Chapter 71. A lesson on kindness

I stumbled upon a blog about kindness, written by Andy Smallman, co-founder of Puget Sound Community School.  PSCS is an independent private school in Seattle, WA.  Eric volunteered at PSCS for several terms in the past years.  I cannot say it was pure coincidence that I discovered Andy's blog.  What seemed serendipitous was my uncovering of one particular blog entry Finding the Positive in Andy's online classes on Kindness.  

The article is relevant and poignant.  I find myself drawn to the assignment, yet many times unable to finish reading it.  I read to almost the end, and my eyes became blurry.  "...(the movie) does serve to illustrate the point...which involved reviewing an experience in your life that caused you pain in order to find the blessing(s) in it.  This can be an extremely difficult thing to do, finding the positive in something that might have been tragic for you at the time.  And not only that, but to acknowledge that even with gratitude."    

There were experiences in my life that caused me pain, of course.  Events that seemed like major hurricanes at the time were eventually soothed and in time, I was able to acknowledge them with gratitude.  Now, naturally, my attention turned to my husband's death.  How do I ever acknowledge Eric's death with gratitude? How do I find the positive to his death?  That sounds entirely too impossible, and cold.  I am the perfect student to find out how.  I must learn this, impossible as it seems. 

I meditate on this assignment everyday for a week.  I worked really hard to make sure I don't take the lesson out of context, or became defensive.  I still have not acknowledged any gratitude or found the positive in Eric's death, but I have managed to switch the focus of the word(s).  I have somehow managed to switch the focus from my loss, or Eric's death, to the love and relationship we have created together that is lasting.  


My introspection concluded that the love Eric and I have for each other is amazing and incredible.  It is not unconditional.  It is unconditioned.  Big difference. And in my opinion, more meaningful.  I have not realized how strong our love is, until now.  I have not adequately appreciated the strength of our bond, until now.  The second half of my life will be even more fruitful and meaningful, because of what Eric and I have created together during my first half.  I will not only be fine; I will triumph.  My introspection was clear, confident, vivid.
I stand  10-feet tall, with my spine straight up.  I am one incredibly, incredibly lucky woman.  How does this not deserve gratitude? 

Suddenly, I realized, I just may have learned the lesson on Finding the Positive, simply by switching my focus.  It is not avoiding the cold fact - my husband's death - or burying my head in the sand like an ostrich.  It is not the blind will of positive thinking.  It is the power of our mind and our thoughts.  It is meditating on the right stuff.  It is using the power of our brain to focus on the stuff that matters; the stuff that deserves our mind and energy.  Is the loss of Eric and his death more deserving of my daily focus?  Or is it what we have created together - something that is lasting?    

Just because I choose not to focus on the end of Eric's physical life on Earth does not make me think of my husband any less.  In fact, there is no more capacity in my whole being to long for our reunion, and for him to hold my hands ever so tightly again.  

I am immensely grateful to have stumbled upon Andy's website.  It is one great introspective discovery, and one hell of a lesson on kindness.  

Chapter 70. That's ten weeks.

Sometimes I wonder whether it is unhealthy to still count the number of days since Eric's death.  I didn't draw a conclusion.  If I ask Eric, chances are he would say, "it depends." 

I no longer count the days.  It is not important to benchmark against it anymore. Some may call this progress.  I am more pragmatic - I don't do it because it no longer holds a purpose, and it doesn't help me heal.  I only count the days when I blog.  I like referring to my changed life as the number of new chapters I have written.  I consider each day since Eric's death a new chapter.

I wrote five chapters in the last five days, feeling strong and human each day.  I have almost forgotten how extraordinary that feels. Frankly, few could truly empathize, and that's a good thing.  Knowing that feeling is nothing to brag about, and definitely nothing pleasant.  I am all too grateful for friends who could empathize with my loss.  I am seriously grateful for the return of my humanness, and hope that the strength will stay for a while.  

I almost feel sheepish admitting that I feel human, as if it would only be proper if I were in mourning, or if I were to sob continuously for an indefinite period of time, lest it means I no longer long for Eric's warm embrace.  I am fully aware that the sheepishness is completely flawed and unnecessary, and so I refuse to dignify it by giving it another thought.  Feeling human requires no justification.  I miss everything about my husband today, more so than I did yesterday.  And the day before.  

I have fully accepted that tears are now a part of my normal life.  They don't linger, but they always pay an unannounced visit.  I find that I am much better off if I simply accept them as what is, instead of guarding against them like some intrusive distant relatives.  Perhaps my grief and my life is evolving again.  In time, acceptance is within reach and a changed life fully emerges.    

