seeping, leaking, moldy basement that'll cost I don't know how much yet to waterproof and shape up, I've got a hugely overgrown yard with out-of-control invasive buckthorn, I've got a dehumidifier that keeps making loud noises no matter how many times I go down there and try to fiddle with it (and I've got it running constantly and the basement is still wet, and oh I just can't wait to see the electric bill), I've got a garage door that I'm sure is going to pop out of its tracks any time now, I've got an almost-12-year-old minivan that I just have to hope is going to continue to hold on, I've got a leaking toilet, I've got this big old house with just non-handy me in it. And one way or another, by the end of the summer it's pretty clear I won't have a job (not that the job I have now is actually paying me anything - as Seamus and I noted weeks ago, we're basically working for insurance coverage). I don't even want to think about Jerry's business coming to an end - it will be like Death reaching back and saying "Sorry, forgot something" - and dragging the shop away too.
It's all so overwhelming. I know, I know - I must not make any big decisions right now. (On the other hand, I do need to deal with the basement, that I know. I need to talk to one of the contractors about that soon.) I found an online bulletin board for "young widows and widowers" (47 still counts as "young" in this context, I guess) and a lot of people there counsel against thinking about the future right away. They talk about making it out of bed in the morning and getting through each day. Wise. But I can't help but wonder about the future anyway. And if there will be a time when the idea of having one seems like a good thing.
On the weird side, I was going to cancel the satellite TV service this morning. I told them my husband had died, I had spent a month visiting him in the hospital and never turned the TV on, it was just me now and I didn't think I would keep the service. So they gave me a $200 credit on my account, no strings attached, and told me to keep the service for the summer and see what I thought then. Okaaaay. Guess it really is a cutthroat world for TV providers.
In the photo: what a widow looks like. 
20 June 2010
9th Wedding Anniversary, 17 March 2009
Taken in front of Jerry's computer. After this, I had it in my mind that we would take this sort of picture on every subsequent anniversary for all the decades to come.
Things in our basement
Three mice down, not sure how many to go.
And I'm wondering how much it costs to waterproof a basement, after first getting rid of the black mold and dealing with the crumbling plaster.
So tired.
And I'm wondering how much it costs to waterproof a basement, after first getting rid of the black mold and dealing with the crumbling plaster.
So tired.
KLF & JME
Fascinating
The uses people make of an expression of condolences can be just fascinating, I'm discovering. Two stand out so far: the "we're going to donate to a cause we like, whether it has anything to do with Jerry or not, rather than inquiring as to what he would perhaps have wanted" approach. And the "as you know, we don't really like you, and we want you to remember that, so we're sending you a card, but we're not going to mention you by name anywhere on the envelope or in the card" approach.
Fascinating. I wish Jerry were here - I'm sure he'd have some choice words about it. Although, knowing Jerry, he might look for the good in it, try to see things from their point of view, think about their motivations. Or he'd just find it laughable. My zen husband.
Went to bed at 1 a.m. - for some reason I'm afraid to go to sleep. It's not that I've had bad dreams (yet?) - I don't remember what I've been dreaming. And it's not that I'm not tired. I just don't want to go to bed. But anyway, I lay there at 1 a.m. and began to think about some particularly horrific physical ordeals Jerry went through in these last weeks, and how helpless I was to protect him from them, and found myself crying uncontrollably for a while. Then this morning Erin had posted an album on Facebook of old photos, marking Father's Day, and that set me off again (although I didn't know that particular Jerry myself, having only met him 12 years ago - and my goodness, if I thought he was skinny when I knew him, he was even skinnier when he was younger!). Small breaks through the numbness. Painful.
Fascinating. I wish Jerry were here - I'm sure he'd have some choice words about it. Although, knowing Jerry, he might look for the good in it, try to see things from their point of view, think about their motivations. Or he'd just find it laughable. My zen husband.
Went to bed at 1 a.m. - for some reason I'm afraid to go to sleep. It's not that I've had bad dreams (yet?) - I don't remember what I've been dreaming. And it's not that I'm not tired. I just don't want to go to bed. But anyway, I lay there at 1 a.m. and began to think about some particularly horrific physical ordeals Jerry went through in these last weeks, and how helpless I was to protect him from them, and found myself crying uncontrollably for a while. Then this morning Erin had posted an album on Facebook of old photos, marking Father's Day, and that set me off again (although I didn't know that particular Jerry myself, having only met him 12 years ago - and my goodness, if I thought he was skinny when I knew him, he was even skinnier when he was younger!). Small breaks through the numbness. Painful.
