Griefbrain

After 36 years of marriage, loving and being loyal to one man, I know how normal it is to take our loved ones for granted. This happens naturally in most loving relationships and is mutual, not one-sided. I, too, over the course of our marriage, took my husband for granted. It’s there among all the love and fun times, the busyness and responsibilities, the sad times, the lazy days, and even the painful events of a very good relationship. It’s a natural truth of the human experience.

As a result of the events leading up to and including Mark’s final day on Earth, three years ago today, I now see the world differently, seeing it through the lens of death. To some that might sound morose, but I see more beauty now. It’s there in the smallest happenings that I previously took for granted, much like Mark’s many lovely qualities. The lumbering yellow jacket that heavily goes from flower to flower collecting nectar. The way the morning’s light turns the trees’ leaves a brighter shade of green. The beginnings of a smile on someone’s face. The comforting sound of rain on the roof. The smell of fall’s arrival in the air. How my dog’s tail wags when I look at her. The tomatoes on the vine that continue to ripen as I sleep. A loved one’s smiling eyes. The morning’s dew drops that hang on the edges of leaves. The aroma of rosemary, lavender and sage bundles—all beautiful, ordinary things that I have nothing to do with that are actually gifts if I slow down enough to notice and appreciate them.

These are not unlike many of Mark’s ordinary, everyday ways I overlooked, not really believing they would be gone one day. The way he cleared his throat. How he ate bread too fast, immediately followed by hiccups. His very even nature. His earnest expression as he waited for the humor. The way his shoulders went up and down when he danced, arms outstretched. His loyalty to his family and friends. The way he called me ‘Jule’. His hugs. His anxiety. His palpable joyfulness.

We will all die one day but have no idea how or when. We assume it’s in the far, distant future when we’re very old. We’ve accomplished all we wanted in life, fulfilled our life’s dreams, and crossed off the items on our bucket lists. We believe that we’re in control of our lives and our destiny, some of that being true, but mostly, death has taught me otherwise.

Whether it’s soon or at that very late season of life, death is a teacher. Some of death’s lessons have been to forgive the people who’ve hurt us, to turn the other cheek when we're slighted, to let people come into and leave our lives naturally, to tell the important people that we appreciate them, to share our words of affection with those we love, to be truly grateful for all we've been given, to take time to step out of the mental chatter that consumes us and just be with the beauty and love that truly is all around. Because in the end, love really is all that matters—all that’s ever really mattered. And it’s free and in unlimited supply.

I know now without a shadow of a doubt that our precious man is out there. His pain has ended and he suffers no more. He’s returned to the mothership, so to speak. And we will all see him again someday.

We’re all thinking of you today and every day, sweetie. I look forward to being together again. We miss you to the depths of our very souls. The gift and honor of loving you is forever.

You are my heart.

My mom gave us the gift of an arbor for our patio when we moved into our Shoreview home. From her we learned about Dropmore Honeysuckles and appreciated their beauty, so we decided to plant one on the side of the arbor. Even though it was a single, small plant when we planted it, within a short time the vine split and two vigorous shoots sprang forth. Within a couple of years, the vines were thick and ropey, climbing to the top of the arbor as they wrapped around one another and the structure, intertwined so much that it was no longer possible to tell where one stopped and the other began. Where one vine hugged the arbor and spiraled around it, the other generously made room and acquiesced, finding an alternate path, like a loving dance. The two coexisted, wrapped in a perpetual embrace for the 23 years we lived in that house.

Looking back, our life was like that living vine, grafting ourselves into one another, making room, giving space when one needed it, bending, turning, reaching, venturing off in different directions, but always coming back home where we were a unit. We created a life together, evolving into the people we became, even becoming the proverbial “one”. The turns, curves, chaos and spirals of our intertwined lives were a beautiful testament to how, when it works, marriage, family, and love are beautiful gifts.

Now more than two years later, on what would have been your 66th birthday, our bows and branches are still curved and angled in ways that would make an unknowing person curious, not realizing that this is only half of the story—that one vine was ripped away tragically.