My new-chapter-a-day continues.  I care about lots of things deeply, but only a few are important.  I am still attached to a few things though.  To attach is to be human; the life-long training is to recognize what I am attached to and how it affects me, then learn how to become unattached.  Eric is a phenomenal teacher on that subject.  Now, I am to put that into practice myself.  

When we care deeply about something, yet doing it solely out of love and passion with no attachment to the outcome, that's where magic happens.  

Free thyself from attachment. 

It is all love

I have the most generous friends.  They happen to be the coolest people I know. When I reflect on the past 65 days, which I do very frequently, a few things always bring me to tears.  One of them is my circle of friends who, individually and collectively, are committed and determined to take the absolute best care of me during my times of greatest needs.  

How does that not bring anyone to tears?  

I dedicate this blog entry to all my friends near and afar. Young and Younger. New friends, old friends, best friends.  I don't know why my friends share so much of themselves with me, or why they love me so much.  But they do.  It's  who they are naturally.  It's not me; it's them.  That's what makes it cool.  Any chance I can get my favorite people together, I do so with joy and excitement.  I always become the recipient of their love.  




Twelve beautiful friends joined me for fresh pasta last Saturday.  The fact that I was able to openly thank and express my gratitude for their big help with Eric's Remembrance - and that my sentiments were understood and appreciated by these grateful recipients - should never be taken for granted.  I take nothing for granted these days.

Gratitude is only meaningful if there is a grateful and willing recipient.  Otherwise, the Gratitude Circle breaks.  And it all just becomes meaningless.  

Four bottles of wine.  Prosecco.  Bowls of pasta. Potato gnocchi with dungeness crab.  Bruschetta.  Salumi board.  Short ribs. Rapini.  Grilled carrots.  Oh, and lemon donuts... Suddenly I am hungry again, and thirsty for another glass of Pinot Bianco.

My friends are the most generous people.  They open their hearts to me.  They open their arms for me.  They are committed, determined, persistent.  They let me just be, at the toughest time of my life, without indulging the needs to offer unsolicited sage advice.  They understand the most important character I cherish is expressing sincere gratitude.  And so, they accept my gratefulness, and my Gratitude Circle does not break.  

Namaste.  

The hummus amongst us!

Finally, a light-hearted afternoon.  I seized the moment and captured it on electronic paper. Before long, well, I simply cannot predict what happens next, before long. 

Division of labor is great.  It worked magically well in the kitchen for me and Eric for all our years together.  We did not enjoy having too many cooks in the kitchen.  "Too many" meant "more than one."  We understood and respected that spoken rule all too well.  And harmony has been achieved and maintained for over a decade.  We are not smart enough to mess with what works - let the sleeping dogs lie.  

As far as the kitchen went, Eric was responsible for his famous hummus, crispy quesadilla, sausage making, all kinds of soup including my favorite - chicken soup with matzo balls, any kinds of fish, potato salad olivier (Russian potato salad), borscht, creamy oatmeal and grain cereal, creative fridge-gourmet, and all healthy and obscure grains procured from the bulk section at PCC.  I must emphasize, except for the matzo meal, my husband made nothing from a box or a can.    

I am responsible for all other domestic and international cuisines not mentioned above.  I am also the grill-master. The bread baker.  The party planner.  And the turkey gal, if we so desire to roast one of those obligatory birds on that fateful November Thursday.  

Now, unless I decide to abruptly stop eating some of my favorite items from the Eric Menu, I'd better learn how to make those dishes myself:  the potato salad olivier.  The matzo balls.  The poached fish.  Even the healthy grains that loosely resemble coarse sand.  I thought I would start with the simple one:  hummus.  

Lucky for me, he actually scribbled down his hummus recipe and taped it on the cabinet.  And so today, I got brave and took out a jar of chickpeas from the freezer, attempting to replicate.  No, we don't use the canned stuff.  We cook our own dried garbanzo beans, portion them into peanut-butter jars, and send them to the freezer...!  One would think we still live in the 30's. 

What typically took Eric 15 minutes from start to finish ended up a 2-hour project for me.  At one point I vividly remember his five-minutes-to-perfection warning call would always include this question:  "curry or no curry?"  If I happened to be home when he made hummus, he would always make it the Daisy special:  Extra creamy.  


Today's curry-hummus was edible.  Not terrible, but not great.  It was definitely missing Eric's special touch.  What do you know; even garbanzo beans feel the void.