19 June 2010
And the numbness continues
Seeing obituaries of people who lived into their 80s and 90s and resenting them, resenting them getting to have all those extra years, resenting the ones who love them getting to have them for all those extra years. I wanted decades more with Jerry, lots of decades. If I actually did believe yet that Jerry is never coming back, the resentment would be that much stronger.
This numbness is getting more and more frightening. I find myself doing and seeing things I know would be upsetting me so much if I were really feeling things - I got chilly this evening and put on one of Jerry's flannel shirts; I went upstairs earlier to the "Buddha bedroom" (we call it that because Jerry decorated it with Tibetan thangkas and Buddhist statuettes, as well as some Mexican Day of the Dead artwork) to find some papers I want to get together for the lawyer on Wednesday, and noticed half of a Heath bar wrapped in its wrapper next to the computer - waiting for Jerry's appetite to return enough for him to eat the second half. Hell, everything about the house would be upsetting me if I were feeling things. The clipboard leaning against the wall on the upstairs landing, where Jerry put it while in the middle of painting up there last fall; the seedlings he planted for his hydroponic window garden project, which were over-warmed by the heating mat they were on and didn't survive - we shrugged it off, saying he'd just plant a new batch; the black raspberries I know are going to appear out there on vines, which he was looking forward to picking, and to using again this summer to make jam, as he did last year. But so far I think about these things, see these things, and maybe cry a little bit... but it's all still to come. And that's so scary.
The picture of Jerry I posted today, of him on the back porch just over a year ago - I love that picture. I mean, I love all pictures of Jerry, but in that one he looks so relaxed and happy. And so real. As if he's going to get up out of that chair and walk back into the house, and I'll be able to walk up to him as I've done so many times and put my arms around him, and I'll wake up from this nightmare and everything will be just fine. And I'll tell him about this horrible, horrible dream I've been having. And I'll be so grateful to have woken up.
This numbness is getting more and more frightening. I find myself doing and seeing things I know would be upsetting me so much if I were really feeling things - I got chilly this evening and put on one of Jerry's flannel shirts; I went upstairs earlier to the "Buddha bedroom" (we call it that because Jerry decorated it with Tibetan thangkas and Buddhist statuettes, as well as some Mexican Day of the Dead artwork) to find some papers I want to get together for the lawyer on Wednesday, and noticed half of a Heath bar wrapped in its wrapper next to the computer - waiting for Jerry's appetite to return enough for him to eat the second half. Hell, everything about the house would be upsetting me if I were feeling things. The clipboard leaning against the wall on the upstairs landing, where Jerry put it while in the middle of painting up there last fall; the seedlings he planted for his hydroponic window garden project, which were over-warmed by the heating mat they were on and didn't survive - we shrugged it off, saying he'd just plant a new batch; the black raspberries I know are going to appear out there on vines, which he was looking forward to picking, and to using again this summer to make jam, as he did last year. But so far I think about these things, see these things, and maybe cry a little bit... but it's all still to come. And that's so scary.
The picture of Jerry I posted today, of him on the back porch just over a year ago - I love that picture. I mean, I love all pictures of Jerry, but in that one he looks so relaxed and happy. And so real. As if he's going to get up out of that chair and walk back into the house, and I'll be able to walk up to him as I've done so many times and put my arms around him, and I'll wake up from this nightmare and everything will be just fine. And I'll tell him about this horrible, horrible dream I've been having. And I'll be so grateful to have woken up.
The tattoo
Here it is. I only wish I'd had it done before, so Jerry could have seen it. I think he would have liked it. I do. Mike at Fox Valley Tattoo in Algonquin did a lovely job.
Before the Cold Mountain Concert
If you ever buy or rent the DVD of Cold Mountain, take a look at the extra features on the second disk. You'll see Jerry in the "Words and Music of Cold Mountain" and "Sacred Harp History" extras.
Memorial Donations
I've been asked if there's anywhere in particular people might make memorial donations in Jerry's name, so I'm happy to post that information here.