The vacancy left is complicated. There is debris and damage and sadness, a poverty of the soul like a third-world country. But we are growing and slowly resolving to accept what can't be fixed.

I’ve always believed that love grows, which (I think) is why adoption works and how people can love all of their many children. So I pray that someday, flowers or beauty or love will take over and grow in that thick, gray mass that takes up space in my heart now. The sadness and missing you are forever, though—that’s a given.

If there’s anything I’ve learned through this process it’s that love is the culmination of many experiences together—some tender and sweet, some painful and sad, others joyful and almost euphoric, a few exciting, but many that are just ordinary day-in-the-life no-big-deal experiences. But you were who I wanted to have those ordinary day-in-the-life experiences with.

As I learn to love again, I hope to be a young vine planted closely to a beautiful soul, to wrap around one another as we intertwine our two very separate lives, possibly even becoming one, like we were.

Please know, wherever you are, that you mattered and you always will. We think of you often throughout every day. You will forever be in our hearts. We miss you and love you endlessly. 

We miss him literally every second of every day, each for our own reasons and in our own ways.

I miss his sneezes, which used to annoy me. He always sneezed nine times in a row—not eight times or ten times—always nine times. Before he got sick I would often look at him with that ‘Come on!!’ look of annoyance. Now I wish I could hear him sneeze nine times again, just once. But ideally, I’d give my soul to hear him sneeze nine times in a row every hour on the hour for the rest of my life. If only I had known what would come.

I miss the sound of his voice when one of the girls would call. His voice became louder and lifted—his affection evident.

Jelly called literally everyday over that last year. He answered on his iPad so we could both hear and talk to her. Everyday when he answered her call he would happily call ‘Jelly!!’, and she would reply, ‘Dad,’ in her soothing, loving way. If only I could hear that exchange just once more.

I miss how excited he’d get when one or both of the girls would visit. He had to be the first person to the door and to be the one to open it. Hugs were huge for Mark, and again, his voice lifted and his face lit up when his girls were around. I was so lucky to see that, especially not having a father who really knew how to love. So I learned through Mark what a father’s love looked like. I’ll be forever grateful for that and forever grateful that our girls knew what a father’s unconditional love looks and feels like. And they were and still are worthy of that unconditional love.

I miss his optimism. He literally could find something good about everyone and every situation we might come across. I was the known pessimist (or realist, as I prefer) in the family, but we balanced one another well as a result. I wish I could go back to the very beginning and do things over again, but do them better this time around. Maybe we could pinpoint and, therefore, avoid the origins of cancer.

I wish we could have been better communicators and made some things more important, and others less important.

I wish we would have remembered each and every day how fragile life was and how to cherish every second we had together and not get hung up on the little things—that our time here is actually very short and one of us could have to endure the violent crime of disease or tragedy; that this Christmas might be our last; that we might not live to know or meet our grandchildren, or not have a chance to say something incredibly important; that we didn’t say often enough "I love you, I’m sorry, You mean the world to me, It’s okay, and, Whatever makes you happy is fine with me," and really mean it. And to realize that all the material possessions, college degrees, political banter, bank accounts, trips, careers, really don’t matter one.red.cent in the end. The only things that really matter are having people to love and respect in life, being loved and respected by those people, enjoying one another and each day we’re given, and being grateful for it all.

We weren’t perfect together, but I believe sometimes, if you’re lucky, there is magic in families. In our family that magic was greater than the sum of its parts.

When Camille was little she used to say we were "rich in love." She was so right. We had a deep love for one another that was unconditional—flaws, split lips, pockmarks, and all. And for that I am and will be forever grateful.

So whatever your day looks like and wherever you are today on what would have been Mark’s 64th birthday, please send up a little thought, a prayer, or a greeting to our beautiful husband, father, grandfather, son, friend, uncle, cousin, nephew, son-in-law, and brother-in-law in gratitude for who he was in your life. Because if you knew him, I know he had a positive impact on your life, even if it was in a small way. But chances are, it wasn’t.