I cannot imagine what my hockey-pucks-matzo-balls would taste like.  I sure miss my husband, in all things big and small.  




"Change the way you look at things, and those things will change." ~Wayne Dyer

Chapter 62: Trading tsunamis for silent tides

Sometimes I get tired of hearing my own voice, telling people how I feel. 
My grief. My sadness.  My gratitude.  My wound.  My hurt.  My my my.  Me me me. I feel self-absorbed and I become self-conscious.  I want to stop feeling my grief and my sadness and move on to talk about something else, such as the weather. But of course, I don't actually want to talk about the weather.  At times I don't want to talk about anything.  Talking is an energy expenditure now. Sometimes, I just want to listen to Bach and Tchaikovsky and stare out the windows for a while. Like, for five hours.  OK, that may be exaggerating...  I seem to produce no meaningful work at the office.  I wonder why my paycheck keeps coming...

The intense, stabbing feeling has been replaced by the silent tides that consistently greet me multiple times during my day.  I could be getting ready for work.  Riding the bus.  Microwaving my lunch.  Brewing coffee.  Answering an email. Getting ready for bed.  Writing my blog.  Anything.  And suddenly my eyes would tear up. Or I would cry if I am alone.  Sometimes I sob.  It wasn't over any one thing or things, but over the fact that Eric is gone so early in life.  That he has done SO MUCH GOOD for others yet never expected anything in return but perhaps a smile; that he has so much more he wanted to do, and so much life he wanted to live. Yet, he died.  That he was robbed of his life.  I loathe all the gods that mockingly bestowed the pain and shamelessly robbed my husband of his vibrancy.  Every single one of them gods.  They have gone from irrelevant hypocrisy to repulsiveness to me.  Yes, I resent them all.  I want nothing to do with them.  My true sentiment about them has traveled well beyond anger, and I am not afraid to express it, regardless of how "offensive" it may seem.  

My trusted friend Janelle asked if what I am going through matches what I imagine it would be like to lose Eric.  I thought for a long while.  "Not as heart-wrenching as I have imagined."  "Really??"  I clarified, "I didn't know I have so much strength and resilience in me."  I thank my parents, especially my mom, for being the best example of that soft, kind-hearted but resilient character. Then I added, "I've always known that my family and friends love me, but I didn't know so many people LOVE me that much."  The more they love me, the more I am humbled.  

I attended a support group for the first time this week.  I don't know whether it is helpful or not, but you cannot make a judgement in one 2-hour gathering.  The comforting factor of being in the presence of those who are going through a similar experience can also be exhausting.  I realized at the end of the evening that perhaps the best way to help myself is to allow myself to help others in the most natural way.  The support group may just become an avenue for that.  I can still be a gift to others.  

My heart physically aches for the loss of my husband.  I recognize he is always with me, in my heart.  I know he is always with me, just in another form.  I know he loves me always.  I know our love is without bounds.  He knows I am sad.  He knows I am in pain.  He knows I am exhausted.  He knows I am tired of putting one foot in front of another.  But he also knows I am strong.  He even knows that I have a resilient backbone that is made of kryptonite.  

Knowledge is great.  Really.  Regrettably, it has done little to alleviate my sadness. How many more steps am I supposed to take?  It appears that we have just gotten started...   

The Lioness and the Crocodile

If you have ever watched any nature shows on PBS, you could easily recall scenes of wolves or big cats hunting their preys, or defending their territories.  Sometimes they catch an antelope and the pups get fed.  And they buy themselves another day.  Others, they lose their pursuits, get hurt.  Viewers get bewildered and worried.  Is she going to make it?  Who is going to hunt for her and the pups?  How is she going to survive?  

I have an image of me, an injured lioness, that was able to free myself from the death grip of a crocodile.  Badly hurt, but not defeated.  I limped to my den and slumped onto the dirt.  Camouflaged and protected in my cave.  There I rest and nurse my wound.  Hopeful that one day I will be well enough to hunt antelopes and buffalos again.  

In the den, I the lioness remain contemplative.  Solitary.  Quiet.  Patient.  Grateful. Grateful that the crocodile didn't snap my neck like a twig, although it easily could. Patient that I will spring again when my wound is healed, however long it may take. 

The tsunami-like shockwaves from Eric's death are long gone, although the trauma lingers like the perpetual tides that brush the shores quietly.  Still, everyday, the solitude and peace is sharply cut with trauma and grief, ever so briefly, yet deeply and vividly. Is this a tell tale sign that I have not yet reached peace?  

Patience.  There is the lioness in all of us.  