I've set up a "star" for Jerry on the website of Stand Up To Cancer - click here to go to that page.
Jerry was fascinated by Tibet, and the International Campaign for Tibet was an organization he supported. They're at http://www.savetibet.org/
Jerry also supported Northern Illinois Food Bank http://www.northernilfoodbank.org/
And of course there's the Sacred Harp Musical Heritage Association http://www.fasola.org/shmha/
I've set up a "star" for Jerry on the website of Stand Up To Cancer - click here to go to that page.
Jerry was fascinated by Tibet, and the International Campaign for Tibet was an organization he supported. They're at http://www.savetibet.org/
Jerry also supported Northern Illinois Food Bank http://www.northernilfoodbank.org/
And of course there's the Sacred Harp Musical Heritage Association http://www.fasola.org/shmha/
Things fall apart
I'm having the strange feeling that Jerry is the glue that held my world together, in the physical sense, and now that he's dead, things have begun to go seriously haywire. If I stop and try to be more sane, I realize that things always go haywire. But in the shop there've been all sorts of weird problems with the spray guns, and yesterday huge thunderstorms rolled through and left me without electricity from 3:45 yesterday afternoon until about fifteen minutes ago, 8:30 this morning. I felt really cut off not having Internet access - given my complete lack of desire to talk on the phone, no Internet means no interactive connection to the outside world. Battery-run and hand-crank radios kept me company for a bit last night, and I read Earl Grollman's Living When A Loved One Has Died by candlelight at the kitchen table, shortly afterwards getting candlewax all over that book, the table, the placemats, my finger, and Genevieve Davis Ginsburg's Widow to Widow when I tried to carry a candle into the dining room that isn't a dining room (we never had a table and chairs in here - it contains my rolltop desk, a desk Jerry made, a credenza he got for cheap at work, and folding bookcases full of CDs) to use the old-fashioned plug-into-the-wall phone to call ComEd and try to find out when the power would be back on.
As you can see, I stopped at Barnes & Noble on the way home and went through their bereavement section. The third book I got is Helen Fitzgerald's The Mourning Handbook (I was going to say it's the only one of the three that escaped the wax, but I've found some on the spine). Since, at least so far, I'm not finding myself needing to know "why" - why Jerry died, why other people are still alive, why I can't have him back - since I don't remember a time when I ever sought or expected meaning in life or answers to questions about why we're here and why we die horrible painful deaths - I find right now what I want (besides Jerry - always Jerry) is to know that what's happening to my mind and body are typical, normal for someone in this situation. These books seem to promise these sorts of things, and some sort of vague road map for the kinds of things I can expect. Although they all remind me again and again that each person is different and goes through mourning and bereavement at her own pace and in her own way. Didion has just cited a study that says that it's rougher for people whose lives were thoroughly entwined with their mates' lives, which bodes ill for me, I'm afraid.
I feel even more numb than before.
When the power went on again, I went around the house resetting clocks, including the one on the answering machine, and I realized I didn't remember what our outgoing message was - so I played it, and it's Jerry's voice. I switched it over to the mechanical-sounding default message that comes with the machine. That didn't erase Jerry's message, but now people who call won't hear him.
I'm thinking today is the day I'm going to have Jerry's "J. Enright" signature tattooed on my arm (although which arm and where exactly I'm still not 100% certain). I'll have to call the shop when they open to make sure they have electricity first, I suppose.
As you can see, I stopped at Barnes & Noble on the way home and went through their bereavement section. The third book I got is Helen Fitzgerald's The Mourning Handbook (I was going to say it's the only one of the three that escaped the wax, but I've found some on the spine). Since, at least so far, I'm not finding myself needing to know "why" - why Jerry died, why other people are still alive, why I can't have him back - since I don't remember a time when I ever sought or expected meaning in life or answers to questions about why we're here and why we die horrible painful deaths - I find right now what I want (besides Jerry - always Jerry) is to know that what's happening to my mind and body are typical, normal for someone in this situation. These books seem to promise these sorts of things, and some sort of vague road map for the kinds of things I can expect. Although they all remind me again and again that each person is different and goes through mourning and bereavement at her own pace and in her own way. Didion has just cited a study that says that it's rougher for people whose lives were thoroughly entwined with their mates' lives, which bodes ill for me, I'm afraid.
I feel even more numb than before.