I watch the tree tops wave, as the wind whispers against the pines.

I feel the sun heat my cheeks like a welcome blush.

I hear the wings of the ravens beat against the air above me.

Standing in the meadow I gaze up at the full moon that illuminates the wild around me

And I wonder...“Is it you?”

Do you move the tree tops with a gentle caress?

Do you warm my cheeks with your palm as I walk in the sun?

Are you with the birds in flight or do you wink at me with the stars when they say hello each night?

As certain as my heart beats in my chest, I know you are somewhere

And as much as the soil finds comfort in the rain, I hope you are everywhere.

~ Jelly

After one dies, it’s not uncommon to wonder where our loved one has gone. The physicality of everyday life with them doesn’t allow much preparation for their immediate absence. We assume they will be with us forever, but then the unexpected nothingness of death descends.

I still find myself wondering, “But where is he, really? I know he’s somewhere.” I've heard and read many platitudes from well-meaning people, such as, “He’s in a better place now,” “He’s in heaven, walking and laughing and they’re all together having a great time.”

You can’t imagine how deeply I'd love to believe these things, and I made a choice to in the early stages, if only as a means to get from Day 1 to Day 2. Honestly, I’ve always questioned this idea and have wondered if it’s something we created as a coping mechanism to survive the pain and anguish of grief. If that’s the case, I don’t judge anyone for it, and even hope it’s true. Grief is such a soul-ripping experience that whatever anyone does just to get through, not lose their minds or take their own lives is completely understandable. It’s just not the right belief for me. At least not yet.

Christmas was a big deal in our home, though hectic, and often started very early. We sent the girls back to bed when they awoke at 4 or 5 anxious to see if Santa had visited. Hearing their excited whispers across the hallway, usually it was around 6 or so when we would give in and the girls would rush downstairs, signaling the beginning of a very busy day. Mark was always happy in the morning, but especially happy on Christmas to be surrounded by his girls, watch them open their gifts and stockings, chattering with them about a gift, and often videotaping the event. He always sat on the floor with them pulling out presents buried under the tree. His favorite gifts in life were his children, family, getting together with friends, and a comfortable home. After Christmas morning, he was excited for the busy day ahead when he’d see his parents, sister, and her family. He found great joy in holidays and their traditions.

This last Christmas morning, after Camille and I had opened our presents, both in person and virtually with Jelly, Kyle, and Luca, I noticed movement in the trees behind the house. As I stepped closer to the patio door, the largest doe I’ve ever seen graced the area where the neighboring properties intersect. She stood regally, stretching her head up and looking slowly about, but then she stopped and turned toward the house. Standing there for a minute or so, we watched one another.

It may sound strange, but I knew this was Mark coming to pay us a visit on Christmas morning. I didn’t wonder if it was him—I knew it was him. It was his way of being with us, just stopping by to send a message, to let us know he was thinking of us.

The doe turned and went into the neighbor’s yard where she sauntered about, smelling the ground and checking to see if any of the shrubs were an edible variety. I took pictures and continued to watch her. I looked away briefly, and then she was gone.

Throughout this process, I’m learning that our love for our person is our main, possibly only, link to them after they’re gone. Maybe our shared love, respect, and cherished memories will sustain us until the ends of our earthly lives when we find for ourselves what really is next—what actually happens after this life.

The few experiences of Mark’s presence so far might be a well-timed deer siting, a blaze red Cardinal in the pine tree, the moving notes of the chime tree at the Walker sculpture garden, two hearts etched in the snow at the end of my driveway, or the strongest feelings of love in my sleep that I’ve ever experienced awake. Today, on his 65th birthday and likely for the rest of my life, I will continue to believe these experiences, whether real or imagined, are a visit from my lovely husband. It’s all there is among the deafening silence of his absence and I’ll receive them happily.

There have been several sitings since the Christmas morning doe. She continues to return periodically.

To my dad, the man who taught me:

loyalty

how to think critically

to have patience

not to give up

to be kind

to balance a checkbook

to do my taxes

to be creative

to be generous

to be positive

and so. much. more.

