Posts Tagged ‘grief’
If Not Now, When Do We Live Fully?
“Putting your own life/needs/emotions on hold can’t be healthy for you,” I told someone yesterday, and it reminds me of how often I find myself saying that.
A reader writes that she has a sexless and even touchless marriage, but can’t support herself financially so she’s staying. A male friend of mine in his sixties can’t decide whether his current relationship is right for him, so he doesn’t decide, he just goes along. A reader in his fifties will start exploring relationships after he moves. A woman says she will feel sexier after she loses weight. A couple hasn’t had sex for years but won’t see a therapist because they think they should figure it out on their own.
I often ask people of our age who have put their own happiness and passions on hold, “If not now, when?”
If you’ve read much of my blog, you know that I lost my beloved husband, Robert Rice, to cancer last August. He was an artist, a dancer, a thinker, and a teacher to all who knew him. As long as he could stand upright, he painted in his studio every day, creating amazing art, yet always striving for that elusive best painting — maybe his next. He painted some of his most magnificent work in his last two years.
“Do you feel like you’re living on borrowed time,” I asked Robert one morning as he pulled on his paint-splattered jeans and sweater.
“I AM living on borrowed time,” he told me. Then he kissed me and rushed off to tend his garden for a couple of hours before heading to the studio.
I’m making myself cry writing this, but I admired him (and admire him still) for always going towards his goals, his love for life and creativity, and his passion for love itself, even when he knew he was dying.
We all have a death sentence, we just don’t know when it is. As we age, though, we get many reminders of our mortality, some subtle (aches in new places, parts that don’t work 100% like they used to), some not subtle at all (a cancer diagnosis, a spinal or hip fracture, parts that don’t work at all).
It seems to me that we have a responsibility to ourselves and to life itself to live fully, productively, and lovingly — as long as we can.
As I reread this post, I realize that it’s a lesson I have to relearn in my own life now as I emerge from the dark place of grief and make my way back to life, work, sunshine, and joy.
Thank you, Robert, for the lessons you taught me so well.
A New Lesson from Birds and Bees
When birds, bats or bugs make a turn, all they have to do is start flapping their wings normally again and they straighten right out. That came as a surprise to researchers who thought turning and stopping took more steps.
I was reading Science of flight takes a bird’s eye view by Randolph E. Schmid from Associated Press and had to stop and reread this part:
…all they have to do is start flapping their wings normally again and they straighten right out.
I read this again, and again. I’ve been more deeply in grief this past week, thanks to an ankle sprain that rules out the usual daily dancing and walking that I count on to keep my emotional life in balance. Without this exercise and the joy it brings, my healing from grief took a nosedive and I find myself mourning Robert’s loss unbearably.
Then I read this article, and I wonder how to flap my wings normally again and straighten out. I’ll work on figuring this out.
How have you recovered from grief, tragedy, or even lesser setbacks by flapping your wings normally again?
Update a few hours later:
A friend encouraged me to get outside on this sunny spring day. I went to a park, hopped around on crutches for a while, then settled on a bench in view of the duck pond to read my Kindle.
Suddenly I realized I had a front-row seat to view a sex orgy: a consensual (I hoped) gang bang of six male ducks and one, apparently very sexy, female.
She took on partners, sometimes two alternating suitors bestowing favors in a threesome. Then she shook herself off and ran a bit, letting the lust-struck lads chase her until she slowed down and let herself be caught. The merry chase continued on the grass, in the water, and on the grass again, one or more males mounting her every couple of minutes .
Finally she backed up against a fence and stood with her tired (I assume) nether regions protected while the fellows returned to the water, rising up and beating their wings in what I took to be bragging.
I went back to my Kindle book, happy that I had ventured out in the sunshine, glad I hadn’t missed the show!
Valentine’s Day without Robert
My first Valentine’s Day since Robert died seemed to be going unexp
ectedly well — a deep and stimulating phone conversation with a close friend, time alone reading and dancing in my exercise room, dinner out with a dear and delightful woman pal, excitement about feeling my life force emerging strongly.
Then I came home. Alone. Lit a candle. And started to cry.
I remembered Robert lighting a candle in the same candleholder I was using. I saw his dear hand lighting it, the hand that would touch me soon. I heard his soft voice, saw his smile. I wrote in my journal memories of seven years of Valentine’s Days, especially the languid afternoons making love as daylight turned to evening and to night. Finally, even the candle would burn down, flicker, and go out as we held each other and continued to kiss in the dark.
Tears streaming, voice wailing, I put down my journal and picked up a book of poetry, American Primitive by Mary Oliver. A friend, Uta, had given it to me on Robert’s birthday, 4-1/2 months after he died, with this inscription:
Dear Joanie,
She is one of Robert’s favorite contemporary poets.
You are very special to me and when you read in this little book, Robert will be with you. He loves you very much.
I had to put down the book when I read this:
…Now you are dead too, and I, no longer young,
know what a kiss is worth.
(photos by Robert’s son Mitch Rice)
Six Months after Robert’s Death
I’ve written about losing Robert to multiple myeloma last August and taken you with me on many of my steps forward. I return today, six months after Robert’s death, to check in with you again. You have been marvelous, posting comments here and emailing me privately with your warm messages and your stories.
If you’re a new blog reader, I’ll update you briefly. Yes, this blog is — almost all of the time — about sex and aging. The reason I wrote Better Than I Ever Expected: Straight Talk about Sex After Sixty and started this blog was because I found great love in later life — I was 57 and Robert was 64 when we met. My work changed from writing about health & fitness to writing and speaking about sex after 60. I decided to face full-on and speak out loud against our society’s stereotype of older-age sex/love/dating as unseemly and icky.
Robert and I had seven years together from first kiss to last and I still feel him with me, especially when I teach my line dance class, where we met and where we continued to dance.
I’m dedicating whatever it takes to the process of grieving and moving through grief. Here are some of the tools and helpers I’ve found since I last wrote Discoveries Helping Me Move Through Grief three months ago. In case this helps you or lets you help someone else, I share them with you:
I’ve learned plenty from the counselors from both Hospice (Rick Hobbs) and Kaiser (Connie Kellogg) and although sometimes I entered their quiet rooms thinking I’d never stop crying, they accepted me with compassion and skillfully taught me ways to cope.
I took an amazing full-day workshop from Joe Hanson, author of Soaring Into Acceptance (available from the author). Among many gifts of that day, I was able to change my one-sentence “story” from “I lost the love of my life, and my life is and will be empty without him,” to “I found the love of my life and learned how to experience love fully, and I take this with me on my path.” (Joe will be repeating this valuable workshop, “The Power of Acceptance,” on Saturday, Feb. 28, 2009, in Larkspur, CA, near San Francisco. I heartily recommend it.)
I’m in a Hospice spousal bereavement group. The best part is getting to know other people who experienced the same kind of loss at roughly the same time. Because of the confidentiality of the group, I can’t disclose much about it, except that it’s helping me move forward. I recommend taking advantage of everything Hospice has to offer.
I’ve continued to reach out to loved ones and to new friends and welcome them into my heart. Being close to people who understand me balances my need for a lot of solitude. Extending help to others who need it balances the help I need to accept from others.
Each month gets a little easier.
Yes, I’ll write that next book. Writing still brings me joy, and I’m no less committed to the mission I’ve established here. For now, I’ll continue to indulge in short spurts of writing and when I’m ready, I’ll take on the book I’ve been planning for more than a year.
Thank you for your compassion and confidences. Keep those comments and emails coming, even if I’m not as quick to answer as you came to expect.
Warmly,
Joan