When the power went on again, I went around the house resetting clocks, including the one on the answering machine, and I realized I didn't remember what our outgoing message was - so I played it, and it's Jerry's voice. I switched it over to the mechanical-sounding default message that comes with the machine. That didn't erase Jerry's message, but now people who call won't hear him.
I'm thinking today is the day I'm going to have Jerry's "J. Enright" signature tattooed on my arm (although which arm and where exactly I'm still not 100% certain). I'll have to call the shop when they open to make sure they have electricity first, I suppose.
18 June 2010
Life imitates art
I was going to go back to bed for a bit longer until it's time to get up for work after going to the bathroom just now, but had a moment straight out of Minghella's Truly, Madly, Deeply (but involving, luckily, a smaller rodent) - I was in the bathroom when something caught my eye, and my first thought was "ant" until I realized it was much, much bigger: a mouse was scampering around on the floor. And having seen Truly, Madly, Deeply way more times than is good for a person, I immediately thought of that: man dies, partner is left behind, rats appear (at least in my case, knock wood, it was only a mouse), partner is freaked out. Of course, in the movie the rats are terrified of ghosts and the reappearance of Jamie to Nina is marked by their absence, and while I can hope with every ounce of disordered thinking I have going on that Jerry is going to come back, I know that in my case it's long past time to reset the Rat Zapper. So I did that just now. We used to try to use humane no-kill mousetraps and take them outside when we caught them, but the mouse droppings in the kitchen drawers were the last straw and now we use this one. And Jerry used to be the one who could deal with it.
My Bambi-ized heart, which keeps me from eating meat and is steering me towards a more vegan diet, seems totally unmoved now by the thought of trapping these mice in a lethal trap. I don't think it's fair that anything or anyone gets to live if Jerry doesn't.
My Bambi-ized heart, which keeps me from eating meat and is steering me towards a more vegan diet, seems totally unmoved now by the thought of trapping these mice in a lethal trap. I don't think it's fair that anything or anyone gets to live if Jerry doesn't.
17 June 2010
Strange thoughts
Just now found myself looking at the picture of Jerry and me at the top of this blog and thinking that the person who died in this room less than a week ago wasn't him, and that the person in the photo is still out there somewhere and will soon come back to me. Add this to other thoughts that have gone through my mind in these days, like when I was sitting by him after he died and thinking for sure his chest would start rising and falling again any second (I do remember saying, as if I had no control over what came out of my mouth - that happened a lot just after he died, me hearing things coming out of my mouth that seemed to be said by someone else - "He's not breathing." And that was possibly as much as an hour after he'd already stopped breathing, as if my mentioning it would change things and he'd start again). And again, I find myself wondering if the cremation has taken place yet, and feeling this occasional frantic need to rush to the car and drive to the funeral home and rescue him before they do it, as if that will bring him back.
The later it is in the evening when I write, the more likely this sort of entry will be the result, I'm afraid.
The later it is in the evening when I write, the more likely this sort of entry will be the result, I'm afraid.
Kindness/Media/"Died"
I've been getting messages through e-mail, messages through Facebook, comments on this blog, postings on my Facebook page, tweets on Twitter, and now cards in the mail, from people I know and even from people I don't, people who read my howl in the form of a comment on a posting about Jane Brody's articles on widowhood the other day on a New York Times website blog and have so kindly responded. Thank you to all of you. Your kindness is a gift.
I'm glad there are all these forms of media that don't require me actually to talk. I'm not a fan of the telephone at the best of times; and since Jerry was diagnosed with cancer back in January, I've become even less capable of talking on the phone. There's just so much I don't want to say, so much I don't have the energy to say. With written media, with the Internet, I can say what I'm capable of saying, what I want to say, and leave it at that.
