grief – Lamentations of a Lesbian Widow

You Didn’t Want to Die

February 20, 2018February 20, 2018juliagrant15 Comments

Nancy, after being diagnosed with Stage IV Cancer, leaning up against daughter Maia in 2013, less than a year before she died.

**This blog was written within a year of Nancy’s death, but I wasn’t ready to finish it until just now.

You didn’t want to die. No one really wants to die, do they? I’ve heard of 94 year olds who went out kicking and screaming, certain that it wasn’t yet their time, begging for one more chemo treatment, more time, more life. You were 59, not quite young enough to be considered truly tragic, but not quite old enough to say: okay, she’s lived her life, fulfilled her mission. You left behind two teenaged daughters and a widow whose despair at losing you would inhabit her days for months and years to come. Not quite time for me to be a widow, I say, although at 61 it wasn’t exactly shocking to lose a spouse. Two adolescents who looked around at all the friends they knew who had two living parents. Even those with divorced parents who hate each other still have two living parents. And those with a parent who has vanished from the scene know that they inhabit the earth, somewhere, somehow. Some day that missing parent might be found. I’m not sure which is worse, the potential of a parent being found who has vanished, or one who has vanished permanently. There is no hope of being found.

But, no, you really didn’t want to die—in part, because you knew how terribly we would miss you; in part, because you couldn’t bear to think that you would no longer be a part of our lives. You couldn’t imagine not seeing the hallmarks of our daughter’s progress through adulthood: graduations, first jobs, maybe even weddings and grandchildren. You couldn’t imagine not going to the garden shop with Linda first thing in the spring looking for something new to plant or watching for the lilacs to magically appear after a miserable Michigan winter. Perhaps you wondered what it would feel like not to have me by your side, holding you and sharing the stories of our lives together. You suffered unbelievable agony thinking that you might not see the ocean of Cape Cod once more, where you spent every summer of your childhood and where your brother and his wife and children now reside. You wondered at not only how you would bear to lose your closest family but your dearest friends, who surrounded your bedside with heartfelt vigilance during your last days.

You relished the beauty of this world: sunsets, moving water, grass, plants, and animals. I brought you home from the hospital one summer afternoon, and—sick as you were—the first thing you did was to lie down in the grass, staring out at the blue sky and sun. Some days I would find you sitting in the winter in the outside yard, with your hat and coat on, just sitting, wanting to feel whatever dim glimmer of sun might be found on a winter day in Michigan. You wanted to be in and of this world.

You lashed out at me at the end. How could I be sitting in your hospital room with a Starbucks cup of coffee in my hand, fortunate enough to be able to leave the room, walk through the hospital, and even outside of its doors to fortify my need for expensive coffee? When, finally, you asked me if you were really dying, about three days prior to your actual death and I said, “yes,” you said, “Thanks for sharing that with me!” with sarcasm unexpected from someone who was dying. And, yet, you also listened to my cough as you lay there, and in your most urgent dying breath said, “Go to the doctor!” And in between the grumbles and complaints, there were murmurs of “I love you,” as I moved in and out of caring for you in your last weeks of life.

When we got you home to hospice, I could finally lay by your side. The morphine had ensured that no bones would hurt as I cuddled next to you. We held hands, and I felt your grip, warm and firm. Hey, I’ll take what I can get. We had only a week in hospice at home, hardly time to come to grips with what was happening, at what we were losing, before you slipped into unconsciousness.

And there was the time—maybe a month before you died—when we confessed how happy we had been to have found each other; how each one of us had worried that we might live without love. How fortunate we were to have made a home for ourselves and our children. We had those moments. But not enough of them.

I’ve come to terms with your anger after 3 ½ years. You were given the short end of the stick, while I was given the gift of life, even when it didn’t feel like a gift at times. But still, when I catch sight of a shimmer of peachy sun against the background of our luminescent Michigan winters, I can sense the longing that you must have felt as you said goodbye to the earthly world.

