Divorce or Death.

It not like anyone chooses to live through either one of these scenarios, but I've been thinking a lot about the differences between them since my neighbor is trying to muddle his way through the aftermath of a recent divorce and had a particularly difficult time with father's day yesterday. It may surprise you, but I think divorce would be the harder of the two.

When Tom left the world, I knew I had been loved. My neighbor had his love, his family, disintegrate around him and in many ways it invalidated their previous years together. She cheated and she did the leaving. I was left also, but it wasn't purposeful. Wasn't his choice. I was still loved. My memories still intact.

My neighbor is surprised that he isn't further along emotionally. He still thinks about her being with someone else and can't seem to move on. I think about how Tom doesn't have to suffer with depression anymore. I couldn't fix it, only be there for him and it is a tough thing to watch someone go through that repeatedly.

I wonder if people reading my blog have the impression that our marriage was an effortless, perfect meshing of two people. It was not. We went through struggles and at times were nearly torn apart. It recently occurred to me that I had married a thunderstorm. From a distance a thunderstorm was beautiful and exciting, but if caught in the middle unprepared it was nerve-racking. It took years for me to not take his mood swings personally. To come to a real understanding of what he could and couldn't control. What was just the depression talking. I never doubted the love, though or failed to value his complete honesty or fierce loyalty. I could count on him in the long run and our love evolved to a very deep level.

My neighbor says he's not looking to date, though I saw reference to a dating site on his Facebook. When someone goes through a break-up or divorce their friends and family seem to encourage them to get right back out there. To look for someone new. This is not the case with death. Initially people looked at me and marveled at how well I was dealing with this and were happy. I believed in facing it directly. Not hiding my head in the sand. No living in denial. Analyzing why I was feeling what I'm feeling. I am much farther along in healing and moving forward than my neighbor. I believe this is because I was loved. I felt valued by another human being. I made a difference in someone's life. I still can.

Why is death treated differently? I'd like to date again. I'm not looking for a replacement or someone to take care of me. I can take care of me. I know this. I am doing things on my own and not asking for much help because I don't want to be reliant on someone else. Yet I feel that there is an unwritten assumption of a proper amount of time for grieving, like I'm supposed to put my life on hold indefinitely until others approve of my reentering the world. Six months, a year, tell me please what do you think is appropriate for my life? Would it mean that I loved Tom any less to date again? Do you want me to shave off my eyebrows (did you know that the ancient Egyptians did this to mourn their cats)? In Hinduism death is seen as just a turning point in an endless journey and excessive mourning would hinder the soul from moving to the next level. Mourners cannot help the dead. A period of 13-days of rituals starting at the completion of cremation is observed. I went through the rituals. The modern day versions. I threw myself into them.

I've seen it over and over, though.

The whispers.

"Can you believe he married again? It was only 6 months after her death."

"Dating? Really! What's wrong with her? Has she no shame?"

So what do I want?

Friendship. To connect. To feel alive. I don't know that I'm entirely sure. What I have learned repeatedly in my life is that we are guaranteed nothing except this very moment. We have to make ourselves happy first and not rely on others to do so. It is only then that we can give love freely without reservation and without conditions. I plan to be happy. Judge me if you must. It wouldn' t be the first time I've been the subject of rumor. I married the boss, remember…and that became a love story for the ages.

"Lemons"

Accept the bitter or turn them into a sweet delight.

Pronouns

I...we...my..ours...

Pronouns. Some of the simplest and most basic words in our language. It's how we relate information about ourselves to the world and likely some of the first words ever grunted by humans. They've gained a disproportionate power over me in the past few weeks. I'm stumbling over them. I find myself answering a question about something in my personal life and by default use the plural form and realize that, technically, it's incorrect. I am no longer a plural. It stopped me in mid-sentence and I felt compelled to explain why while standing in the middle of a public restroom. I knew the person I was speaking to would understand the distinction.

How many of you remember diagramming sentences in school? I was (still am) a geek. I enjoyed it and perhaps it was the first inclination of a love for written words. Yes, it is and perhaps I am, a bit neurotic in my quest for accuracy, but it's more than that. I frequently have a secondary dialog running in my head as I am speaking to others. It's like I am hearing what what I'm saying from their point of view or sometimes just critiquing myself unnecessarily and harshly. I realize that my word choice could remind them of my widowed status when I refer to we and our. It changes the way the other person relates to me at that moment. It is occasionally nice to have a conversation in which Tom is never mentioned. Where I can forget, even if it's just temporary.