I called insurance agents today, the one who deals with our medical insurance through work, and the one who deals with our homeowner's and car insurance. The former I think I was too abrupt with - I should have stopped to remember he's known Jerry longer than I have and that he would consider Jerry more than just a client, and the shock in his voice after I told him Jerry had died on Sunday was painful to hear - I should have thought of a way to break the news more gently. He sounded very upset as we rang off. The latter I didn't reach, just got a receptionist, who said I need to change the car title to my name before I can change the name on the insurance policy. So the name on the policy is now Jerry's "estate," and I guess I have to wait for death certificates before I can change the title. Another thing to mention to the lawyer when I meet with her on Wednesday. I'll be spending part of the weekend gathering as much information as I can about bank accounts, IRAs, etc. Have I mentioned Jerry didn't have a will? He had ordered a program for us to do wills, before all the cancer stuff, but we never got it done, and then after the diagnosis I just could not bring myself to mention things like "wills" or "powers of attorney," no matter how much I knew that sort of thing was important. I even bought those documents from LegacyWriter.com while Jerry was in the hospital, but again, even if he'd been in any sort of shape to sign legal documents, which he wasn't, I couldn't bring it up. But it will be fine. It's not like there's a huge estate at stake, or fractious heirs who will battle over a 1999 Toyota Sienna with over 150,000 miles on it.
I've been looking up books on bereavement online. The Didion book is my starting point; I'm thinking I might stop at a bookstore tomorrow and see what else is there. It feels a bit like when Jerry was undergoing treatments and had no appetite and I'd keep stopping at grocery stores and buying anything I could think of that I hoped would tempt him (and nothing did); now I feel like I'm trying to shop my way into safety again, this time with books. Because surely one of them will have the magic words in it that will make all this go away and make me feel okay again. Haven't gotten that far into the Didion yet, but I suspect this qualifies as "magical thinking."
Last note for now: I think I'm shocking people when I use the word "died." I call the lawyer, I call the insurance agent, I call Social Security, and I say "My husband died," and I get the feeling I've violated some sort of unwritten but understood law of etiquette. In my experience, most people use euphemisms - they say a person "passed," "passed on," "passed away," "is gone." I completely understand the instinct to do that: it feels harsh to say "Jerry died," and half the time I'm making these phone calls, I'm composed until I say the words and then I break down and have to apologize to the person I'm talking to, with whom I'm supposed to be having a business-like conversation. But at the same time, saying Jerry has "passed" is not going to bring him back, is not going to make the pain I feel go away, is not going to make this horrible, unbearable reality any less real. It will not change the fact that he has died. I understand, I totally understand, why people use other words, and I don't begrudge them that at all. But for me, saying them feels like trying to soften something that can't be softened, make something less shocking that is the most shocking thing I've ever experienced. Because no matter what words I use, the fact remains: Jerry died.
And I write it and say it but somehow I don't think I really believe it yet.
I'm glad there are all these forms of media that don't require me actually to talk. I'm not a fan of the telephone at the best of times; and since Jerry was diagnosed with cancer back in January, I've become even less capable of talking on the phone. There's just so much I don't want to say, so much I don't have the energy to say. With written media, with the Internet, I can say what I'm capable of saying, what I want to say, and leave it at that.
I called insurance agents today, the one who deals with our medical insurance through work, and the one who deals with our homeowner's and car insurance. The former I think I was too abrupt with - I should have stopped to remember he's known Jerry longer than I have and that he would consider Jerry more than just a client, and the shock in his voice after I told him Jerry had died on Sunday was painful to hear - I should have thought of a way to break the news more gently. He sounded very upset as we rang off. The latter I didn't reach, just got a receptionist, who said I need to change the car title to my name before I can change the name on the insurance policy. So the name on the policy is now Jerry's "estate," and I guess I have to wait for death certificates before I can change the title. Another thing to mention to the lawyer when I meet with her on Wednesday. I'll be spending part of the weekend gathering as much information as I can about bank accounts, IRAs, etc. Have I mentioned Jerry didn't have a will? He had ordered a program for us to do wills, before all the cancer stuff, but we never got it done, and then after the diagnosis I just could not bring myself to mention things like "wills" or "powers of attorney," no matter how much I knew that sort of thing was important. I even bought those documents from LegacyWriter.com while Jerry was in the hospital, but again, even if he'd been in any sort of shape to sign legal documents, which he wasn't, I couldn't bring it up. But it will be fine. It's not like there's a huge estate at stake, or fractious heirs who will battle over a 1999 Toyota Sienna with over 150,000 miles on it.
I've been looking up books on bereavement online. The Didion book is my starting point; I'm thinking I might stop at a bookstore tomorrow and see what else is there. It feels a bit like when Jerry was undergoing treatments and had no appetite and I'd keep stopping at grocery stores and buying anything I could think of that I hoped would tempt him (and nothing did); now I feel like I'm trying to shop my way into safety again, this time with books. Because surely one of them will have the magic words in it that will make all this go away and make me feel okay again. Haven't gotten that far into the Didion yet, but I suspect this qualifies as "magical thinking."