I miss you everyday and I can't wait to see you again and finally share all that I haven't been able to. You are the best. ❤
                                                                                 

~ Jelly

As I try to tell people about you, it's not possible to communicate the truth, how wonderful you were. Your stability, your constant evenness, your acceptance and unconditional affection, how your presence was a medicating salve that ensured all was well, that life would be just fine, were just a sliver of your qualities.

I’m reminded daily of your beauties and your strengths. If only I had appreciated every single moment we had together, perhaps the days would hurt a little less. Perhaps there would be a little hope for the future. 

There are illnesses and tragic deaths for which there are no words, because life just ends.

As a result, we may have to perform brutally painful acts for those we love. We will either be the caregiver, or we will be the one cared for. Those are the options.

So we are hopeful, even in the worst of situations, even when there is little hope. We plant seeds of hope all around; we tend and nurture them.

We pray, we beg, we plead.

We bargain and barter.

We encourage and cheer.

We lift them up and praise their dignity.

We celebrate the small successes.

We protect them from the ruins of hopelessness. 

We forego our own needs and wellbeing in exchange for theirs.

But asking for that miracle of miracles, God turns out to be a silent partner.

As they walk through the valley of the shadow of death, we are that bridge that crawls beneath and carries them.

We can’t know what it feels like to be in that valley alone, but we are close to knowing.

Against our most valiant efforts, among unanswered prayers, time runs out and death is the victor.

Then, we have no choice but to lovingly lay them down to return to dust for that much needed eternal rest and to release them.

The hurt stings and burns and tortures the depths of our souls and minds for months and years.

Our beaten, bruised, and bloodied hearts continue to beat against our wishes. To pluck them out and throw them away would be an act of self love.

Finally, we must put one tentative foot in front of the next and walk through the rest of this world for however long it takes, as they would have wished for us. It’s not an act of self love—it's an homage.

One day in a lifetime under love's umbrella.

I cried when I heard Ke$ha on the radio,

and when I got my W2s.

I cried when I saw Riverdance, not only because my ass barefly fit,

But because you should have been there, too.

I cried while I sipped coffee at Cafe Alma,

And when my check engine light came on.

I cried when Luca splashed in the tub,

And belly laughed -- messages you would have loved.

I cried when I saw the preview for the third season of Mrs. Maisel,

When I ate pizza at Cosettas,

And when we made pasta on Christmas Eve.

I cried when I looked down at my hand that now wears your ring...

It looks wrong and right.

I cried when I walked through the St. Paul Farmers' Market,

And when I fried the gypsy peppers that night.

I cried at trivia when they asked a question about asparagus pee,

And when we couldn't remember the name of that one actor

In that one movie...

I cried contemplating what to do with my life...

Should I stay or should I go?

And I cried when "This American Life: Abdi the American"

Downloaded to my phone.

I cried when I saw the Bob Dylan mural

You visited every day until it was complete,

And when a new one popped up in Northeast you haven't seen.

I cried this weekend when I went for my first almost-spring walk,

And when I first heard your laugh captured in an old recording.

I cried when we sang Jelly Happy Birthday,

On a day in August that was anything but.

I cried on my birthday in December when you

weren't at Pazzaluna.

I will cry when you're not here to celebrate Mom's in April,

But will be forever grateful you were here for Luca's in June.

I will cry every year on February 25th,

Thinking of and missing you.

I will probably cry tomorrow...and the day after that.

And probably the next day, too.

~ Camille

People Behaving Normally

They look at me and smile.

I smile back shyly, grinning at the humorous stories they share with their friends.

I can’t help but overhear them.

That’s why I go out—to see and hear people behaving normally.

They don’t know I spent ten months in a trench. I was in combat.

I saw and felt things no one should have to see, should have to feel.

It’s not their fault.

They don’t know what landmines may lurk in their future.

But that’s for the best. That's as it should be.

They are normal, happy people, enjoying life.

Like we once were.

© 2020 Julie Primoli. All rights reserved.