The other day I was enjoying lunch with a friend and the subject of dogs came up. I was asked, "you guys have how many dogs?" I was suddenly ripped from my upbeat mood with the mention of the plural, but also having it used in the present tense' "you guys have." There is only me now. Only I have. There was no intention to hurt, but at that moment, I wanted to be seen as an I, not a we. I considered saying, "I have 5 dogs" with a little too much emphasis on "I," but that would have been mean and again, I realized that the person meant no harm. I have a hard enough time myself knowing which to use. I know that for a split second my facial expression changed. I tried to hide it and just answered the question, but am unsure if I was successful. I truly did not want them to feel badly.

I changed the message on my answering machine Sunday. I decided it was cruel to others to keep his voice on it. Perhaps I was torturing myself unnecessarily too. "This is Tom and Rebecca. If you'd like to, please leave a message." He sounded so upbeat, but I am no longer a plural.

I just giggled out loud. It occurred to me that two of the parrots say 'hello.' Perhaps I need to change the message again...

-----------------------

The painting just finished tonight is "High Tide Morning on Fripp Island"

36" x 24" acrylic on board

The first morning in South Carolina at the beach house I rented for our vacation in November

The Telling

I think I have nearly run out of places Tom and I ate regularly at where I will be confronted with questions about him. Last week the regular guy was back at the McDonald's drive-thru and was almost in tears when I drove up. I assume a co-worker of mine told them, since he said he heard and offered his condolences and asked if I was okay. Tuesday I went into Subway for a salad. The girl behind the counter asks, "where is your better half?" I'm not alone in line and don't want to broadcast it, so I lean in and tell her while I fight back tears and then stare at the sliced tomatoes. I hold it together until I get to the car then completely lose it and try to reason out why telling new people bothers me so much. I don't really know anything about her or her life. I don't have a tangible connection with her. I can talk about him just fine with people who I've already told. Once it's out there, I'm okay. I still haven't quite figured this out.

Wednesday I'd asked a co-worker to lunch and Tortilla Flats in Roanoke was suggested. I started to balk thinking, oh God, it's going to happen again, as we had gotten to know the owner, Brenda, quite well. Tom had even snuck her burritos to me while I was in the hospital, so she had been well aware of how sick I'd been. Over the years, though, she had been at the restaurant less and less as she let the employees take over the day-to-day. I figured I was okay. We ordered food, sat in the open-air patio and enjoyed a nice conversation. Upon leaving we went back inside for more tea, but the tea was missing. Brenda turns around holding the tea container and exclaims, "Rebecca, where have you been? How are you?" She gets bonus points for recognizing me. So many people that didn't see me very often have actually not realized who I was when they saw me as my body went from 95 pounds to 88 pounds to 130 pounds and now back down to 105 due the effects of disease, throwing high dose steroids at it, stabilization on the correct treatment and then recent additional weight loss from stress of the death have had complete control over my body. I say, "Oh, around," and "My health is much much better." Here it comes. "How's Tom?" My poor friend is standing a few paces back knowing about the 2 previous instances and is probably afraid he's about to witness me dissolve into a quivering puddle. Brenda grabs my hand as I tell her and hugs me several times. She had actually been afraid that I had passed, since she hadn't seen us in a while. We both realized the irony of the entire situation. It should have been me.

I didn't dissolve, though. It was easier than it had been. Though I did walk past the driver's side of my car when I went to leave, so I may have been a little flustered. I promised her I'd come for lunch more often. My friend says that he can't imagine what I must be going through. There really isn't any way to explain it and I think it's different for everyone. I really have no desire to dwell in the past and I think that has gone a long way toward allowing me to move forward. I'm still painting. I decided to go ahead and enter a few of the shows whose deadlines are fast approaching. I was initially going to just forgo the rest of the year as far as juried shows went, but it's best to keep my work out there. You never know when it's going to lead to a new opportunity. So one foot in front of the other. Even with the occasional stumble, it's still moving forward.

The painting is "The Old Power Plant"

Each October during Harvest Moon Festival, they fire up the machines in the Old Power Plant near the Historic Square in Granbury. It's not something to be missed. Admist the roaring machines, this quiet corner by the window was calling out to me.

Kilroy Was Here

We all know what they say about "best laid plans." I left work a little early to be sure I had time to get home, feed the dogs and get cleaned up before heading out to a gallery to do a segment for the local television cable channel on my art. 'Shelbie' Miata had been making some noise that I suspected was the lifters (sounds like I know what I'm talking about, huh). Usually, it would quiet down after the car warmed up, but the last couple of days it was continuous. Getting worried, I looked online to see what the proper oil pressure was at idle and a few different rpm levels. When I left work, I compared numbers. Hmm, definitely low. A really bad feeling came over me. I decide to stop at a gas station immediately and check the oil level. Now, I can't remember the last time I looked under the hood of a car. Tom used to tell me that I was a little spoiled. Now I'm realizing that perhaps I was. He always pumped the gas and took care of any mechanical or maintenance issues with the vehicles.