Last note for now: I think I'm shocking people when I use the word "died." I call the lawyer, I call the insurance agent, I call Social Security, and I say "My husband died," and I get the feeling I've violated some sort of unwritten but understood law of etiquette. In my experience, most people use euphemisms - they say a person "passed," "passed on," "passed away," "is gone." I completely understand the instinct to do that: it feels harsh to say "Jerry died," and half the time I'm making these phone calls, I'm composed until I say the words and then I break down and have to apologize to the person I'm talking to, with whom I'm supposed to be having a business-like conversation. But at the same time, saying Jerry has "passed" is not going to bring him back, is not going to make the pain I feel go away, is not going to make this horrible, unbearable reality any less real. It will not change the fact that he has died. I understand, I totally understand, why people use other words, and I don't begrudge them that at all. But for me, saying them feels like trying to soften something that can't be softened, make something less shocking that is the most shocking thing I've ever experienced. Because no matter what words I use, the fact remains: Jerry died.
And I write it and say it but somehow I don't think I really believe it yet.
First day on my own
My parents left for Midway very early this morning; since Lynne and Bill left Wednesday morning, I am now in the house on my own (except for a few moments yesterday when my parents were out taking all those high-nutrition high-calorie foods I had bought for Jerry to a local food bank) for the first time since Jerry came home. Perhaps it's too soon, but I feel like I need to start learning to be on my own again. Before I met Jerry, I was used to living alone, being alone - it was how I lived huge chunks of my life. There were times I was lonely, but solo was just the way life was. Now I have to figure out how to adapt back to that... but in a place where I'm surrounded by memories of a life lived together, a life I loved. When I moved here to be with Jerry, I was a bit concerned about how our life together would work - how I would do with someone else there. That concern was absolutely for naught: I felt comfortable sharing a home with Jerry from the start, I never felt the need for "more space" - we went to work together, we worked together, we came home together, we ate meals together, we went grocery shopping together, hell, we even went and got haircuts together, and it was never too much - it was never enough, I now understand. Before his first hospitalization in February, for the anemia and blood clot, Jerry and I had only spent two nights apart since I moved here in the fall of 1999, the time he went to the Missouri Sacred Harp Convention and I went to Western MA... and I missed him badly that whole weekend, and we didn't split our trips again after that, ever.
No pithy conclusion. I need to go take a shower: I'm going to work today, back to the cabinet shop for the first time since Jerry died, for the first time since he was admitted to St. Alexius the second and final time on 12 May. For now, this is what I think I'll be doing. Lots depends on how long the shop stays around, and what its eventual fate will be. After it's gone... I don't know. This house was our home; it's still the beautiful house Jerry made, but it's not our home anymore - home for me was described in that old saying, "where the heart is," and my heart is with Jerry, and Jerry isn't here. I don't have a home anymore; I have a house. And eventually I think I may find this is too much house for me, a single woman in a three-bedroom house on an acre and a half of land, out in the suburbs in a part of the country where, except for belonging totally with Jerry, wherever he was, I've never felt I really was meant to be. Jerry and I were enough for each other through our whole marriage, and now that he's dead, the huge hole in my life here is not just where my heart was: it's in my life itself, and I'm here without a circle of friends (I worked with Jerry and Seamus; Jerry and I were not churchgoers or "joiners"; and I'm an introverted person who's never made friends easily anyway. I have no one in this area to turn to).
They say not to make any drastic changes during a period of intense grief (and the "intense" is still coming), and I won't. But I'm thinking.
16 June 2010
Chest-clenching/Death and the Television
Occasional chest-clenching waves of pain. Mostly associated with words coming out of my mouth (I'm not one who's previously tended to talk to myself out loud), mostly along the lines of "Jerry, please come back" or "Jerry, I can't do this." How can I do this? How can I live without him? How can I be in this world, in this house that is so much a beautiful reflection of his craft and talent as a cabinetmaker and designer and craftsman, surrounded by the yard he had such plans for, with the wildflowers up for the first time and the native grasses and plants spreading the way he hoped, and the buckthorn encroaching (his nemesis), how can I be in all the places we were together, how can I go forward without him? I don't want to. I want him to come back. I want him to be himself, his mostly-healthy, beautiful, loving, cynical, silly, kind, brilliant self. I want to see those twinkling blue eyes and the silly face he always made when I called him "Handsome husband" (before he shot back "Beautiful wife"). I want him to be here. I don't want him to be dead and I don't want to be a widow, I want to be Jerry's wife, the way I've been for ten years, the way I've been happy for ten years. I want our life back. I want my honey back.
