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Don't (Do)Talk about It

  Today’s writing prompt is brought to you by Death, Grief, and Unpacking the Damn Baggage. I had lunch with a new-ish friend. She has been my dad’s neighbor since about 2016 and she and I have had passing encounters over the years. The more we talked, the more we realized we’re kindred spirits. She’s a card-carrying introvert as well, so we don’t get together often. She works from home and is completely fine with not seeing people for days on end. My soul sister! We have some of the same interests regarding spirituality and other-worldly things and can chatter on for days on the subjects. And of course, we talk about my dad, laugh, and face-palm. She walks with him every Saturday morning, and most Saturdays they go to town together, have lunch and she takes him grocery shopping. She took on a lot of the weight after he quit driving and before I could get down here full time. We all need a neighbor like that! And more than all of that, she’s comfortable letting me talk about John.
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Broken Bones

  I don’t know what it’s going to take to get my writer’s bone fixed. A writer’s bone cast? Surgery? Lobotomy? Oh wait, that’s for a different problem. It’s not like I don’t have subject matter to write about. Grief? Check. Major life events? Check. Bad decisions? Check.   Roughly five times a day, I regret my decision to bring another dog into the mix. Don’t get me wrong, I adore Cooper the Boxer dog and the transition has been easier than I ever thought possible. He minds extremely well and once he knows the rules, rarely breaks them. He and my five-year-old pittie mix DD have moved into step like they have been together for years. There hasn’t been a snarl, fight, or tussle since I brought him home. But I had moved into a period of contentment with DD and Molly the Cat. DD has always been the perfect dog within the confines of the house. She minds well, has never been destructive and has no separation anxiety. Take her on a walk or have visitors, and it’s a different story. Her pl
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It's Anniversary Season

  In eleven days, it will be John’s and my 18 th wedding anniversary. We were so bad at remembering our anniversary that one time we only remembered because John’s aunt texted Happy Anniversary to me the night before. After recovering from my “oh shit” moment, and realizing we already had the menu planned for the week (taco salad was on the menu for the next night), I said to John, “Hey, how do taco salads sound for our anniversary dinner?” I saw the same “oh shit” look on his face I’d just tried to hide from him. He was a little late getting home from work the next evening because he’d stopped for a card and a pound of See’s Candies. “Don’t worry, I forgot it, too,” I said to relieve him of the guilt I knew he was feeling. “Auntie Jan just texted me Happy Anniversary.” It wasn’t the first time we’d forgotten and wouldn’t be the last. John had it in his head it was the 16 th , not the 6 th , so he said, “I didn’t forget. I just remembered wrong.” This year I won’t forget. It’ll be
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Blindsided

  The thing I don't remember is how sneaky anxiety attacks are because I never see it coming until it's there and I desperately need to run away, to get where it's quiet but my heart races and then the tears flow and won't stop and then thank God I remembered I tucked the meds in my purse this morning but when will they kick in retreating to a bench on the edge of the grass to stop, to breathe, take a breath and tell myself this will pass, it's OK, it will pass, condemning myself for something I can't control and hating that this happens when I'm only trying to get my life back. The exercise in a workshop at the writer's conference in my hometown was to write a stream of consciousness paragraph starting with "The thing I don't remember..." It was fresh in my mind, so of course that's where my mind went. The morning sessions were a blur, still coming down off an attack, not wanting to be there, not wanting to be near people, not wanting
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1000 Things

  Since my husband’s death almost nine months ago, my Facebook page and YouTube channel get inundated with posts about grief, videos about how to handle grief, how to cope with loss, how to not lose your shit when you’re hanging on by a thread. Some of them speak to me, some don’t. One video that spoke to me was by a man who had lost his spouse. He talked about getting through it by promising himself to do 1000 new things in the next year. That’s a hell of a lot, I thought. Almost three a day on average. Hell, some days I’m lucky to stumble out of bed, feed and clothe myself and stumble back to bed. THREE new things a DAY?   In the video I watched, the 1000 new things didn’t have to be monumental, bucket list, life-changing things. You didn’t have to snowshoe across Antarctica or hang glide off the side of a cliff. It could be as simple as trying a pumpkin spice latte or wearing a brand of shoe you’ve never worn.   I’ve kept it in the back of my mind, though. I haven’t made an effo
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The Ring

  Last week I saw on a widow’s page I follow on FB (One Happy Widow) that she took her ring off within two weeks of her husband’s death and moved it to her right hand. She saw it as a sign to the world, “Hey, yeah, guess what? “I was a little taken aback, I think, that she could do that so soon. John has been gone almost seven months and I haven’t even thought of taking off my ring, even to move it to another finger.   So that led me to pose the question to a grief support group on FB about when others have taken off their rings, if ever. The majority of the replies were, Never! Just because s/he died doesn’t mean we’re no longer married! Some said they moved it to their right hand. Some said they bought themselves a black onyx band to wear on their left hand, and put their ring away for safe-keeping. I kind of like that idea actually, and maybe when the time is right, I’ll do that. But for now, it’s on my left ring finger to stay. Last month I had a meltdown in the Fred Meyer jewelr
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Memorial Daze

  It seems fitting that I moved into a house I bought with my husband’s life insurance money just before Memorial Day weekend. John has been on my mind more than usual the past many days. John didn’t die in service to his country, but he spent all of his adult life in service to his country. He was always particularly thoughtful on each Memorial Day because he understood the sacrifice. He was present for a few final roll calls. It was one of the few things that could make my Green Beret cry.   I am especially grateful this weekend as I move into my home, sit on my deck, and sip a drink while I look out to my backyard. I have room to stretch. Neighbors yes, but nobody so close you can hear them fart at night. A buffer zone between me and other humans. The yard DD has to do her zoomies is bigger than she’s ever had. Once Dad and I put up the fence and install a doggy door, she’ll be free to zoom to her heart’s delight.   I know this is what John wanted for me, to be taken care of, sa
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