Weaving Happiness In

          The weather is just lovely these days. I've worked in the garden. I've replaced the firewood on my front porch with my indoor plants so they can enjoy the outdoors, too.

I've hauled some old oak flooring from my old house to my garden, hoping to make retaining walls for garden beds with them. It's something Mike and I were going to do. I miss him for that. He would have done a better job than I can do!

          I went back to yoga class yesterday, for the first time since Mike got sick. It was difficult, not just because my body had forgotten how to do yoga but because the stretching and breathing released emotions I had held in my body and because yoga class was something Mike and I did together, and it was hard to return without him, even though these days, we would have been in the Zoom class separately. It wouldn't have mattered. I still would have gone to his house after yoga. He would have made us a light dinner—yogurt with fruit, cheese and crackers, maybe a glass of wine and a piece of chocolate—and we would have spent the evening talking about his work and mine, ranting about politics, working New York Times crosswords puzzles. I might have read to him, something we both enjoyed. (I read John McPhee's Encounters with the Archdruid to him while he was on hospice.) The next morning we would have gotten up at dawn and hiked up Table Rock Mountain, except that the trail is still closed, so maybe we would have taken a walk through Medford neighborhoods instead. I know the trail is closed because I spent the night at Mike's house last week (just because) and thought I would do a remembering-you hike at dawn, only to find a large sign at the trailhead telling me the trail was closed and, in case I thought I could sneak in a hike, anyway, adding, "This means you!"

          When I arrived at the house the evening before, I found a bouquet of small red roses stuck in the mailbox, dried by the time I got there but appreciated all the same. Someone had made a grass wreath and left it on the porch for me. The neighbor across the road had mowed the grass, a very thoughtful gesture. The house still looks a lot like it did when Mike and I were there, except that I've taken down the tapestry quilt my sister made us as a wedding gift last year.

It was hanging above our bed in Mike's house. Now it hangs in my sewing room. Mike's daughters, his inheritors, will eventually sell the house.

          The other day I installed summer screens on all my windows. I can keep them open all the time now, except that I close the downstairs windows at night so the bear can't get in. The birdsong has been beautiful. I do yoga on the deck

with the birds singing in the trees. I wake up at dawn to the birds' melodies. I write outdoors, amid birdsong. It's the perfect time of year to be outdoors, on the deck. A breeze ruffles through the shade, there are no mosquitoes or yellow jackets, the flowers throw out color like perfume, and birds fill the woods.

          At one point during the three weeks of hospice, after Mike's sister, brother, and sister-in-law had been there for one last visit with him, having braved coronavirus dangers to fly across the country, Mike said to me. "I know it sounds strange, but I'm happy." I could see that it was true. Even immobilized on the bed, dying of cancer, he could touch that place within oneself where one finds happiness.

          I, too, can find those moments, even these days.

Mourning

          I had thought mourning was active, something you did: You threw your hair over your head and keened. You wept and wore black clothes. Your heart felt like stone, and there was an ache that hurt like a knife. Nothing was untouched by the pall of grief.

          Yes, but no. I find instead that mourning is like the sympathetic nervous system: it is a thing of its own and doesn't need my active participation. It is constant, and it is occasional. It hits hard, and it rides easy.

          I had dreaded the mourning of my first wedding anniversary, May 18, given that my husband had died only eleven days earlier, so a few days before, I threw myself into a project of putting together a wall of photographs of Mike during the time I knew him:

choosing them, printing them, framing them, arranging them, hanging them. I had pictures from many hikes; of us at Mt. St. Helen's, at Crater Lake, in the Dolomite Mountains of northern Italy, on the green-sand beach in Hawaii, in the redwoods, at the ocean. There were honeymoon pictures from the northern California coast; touristy pictures from Aix-en-Provence and Croatia; pictures of Mike and me skiing. There were beautiful pictures from his illness (see post on April 30) and from our stupendous wedding on the Applegate River. It was a wonderful project, bringing back memories that had me rejoicing, which, in the end, might be a part of mourning, too.

           Thinking it would mitigate mourning, I invited all the 150 wedding guests to light a candle for Mike and me in honor of our anniversary and to post a picture of it on Google Photos. All day photos of candles were coming in. I felt surrounded by light and love. Candles were lit on the Applegate River, at the wedding site.

Photos were taken of candles with the wedding invitation,

with flowers, with paintings, with hands,

and with special effects for Mike and me. I saw that doing this for us was a way for others to mourn Mike's passing while they also rejoiced in our life together.

          On that day, too, three good friends came over for lunch. They asked for stories about the photographs. We talked about the wedding, and they asked about Mike's three weeks on hospice and what that was like for me. It was good to talk about it. Grief is worse suffered in silence. They listened to all 35 poems I had written during those weeks. Far from a day of mourning, it was a day of remembering and sharing and a spreading of love. 

          But maybe that is also what mourning is.

          In general the mornings are the worst, after I wake up from a night of dreams, mostly jumbled and confused, which I think is another kind of mourning. When I woke up the day after my anniversary feeling desolate and empty, I thought to hike the East Applegate Ridge Trail, that Mike and I had hiked with a small group of out-of-town wedding guests the day after our wedding. I imagined myself hiking with tears flowing, given the emotions attached to the hike, but once I set out on the trail, my spirits lifted, instead. As with the photographs and reading the poems, the memories became uplifting. The wildflowers were as beautiful this year as they had been the year before—

Oregon sunshine, lomatia, Indian paintbrush, wild irises, and thirty-one other kinds—and I remembered how much my out-of-town guests had loved the beauty of my mountains, the views and the flowers. A breeze calmed my mind. Birds were a balm. Above all there was the walking itself, in the woods, on the open hillsides, through the flowers. The day was succor.