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I fear I may be repeating the kinds of things I just wrote up there more and more often. Won't make for scintillating reading. But it's there.
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Now, Death and the Television. Or Death and the Movies, for that matter. Until now, I had never witnessed a death before. I had never witnessed the weeks leading up to a death. I had never seen the pure physical hell a human body can be subjected to, day after day after day. And now that I have, I realize that about death, as about so many other things, television lies. The movies lie. They show the person on her deathbed, calm, quiet, comfortable, perhaps with a glow of perspiration on her forehead. She's lucid when she's awake, and she has profound last words of wisdom to impart to the loved ones gathered around the bed. She recognizes everyone, her breathing stays normal to the end, she's stoic and accepting in the face of what's coming. And then she slips peacefully away, possibly even smiling, definitely looking beautiful and just as she did in life.
It's all a lie. I wish it wasn't. I wish I'd had the chance for profound final conversations with my honey, I wish he'd been comfortable and calm the whole time, I wish he'd been lucid and himself. I wish he hadn't slipped away over the course of weeks of pain. I wish he'd had a comfortable moment some time between last October and 13 June.
I wish he were here.
Thousands and thousands
Jerry got a statement in the mail from the hospital (doesn't include the doctors' fees, of course) today, for the period from his admission on 12 May to the day I signed the hospice papers, 7 June. Don't have it in front of me so this isn't the precise figure, but it was about $208,500. Again, this doesn't include the doctors' fees. As an example of the insanity of it all, the two short physical therapy sessions he had? About $1,700.
If not for Medicare and the supplemental Blue Cross insurance, I'd be facing bankruptcy - not to mention from the tens of thousands of dollars all his tests and treatments cost before 12 May.
So there you go.
In other news, I think it may be time to turn to Didion. Will be picking up a copy this evening. Hoping for wisdom and some reassurance that surviving this is possible, and desirable.
Numbness timeframe?
The New York Times seems to have picked this season as a time to run articles about widowhood and bereavement, in an odd bit of serendipity. This morning a comment on one of those articles contains an account by a woman whose husband died a year ago, in which she says "When they talk about the stages of grief, I think they forget to mention the sheer numbness that sets in immediately, perhaps as a sort of defense mechanism." I am so, so definitely in the midst of this. I mean, for these past weeks I've been rollercoastering between numbness and grief, but now the numbness is flatter, broader, more pervasive - except when it's not at moments and the crying comes. But I just know I'm not feeling much right now. Which frightens me a huge amount, as I wonder what it will be like when I do.
Seamus wisely said he knows it will come, and he's not going out looking for it - it will be here when it's here.
I got a message on Facebook from a woman I don't know (but whose name I've seen, as she's a Sacred Harp singer), who told me they've been singing for Jerry at Camp Fasola, the now annual Sacred Harp summer program held in Alabama. Very kind of her to tell me. And I know Jerry would have appreciated it.
15 June 2010
You'd think they'd know better
Phone rings, it's the division of the hospice company that provided the medical equipment. The woman wants to know about the delivery of the equipment, asks if the pieces on her list were delivered, was I shown how to use it (I tell her yes, really fast, and if I'd had to rely on that run-through to operate the equipment, I would have been out of luck). Then she wants to know if the equipment is still running okay. "He's dead," I say. She's only brought up short for a second. Continues on, and eventually asks if I need any more equipment. "He's DEAD," I repeat. She finally gets the message and wonders then if I need the equipment picked up. So I tell her it was done yesterday. At least, unlike most of the people I've spoken to today, at Social Security and the bank and somewhere else, she didn't finish up the call by saying "Have a nice day!"
Out of three lawyers I called, the first one turned out to be the first one to call back, so I have an appointment a week from tomorrow to meet with her. She thinks I might be able to avoid probate and do something called a "small estate affidavit," which I have to Google later.