I find myself at a loss. I stand there holding the hood up wondering where the dang metal rod is to hold it in place. I finally find it and then the search for the dipstick is on. That wasn't difficult to locate, but when I put my finger through the metal loop and pulled up, it broke off in my hand leaving the stick right where it was. I guess a 17-year old car is going to have a few issues. I pry out the stick and I can't tell the oil level. Something in the back of my mind reminds me that one is supposed to wipe off the stick, put it back in and pull it back out to get an accurate reading. I do. I'm still not seeing any oil. I stand bent over the hood worried and puzzled trying to remember what weight of oil I should use. All I remembered was that we had been using a synthetic.

By this time, the male genetic predisposition to rescue a damsel in distress had taken effect and 3 men about to walk into the gas station ask if I had a problem. I did. One took the lead and confirmed the lack of oil, went inside and picked a couple bottles for me. I bought them and his fountain drink, which he insisted wasn't necessary. I insisted that it was. I appreciated the help. He pours a bottle into Shelbie and checks again. It registered and then he poured part of the second bottle in. She's at full. He points out that it looks like oil has been leaking around the intake. I start the car and the same noises kick in. He makes a worried face. I ask if it will get me 90 miles and he suggests taking is very easy on the drive home. I drove at 60 miles an hour or under the entire way which is a major accomplishment for me on its own. The lifter noise improved, but the oil pressure readings didn't. Made it home, parked her and she'll have to wait patiently until I have the time and money deal with her.

Now I was running behind. Wednesday evening I had watched the first set of 'interviews' that were done for the April Last Saturday Gallery Night and realized I was dealing more with a monologue than an interview, so I sat down and wrote something. My plan was to create cue cards to read from a distance. I had wanted to get there a little early and practice, since I referenced specific paintings and weren't sure where each was hanging. Didn't matter, the gallery door was locked when I arrived. We finally all get there and are set up. The gallery owner says she's nervous too, but you never would have known once she got on camera to do an introduction and talk about the other artists they represent. My turn. It became obvious I didn't get the text large enough on my cue cards. The biggest size I could print was on 11x17 paper. The assistant got as close as he could without getting in the shot. I'm reading along when I notice that I can just see his eyes peeking over the top of the cards and with his hands holding it by the top, I start cracking up. He looked just like Kilroy! (confused? …look up "Kilroy was here.") I start over…again. I find myself apologizing repeatedly. She is very easy-going, but all I'm thinking about is the amount of work I'm creating for her. We have a videographer on staff where I work, so I'm seeing it from his point of view. Television is definitely not my forté, but it was an interesting experience and I'm looking forward to seeing if she can salvage it. I really could have used someone to direct me and I told her that I was far more comfortable on her side of the camera.

The plan is for her to come back Saturday evening during the 'meet the artist' portion when people are actually in the gallery for some additional footage. Each gallery will have its own segment in the episode and the final video won't be ready for a couple weeks.

I'll be at "Your Private Collection" gallery on the Granbury Historic Square Saturday, May 28th from 6-9pm. There will also be vendors set up around the courthouse for a Memorial celebration. Stop in if you can.

----------------------

The painting is "Sea Oats." I talk a little in the video about how my painting helps me cope with my illness. I painted this piece while in Harris Methodist hospital in downtown Ft. Worth.

Ghost in the Fog

"Step out the front door like a ghost into the fog where no one notices the contrast of white on white."

I made a ridiculous deal with myself. By sheer will I was not going to be sad any more. I'm not good at it. I'm tired of it. Back when I was sick and still without a diagnosis, I even started telling doctors that I thought I should be more depressed and maybe that was an actual symptom...a lack of depression. I'm just not wired for it I suppose. Now I can't imagine a person on this planet that would call me outwardly happy either. I'm more of an even keeled kind of person or perhaps someone who had a good degree of control over her emotions. These sporadically-triggered bouts of intense sadness are throwing me for a loop and I want it to stop. I want the control back. Crying doesn't make me feel any better.

"And I walk in the air between the rain, through myself and back again. Where? I don't know."