          Mourning is not an activity that precludes all others. Walking, writing, planting flowers, visiting friends, and recalling memories through tales and photographs are a part of mourning, which is like the waves of the ocean: now crashing, now receding, now flowing gently, now loud, now just a murmur. Mourning is just a way of loving the one who is gone.

Last Days

          Mike died last Thursday at 6:18, in his home, attended by me and his two daughters, Allegra and Zoey.

          This Monday, May 18, Mike and I would have been married one year. (See posts on May, 9, 23, 30, and June 6 for accounts of our wonderful wedding.)

At our wedding on the Applegate River, May 18, 2019

          His cancer was vicious and aggressive. He started radiation treatments, then was taken to the emergency room and stayed in the hospital for four interminable, lonely, coronavirus-influenced days. The day he came home was a joyous day, even though he came home to die.

          The cancer ravaged his body. He was flat on his back unless someone rolled him over, to give him a bath, say, or to change the sheets. Visitors had to stand in a certain spot where he could see them. Malignant tumors started under his shoulder, then spread visibly, in a gravelly rash, across his chest and stomach. His arm and shoulder were swollen twice their normal size by lymphedema. The cancer attacked his spine, so sitting half-reclined in the bed, he gradually slipped to its foot and had to be lifted to the top again, heavy as he was with paralysis. Since he couldn't stand upright to be transferred to a potty, bowel movements were excruciating experiences. He wore a chest and neck brace until they became unbearable and, by that time, useless anyway, since he couldn't move.

          And yet through it all he was still Mike, still my loving, good-natured, intelligent, conscientious husband, who had brought me so much joy for the past six years. Now he was intent on seeing that his business, Home Comfort Hearth, was in good hands and would continue thriving after he left: he felt that responsibility to his customers and his employees. He accepted with humility and awe the love that family and friends showered on him in honor of the life he had led. I watched as each person who came to see him—employees; friends; his brother, sister-in-law and sister, who flew in from across the country; his favorite nephew, who came from Washington, DC—respond in the identical way. Initially there was shock, carefully concealed, to see Mike like this. Then Mike would start talking to them, and everything clicked into place: This is Mike, just as he always was except he's lying in bed, and what difference does that make? When friends were there, I would slip out for a walk around the neighborhood. Then I was back by his side, chasing people out when I saw him getting tired, caring for him, being with him, reminding him that I loved him.

         After a while the frequent visitors, medical interruptions, and business stuff that took so much of our time had me wondering, ruefully, where those precious intimate times were that I had heard were the best of dying times for husband and wife. They did come. Before the end days, when pain-relief medication took him, for the most part, beyond our realm, after the legal papers had been signed, and in between medical care, we delved deep into our love. Over and over we said how grateful we were we had gotten married last year. We started listing all the hikes we had done together, thinking it would be a fun reminiscence, but instead it made us sad because we kept thinking of all the hikes we had planned to do. I read to him, and I propped the computer at his visual level so we could work crossword puzzles. Each morning, as soon as I heard he was awake, I would pull on my silk bathrobe and slip into the living room, where he was lying in bed, to greet him with a smile and a kiss. The caregiver would make him coffee, which I put in his hand so he could sip it through a straw. I would feed him breakfast, cream of wheat or yogurt. Every morning for a couple of hours we shared each other's company with intimacy and love.

          I am grateful to hospice at A Santé, who responded immediately whenever I called for help and came every week to give him a bath. I am grateful to the caregivers, from Visiting Angels, who did all the cleaning, cooking, and shopping, ran errands, shifted Mike in bed, cleaned up after his bowel movements, and took night shifts so I could sleep. They told me from the beginning they were there as much for me as for Mike, and that was true. I am grateful to Mike's sister and brother, who made it financially possible to have this 24-hour care. I am grateful to every friend who came to visit, to the neighbors who brought flowers, to the employees who expressed such fondness for their boss, to the beautiful final words from family members. Above all, I am grateful for what Mike gave me of himself, not only in those last three weeks but in all the six wonderful years of our relationship.

          His daughters were there for several good days before he died. The growing love between the three of us would have made Mike so happy! When his pain intensified, the nurse gave him more medication, so he could be at ease, if not in consciousness. She was there the morning of the day he died and recognized by his breathing that he would probably die within the hour. He lived another six hours but finally drew his last breath.

         One of Mike's "last words" was that the most important thing is relationships. If you include a relationship with the Earth, Mike lived by that principle. He and I had such good times together, whatever we were doing. Even those last three weeks, if we didn't think about where they were headed, were good times. He was the best companion I've ever had. 

         For me, the hard part is just beginning. 

On our honeymoon a year ago, on the northern California coast

A Contemplation of Death

Sometimes, like now, you come for crowds,
lashing out with the vicious scythe of pestilence
making haystacks of bodies
or whirling your sword right and left
felling warriors on the battlefield with ferocious intent.
At the same time
(at the same time!)
you stalk one body alone,
walking through the door as though you own the place
not knocking or asking permission
just walking right in and sitting on the couch, waiting.
Or you steal into the house we thought was locked
tiptoeing in with stealth.
Or, like an evil genie,
you squeeze in through cracks we thought were sealed
dangling the promise of three wishes before us
wickedly knowing they'll hang unanswered
(when it would only take one, only one!)
slipping into the house like a miasma
to balloon and swell till your presence
hovers in all corners at once.
I see you
glinting your wicked eyes,
licking your lips
waiting your turn
your sure turn
waiting
waiting.