Some mechanics of it all
Called a lawyer yesterday - no answer, no secretary, just an answering machine, and I left a message and got no response. Answering machine was picking up again today, which was my cue to move on (I had gotten her name from a neighbor across the street). So today it was Googling, and I found a lawyer on Main Street in town who actually has a website and a secretary, which is an improvement. He's in court this morning and the secretary said he'd call me back.
Changing the name on some accounts, too. When we moved here, we sort of randomly set things up, such that I did the gas and water and Jerry did the electric and phone/Internet. I got the electric bill changed over, and the phone/Internet bill is now in my name, but I can't get the "Primary Account ID" changed from Jerry's e-mail address to mine without closing the account and starting a new one, which would result in losing Internet service for a few days. So I won't be doing that, not right now. I don't want to erase Jerry's presence, it goes without saying - but it felt like an attempt to face reality to get these things changed. The IPass was simple, just did it online.
Slept more last night than the less than three hours of the night before, but I don't feel rested. I'm on our air mattress on the floor in our bedroom, while our own bed is still up in a guest bedroom, where Seamus heroically moved it when we had to clear out the bedroom for the hospice hospital bed for Jerry. Possibly I'll have my parents move it back to the bedroom before they leave early Thursday morning, since Bill and Lynne are leaving Wednesday and my parents can have the futon in Jerry's "Buddha bedroom."
Another gloomy day. It was gloomy the day Jerry died and it's been gloomy ever since, which is entirely as it should be.
I noticed water stains on the kitchen ceiling yesterday; today my father was up on a ladder and found a few tiles have fallen off the roof and water is coming through some plywood instead of down into the gutter - possibly why the basement leaked the day of a very heavy rain when Jerry was in the hospital. Daddy put a big tile over it, but I'll have to get that seen to. Now Mommy and Daddy are out at what Jerry called "the Despot" looking into insulation for the two sweating toilet tanks. I sit around mostly dazed while around me my parents and Lynne and Bill get stuff done for me.
Any semblance of ordinary life for Jerry and me came to a screeching halt on 18 January, the day the sigmoidoscopy revealed the tumor, but in the past 5 weeks...is it 5 weeks, I'm not quite sure... since he went into the hospital, my life became entirely focussed on driving to St. Alexius, sitting by Jerry, holding his hand, dealing with doctors and nurses and PCTs, warding off people who counseled me to sign hospice papers, finally acknowledging that hospice was the path we'd have to take, being at home then every day for those less than five short days with a house full of people, loved ones and LPNs and CNAs and visiting RNs, and Jerry at the center of it all, lying there with his life slipping away as his body still fought to survive. I feel like Jerry and I waded into the shallows grasping tightly to each others' hands as the water rose and grew violent; we were tossed and thrown by the waves, and while I held on to him with all my strength and every ounce of will I could muster, Jerry was beaten and tortured until he had no strength left to fight, and, against every ounce of his own will, had to let go. And I was thrown up alone on this empty, desolate shore, left to get to my feet, pick up a few shreds of debris and wander off into the unknown and utterly terrifying interior of this new land where I'm no longer a wife, but instead a widow.
I've loved the pronouns "we" and "our." I don't want to go back to using "I" and "my."
A cliché that fits
It's become a cliché, this poem, but it fits, so I post it here. WH Auden's Funeral Blues:
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone.
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling in the sky the message He is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever, I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling in the sky the message He is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever, I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
14 June 2010
The first day of the End of the World
Why the blog: Jerry died yesterday. Not even 24 hours ago. I had always assumed that the day that happened would mark the end of the world, but here we are coming on the 24-hour mark since the love of my life took his last breath, and I seem still to be here. I've spent the past four months or so engaging in blogging on CaringBridge, keeping people up to date on what was happening with Jerry, finding all that writing to be therapeutic, to a small degree. But that story is over. Now begins the indescribably difficult task of keeping going without my best friend, my soulmate, the man of my dreams, for the rest of my life. I'm thinking blogging on might be a good thing to do. Still to be seen if I continue to think it's a good thing... but this is a start.
In the photo above: Bud Oliver and Jerry in August 2009. Not even a year ago. Before the nightmare began. Photo by Robert Chambless.
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