Chapter 53: There isn't a name for me

If pain isn't linear, and grief isn't circular, then who can say healing actually exists?The worst, just as the best, technically, can still be "yet to come."  

I wonder why there is a specific word for a wife who has lost a husband, and a husband who has lost a wife - a widow and a widower.  I have never thought about that before, let alone cared about it.  There isn't a word that I know of for a mother who has lost a son; a sister who has lost a brother; a person who has lost a best friend.  Not even two people who are engaged to be married.  And yet, there is a specific word for a married couple who has lost a spouse.  As if they would carry more weight than all other relationships, regardless of the merit of their marriage.

Why?   

Now that I am a widow, it defines precisely and legally what - or whom - I have lost.  Who has died.  Why I grieve.  Why I am absent-minded.  Why I behave oddly. Maybe acting nonchalantly.  It appears that being crowned a widow suddenly gives me a license to do all of that without facing criticism.  

What if, I want to be known that the person who died is actually more than just a person commonly known as "husband?"  What if he is so much more, so much bigger, so much, well, whatever else.  Why isn't there a name for it?  I want to have a name for it, be called something else, and STILL have the license to grieve deeply. To behave oddly.  To be absent minded.  Not just because I have lost a husband. But so much more.  To be fair, losing a husband, alone, is already more than I can bear.        

What if I just want to crawl into a hole and stay there for a while.  What if I don't want to move forward.  What if progress is actually just an illusion of the mind? But seriously.  Since nothing is linear or circular, and everything is multi-dimensional, what if healing is all but a hoax!?  

All the rhetorical questions with no answers.  Unfortunately, I remember all too vividly: we were used to getting no answers.  

I know no grief, until now.  

Chapter 51: The Tchaikovsky between us

I know I lead a charmed life.  I have never grieved for anything except the death of my dog Jack, a Pembroke Welsh Corgi, who lived like a king for 13 years and one week.  I put Jack down because he stopped eating.  And Jack did virtually nothing but eat.  So clearly, he told me it was time. 

Now, suffice to say, I have no idea what "greets" me from day to day.  Now, I am forced to face the rawest emotions and the biggest grief that turns my charmed life into something entirely not charming.  Something so foreign that I even find it repulsive.  

I find grieving for the death of my husband exceedingly exhausting.  Deeply personal. Heart-breaking.  Suffocating. All consuming.  

I also find that the strength I muster up everyday, piece by piece, morsel by morsel, can all turn into dust with no warning. With seemingly no reasons. Sunny days or stormy nights.  Sometimes, when the tears come, I feel like I am drowning.  

Then I try to apply that "cup half full" thing.  At times, even that sounds annoying and repulsive to a perpetually positive and optimistic person like myself.  Tomorrow is only one night away, I would remind myself.  Tomorrow is not "better." Tomorrow is just that, tomorrow.  But tomorrow *CAN* be better.  That is to say, I won't know, until tomorrow.  

I still have the power to create a brave new day - tomorrow.  I dare say, I still lead a charmed life; although I admit, it is a vortex in pure hell.  I don't recommend it. 

More than just a new page, I call my each new day a new chapter.  At least in the book that I am now writing.  I am the author; the creator; the editor.  Heck, I am even the customer; I have to buy my own book.  I write it however I want to.  I can have as many chapters as I want in just one day.  Who is going to stop me?  I dare anyone saying "no" to a widow!  That's another thing.  The word widow.  Not exactly charming either.  Whether I call myself a widow is not the point.  The fact is, I am a widow.  No difference than I am a woman.  Yet, the word elicits such automatic sorrow and sympathy and "ooohhhhh" and silence.      

And so I wrote Chapter 51 today.  It was downright an exhaustingly tearful chapter.  There was no plot that made today extra sad, but there was the Russian composer Peter Tchaikovsky.  Our last text conversation would involve Tchaikovsky's masterpiece, his one and only Violin Concerto.  And it was vivid.  

"It would bring me tears if I close my eyes while listening to this piece."
"I know.  Me too..."
"He's not human!"  (Followed by a few "LOL") 
"The third movement feels like thousands of horses galloping, crossing a huge plain!  I want to jump up for the finish!  Somebody just interrupted me.  I hate being interrupted when I listen to music."
"My favorite is the first movement." 
"Masterpiece!" 

I debated whether to post this blog entry.  I was always reminded that whatever you post in the internet stays with you forever.  Like a brand on your body.  Too late.  I am now branded.  

May my ability to hear and appreciate music be the very last thing to go, until you hold my hands ever, ever so tightly next to you again.