Ashes to the Wind

By Joan Price | December 15, 2008 |

Yesterday would have been Robert’s 72nd birthday.

A year ago, we spent his birthday hiking the craggy Northern California coast which he loved, watching the waves crash over the rocks, holding each other as if we might never have this experience again.

Yesterday Robert’s family and I retraced those steps. The day was blustery and cold, the ocean silver green under grey skies instead of the sunlit blue it had been a year ago.

I sprinkled some of Robert’s ashes, and the wild wind sucked the ashes into the air in a dancing cloud. I did it over and over, my tears turning to laughter as each time the ashes took flight, like a magic trick, then disappeared into air.


(photo by Mitch Rice, Robert’s son)

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Discoveries Helping Me Move Through Grief

By Joan Price | November 2, 2008 |

Robert died three months ago today. Although this post has nothing directly to do with sex, so many of you have sent me compassionate emails that I’d like to share what I wrote to my online grief support group today:

I’ve been working hard at finding ways to create some semblance of balance and — dare I say it? — moments of joy in my life amidst the powerful grief that comes in waves and knocks me to the ground. I’d like to share some things that have worked for me, just in case any of them might be useful to some of you. Feel free to add to the list if you have something to share that has worked for you.
Problem: Out of control crying had reduced me to a crazy, quivering mess and sometimes lasted days without a break, intensified by not being able to sleep for more than 2 hours at a time. I felt physically and mentally ill from the ravages of grief.

Solution: Doctor prescribed an antidepressant (for “situational depression” for six months), a sleeping pill, and a counselor. The combination has brought me indescribable relief. I still grieve and sometimes feel like I’m pedaling through peanut butter, but at least the elephant has stopped kicking me in the chest and stomach.

Problem: I knew journaling would help, but my writing fingers felt paralyzed for the first two months — did I write memories of Robert and talk to him in my journal, or did I write about ways I was trying to move on? The two seemed to cancel each other out.

Solution: I started TWO journals. In one, I write to Robert and remember the special things he/we did and said. In the other, I write about my steps towards creating a new life: making new friends, insights from counselor and friends, little things that make me happy, if only for a minute. This has worked splendidly — I write in one journal, then switch to the other.

Problem: Morning ritual was so special. After wonderful snuggling, Robert would say, “I’m going to make you coffee.” He would get up, bring me the morning newspaper and coffee in bed. I would share something from the paper that might interest him, and sometimes he would just sit and watch me lovingly as I read, or he would go out to tend his garden. He painted a special bell (he was an artist ) for me to ring when I wanted a coffee refill. It was a glorious and loving start to the day, and without him, mornings felt so empty.

Solution: Replace missing ritual with new one. I cancelled the newspaper subscription (don’t even miss it). Now I get out of bed, make my coffee the way he used to, but I bring it to my favorite chair that looks out on the yard and I write in my journal while I sip.

Problem: My world was Robert. I did much independently, don’t get me wrong, but he was the one with whom I walked , danced, went out to dinner and films, talked about everything.

Solution: I reached out to old friends and made new ones. I thought about people whom I liked and would like to know better. Several had extended invitations to me, but I wasn’t ready. I contacted them and made walking dates and coffee or dinner dates. Now I have people I can do things with, and they understand when I get tearful.

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Dreaming of Robert

By Joan Price | September 9, 2008 |

Last night I dreamed of Robert for the first time since he died. I had wished to dream of him, to see him again.

In my dream, I was sleeping and woke to find his naked body — strong, no back fractures — beside me. I sidled into his embrace, inhaling his scent (which I always loved, and which was vividly real in the dream!). Oh, he’s just been away on a trip! I thought, trying to make sense of his beautiful body beside me.
Suddenly I started to sob to him, “I can’t bear being apart from you! Let’s stay together for the rest of our lives!””Yes,” he answered quietly.I looked into his dear face. He was gazing at me intently, lovingly.”But how did you get here?” I asked him, suddenly thinking that our house was a long way from the airport. “I have your car!”He looked at me puzzled and perhaps amused. Then he started to fade away and I woke up.
(photos by Robert’s son, Mitch Rice)

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Our Last Kiss

By Joan Price | August 7, 2008 |
Joan and Robert coast embrace


On August 2, 2001, I kissed Robert for the first time in the moonlight after our line dance class.

On August 2, 2008, I kissed him for the last time.

***

Those of you who read Better Than I Ever Expected: Straight Talk about Sex after Sixty know our love story, and know that Robert was living with leukemia and lymphoma. After the book was published, Robert had six months of chemotherapy , leaving his cancer in remission. We had two glorious years of health, vigor, and intense, joyful love after that. We felt we were the happiest, luckiest couple in the world.

Last April, Robert was diagnosed with a new blood cancer: multiple myeloma. It’s a debilitating, painful, and incurable cancer of the bone marrow, causing extreme bone pain and fragility. Within a month he was living with five spinal fractures and excruciating pain, despite the best efforts of his medical team and an array of powerful narcotics.

I didn’t write anything about our life during this time because Robert asked for privacy. If you’re a regular reader, surely you noticed that I became curiously silent for most of the past couple of months, and when I did post, it lacked the personal candor that you expect from me.

Ten days before his death, Robert entered into home hospice care, and the marvelous hospice team was able to bring him relief from the pain. He then wavered between sleeping and waking, sometimes marvelously lucid and rational, often only partially conscious, and occasionally uttering beautiful messages from the world he was visiting. Here are some of the things he told me as he floated in and out of lucidity, and I’ll treasure

them always:

• “Do you remember the time we laughed so hard that we shook the feathers off our caps?”

• “We did have fun together, didn’t we? We did have fun.”

• “Wasn’t it wonderful when we walked in the water in every state, or almost every state?”

• “It was just yesterday that we walked and walked, and I knew the name of every flower.”

• “I came by here hoping to see you.”

***

Yes, I’m still committed to this work I do as an activist for elder sexuality, and don’t worry, I’ll have my voice back soon. My work was almost as important to Robert as it is to me, and he made me promise I’d keep my torch burning. He was a private person, and sometimes I embarrassed him with my candor, but he believed I was doing the right thing talking out loud about this hush-hush topic, and he supported me all the way.

I welcome your comments here and your private emails to me. I know I have many readers who have visited without commenting. If my work here has made a difference to you, if you learned something useful or were moved by my book, I hope you’ll honor me with your words. I could use them now.

Warmly,

Joan

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