I've always believed that knowledge and objective introspective thought were the key to understanding and peace. Now in some ways I'm wandering in the dark among my thoughts without a flashlight, compass or map. This is all new and I believe it's altered me on a fundamental level. We've all heard stories of people 'changing' due to some tragic event or hitting bottom in some fashion. Frankly, I never believed this. People don't change. Now I'm telling you that for me it's almost like a veil was lifted and I see life clearer. The here and now. What's important and what really isn't. It's the future I can no longer see and this scares me.

"And she walks along the edge of where the ocean meets the land just like she's walking on a wire in the circus."

I don't want to be unhappy and at the same time I feel guilty when I am happy. It's as if I'm doing some kind of disservice to Tom's memory by being happy. I know it's not rational and I know for a fact he wouldn't want me falling into a depressive state. Yet the thought won't leave.

"But the girl in the car in the parking lot says, Man you should try to take a shot. Can't you see my walls are crumbling?"

I don't like being alone. I miss having someone to share in my thoughts, my successes and to offer me emotional support when my illness is causing me pain, physically or emotionally. I miss my best friend. I need to make sure that vulnerability doesn't lead me somewhere or to someone that would in the end cause more harm. Then I wonder, really, what do I have to offer anyway. I have a treatable, but incurable illness with varying levels of symptoms. Tom was stuck with it, we didn't know this going into our relationship. I often felt bad for him that he had to deal with this added hardship. I'm not 'normal' on pretty much any level. That should be apparent by now. Tom wasn't either. It took us a long time to find each other and it's terribly unfair that our time was this limited. A short story instead of a novel.

"Will you catch me if I'm falling. Will you catch me cause I'm falling down on you."

Song lyrics from 'Round Here' by Counting Crows

Painting "Sand Dune Crow"

Wisdom and Youth

This morning I got caught a few cars back behind the school bus on Highway 51. I usually find this annoying since there aren't too many passing zones and if you are more than a couple cars back, you are completely out-of-luck. Perhaps, it's because I don't have human children, but I never really paid much attention to the kids waiting for the bus. This morning at the second stop, a girl that I'd guess was 13 or 14 was waiting by herself sitting on the ground She was quite thin and had very long brown hair that she had to brush out of her face as she stood up. She was in no real hurry to get on the bus and paused a second before stepping on. Was she afraid? She reminded me of me.

I thought about being that age and what it would be like to go back and relive my life over. I thought about the love and the heartbreak that she had yet to know. What path would her life take? When I think about myself in the present, I never really assign an age. I just am. Today, I felt how much of my life has gone by as I watched her. I felt old. Just a little over a month ago, I never would have said that. I was happy in my relationship and my fine art paintings had been receiving increasing recognition. I marveled at how well my life was going. I certainly didn't picture myself a widow. Not at this age.

I don't really want to live my life over. There are many, many things that I would not want to revisit. The fear is one. I spent so much of my life fearful of what others thought of me only to have that fear perceived as arrogance, when in fact people scared me to death most of the time. I just wanted to fade into the background. I wasn't good at thinking on my feet when it came to talking to people and at times would even stutter from nervousness. It was best to stay silent. I still am absolutely terrible at small talk and I dread parties with a lot of people I don't know. I even hated having to call strangers on the phone. Now my hearing loss and need to lip read compounds all those issues.

I find now that a lot of the fear is gone. That I was able to speak at Tom's memorial was nothing short of a miracle. I needed to do that to honor him. I practiced out loud probably 50 times at home and went to the building by myself, turned the microphone on and spoke it another 5 times that morning. When it came time, I wasn't nervous. I was already seated at the front as people filed in. I had no idea of the turnout until I stood up and turned to face everyone. I was absolutely amazed and awed by it. Tom had no idea how many people's lives he had impacted with his own. People we hadn't seen for years and people that I only knew through Tom's stories came. Instead of being terrified, the numbers gave me strength.

I find I speak more openly with more people now. I don't necessarily care what they think of me. I finally know who I am and that I deserve to be happy. I will be happy again. The only real choice is to move forward. I don't envy the girl. I'd never go back. Without the trials I've been through, I wouldn't be the person I have become and I think I turned out okay.

------

The painting is "Calm Grasses" and is a lot just up from our house. You don't necessarily have to go far to find beauty. What was it that Dorothy learned..."If ever go looking for my heart's desire again, I won't look any further than my own back yard." ...one of Tom's favorite movies and Janice didn't even know that when she suggested singing "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" at the service. This painting depicts how I want to feel.

"You never know, maybe they have cancer."

I walked into the post office early Saturday morning and one clerk was on duty. He was already helping someone and one lady stood in line with a little girl maybe 4 years-old. The woman turned to look at me as I walked up. Then she turned back two more times and it seemed like she scanned me head to toe. It wasn't one of those, hmm, I think I might know this person looks. It was much more judgmental. She was forming an opinion of who and what I was solely by my looks. Maybe she would be more forgiving if she knew why I was there. Maybe not. I couldn't imagine what was wrong with the way I was dressed anyway.

Tom's ashes arrived at my house, not during the 3 weeks I was off. No, all the important stuff arrived this week when I was back at work. They required a signature, so instead I found the "sorry, we missed you" beige card in the mailbox. I set this card in a prominent place on the counter so I could find it to claim the package. It had vanished by Saturday morning when I went to leave. I started panicking. Would they give me the package with just my I.D.? I searched every counter, searched my tote bag, dumped out the contents of my overstuffed purse and since I had taken out the trash also that morning, I went outside and searched there too. Just when I had given up, I found it by the cats' food bowls.

Tom had a bad habit of getting really angry at other drivers when they made mistakes on the road. One day I said, "you never know, maybe they have cancer." My point being, cut them some slack, they may be dealing with some tragic event that had them preoccupied. I am now one of those people. I walk around in public, watch the people around me with their families or couples laughing and I feel very alone. I'm like some tragic heroine in a book and I keep wanting to skip to the end to see I ever find lasting happiness or peace or does life keep ripping it away.

You never know what others are burdened with emotionally. I'm giving you a window into myself, but most don't. I'm crying right now. Not for myself but for a friend who went to see a very ill sibling in a hospital undergoing a serious surgery. The sibling lived, but their father died suddenly while he was there. Talk about a cruel 'cosmic joke.' This was over a year ago, but my friend created an entry for a video competition on this tragic event. He and his daughter as the actors. I hope creating and sharing this brings him some comfort as my blog does me. Another friend is walking around trying to go through the every day motions of life knowing that her husband has terminal cancer. If this had to happen, I am glad that Tom's death was so sudden. I don't know that I would have the kind of strength to face what she is.

The woman was finally called. She also was picking up a package. I wondered what was in hers. I hand the clerk my postcard and he disappears in the back for a very long time. I start to wonder if the packaging is missing. What would happen then? It's not replaceable. I'm left standing alone at the counter scanning my surroundings. Oh yeah, I need paperwork to mail a box to Canada. I need to remember to ask for that. He comes back in apologizing for the long wait. I ask for the paperwork and sign for the package. I'm still certain that the ashes will have no real impact on me. The few times I have seen a dead body. It was just a shell to me. The consciousness, the soul, whatever term you wish to use, was obviously gone. I didn't feel them any more. There was no connection.

I got the box home and it was taped every which way and I wasn't sure where to start to try to open it. I had no idea what the interior container was made of and I didn't want pieces of Tom spilling out onto the counter if I cut too deep. I thought that perhaps that was the reason every bit of the box was taped up. Carefully and slowly I managed to get the box open. It contained another box made of thick plastic. Inside that was a clear bag tied at the top and a round metal tag with the name of the crematorium etched in it. Inside it was Tom's body. I looked closely at the remains. I don't know what I expected, but they were fairly coarse. Little bits of material that were, to me anyway, obvious bone chips, were easily discernible. I placed my hands on the top of the bag and I guess it was the bone chips, but I started weeping uncontrollably. I didn't expect this response. I guess it was another step in making things feel real. I started to reach for a Kleenex, but it was as if my hands were glued to the bag. I just stood there for a while until I calmed down.

That evening everything reminded me of Tom. That he was gone. It was a tough night. I am better this morning.

If there is any bit of knowledge to be gained in this entry, I guess what I'd like to remind people is to be nice to others even if they aren't to you. You can never know what is going on inside their minds and hearts. What pain is lodged there that just needs to be released. Every act of kindness may help.

---------------

The painting is "The Christina Leigh." Tom and I went of vacation in November of last year. I rented us a beach house for a week on Fripp Island in South Carolina. We spent a lot of time photographing. When we did this, Tom was so much bolder than me. He would hop a fence or walk into an area that I felt was likely off limits while I stood back saying, "you sure that's a good idea?" I'm such a scaredy cat. In this case I had desperately wanted to shoot some shrimp boats. We spotted this one docked and explored roads trying to get as close to it as we could. We found it, but the dock area was questionable to me. No one seemed to be there, though. While we explored, the owner and crew arrived. I'm thinking now we're in real trouble and we were asked to leave until Tom explained what we were doing. At that point, they told us to wait and take some photos as they launched. The guy gave Tom his address, so we could send him a print. Without Tom, I never would have painted this piece. I wouldn't have been brave enough to have even stopped here.