A Fire, a Loss, and Thanksgiving

November 22, 2017November 22, 2017juliagrant14 Comments

Gina and Maia on the road

I am sitting in my temporary rental shortly before Thanksgiving, having survived a fire that had left me and my two young adult daughters out of our home. The rental is fine; a few flaws, like the lack of an oven for two weeks, seems a minor inconvenience compared to the devastating loss of my spouse three years ago. And although it does not have the trappings of home, it is a big improvement on living in a hotel as we did for over a month.

Just two months ago, I was awakened at 1:30 a.m. by my 18 year-old daughter to a house being consumed by putrid mustard-colored smoke. I rushed to rouse my deaf daughter, who could possibly have perished if left alone in the house. The three of us, along with our animals, made it out of the house in time, and perched on the curb as we watched the fire people extinguish the flames. Shamefully, the depth of the fire can be attributed to my own carelessness. Always a bit of a muddle, my ability to manage a house had been compromised by the death of Nancy, my single-motherhood, and a demanding job. I had bought new fire alarms to replace malfunctioning ones but succumbed to helplessness when I was unable to attach them to the existing brackets. Now the worries that had been hovering on the surface of my mind as I put off contacting a handy person had come true. Without the keen sense of smell that my Regina possessed, we could all have been goners.

With the house in shambles, we were first re-located to a hotel. It was cushy compared to what many others experiencing disasters have been through. We had access to breakfast every day, hot showers, and clean water.

Still, when my daughter camped out in the living room in our suite, I felt trapped in my bedroom. Staring at the white walls surrounding me, I was jolted back into the abyss I fell into when Nancy died: no one seemed to have my back anymore. We had dear friends, but no family in town. I had to face once again that there was no loved one lying beside me to whom I could confess my fears and anxieties. Evenings were rough; without my everyday chores to accomplish and familiar belongings, I felt immobilized. I found myself scrolling through online dating sites, while acknowledging my own ridiculousness. My current situation would be far from attractive to anyone, except for those looking for a damsel in distress, and I deliberately did not share my living situation with the women who contacted me.

But life did not stop for me or for my daughters. Regina was finishing high school and Maia was in community college, and both were slated to apply for four-year colleges during this time. They had each struggled in their own way to go on after Nancy died, as depression and attachment issues resurfaced. One daughter had to leave school temporarily to manage her mental health and regain her sense of self. My other daughter found a respite in the horse I bought to cushion her deep sense of loss.

We had all been moving forward when the fire disrupted our fragile sense of family. Yet my daughter Regina pursued her college applications relentlessly; although it was early in the process, she planned to apply early to get the best shot. She badgered me about getting her applications out, and we pored over her essays in the local coffee shop. All of her applications were in by the middle of October, shortly after the fire.

My daughter Maia was not so persistent or anxious about process, but she too managed to get her applications in order, including the portfolio that would win her a place at an Art and Design School. Finally, the applications were in by the beginning of November.

As of today, the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, both girls have been accepted to college, and one has been accepted to her top-choice school. Nancy always believed in the afterlife, while I am very skeptical about existence after death. Still, if she was right, I imagine that she is full of joy about her daughters’ resilience in the face of adversity. And I, on Thanksgiving eve, am grateful.

Midwest Illumination

February 8, 2015February 9, 2015juliagrant1Leave a comment

The day I left Iowa for Michigan did not begin auspiciously. At five a.m., I was sitting in the hallway of the guesthouse at Scattergood School, swaddled in pajamas with a layer of sweats to protect me from the bitter cold, locked out of my room waiting until seven, when I could in good conscience find someone to unlock the door. At seven exactly, I found Thomas, the Dean of Students, who was just across the way in the kitchen of the main schoolhouse preparing breakfast potatoes. He came over quickly with keys, dressed grubbily for this wintery early morning occasion. I admired his purposeful life, which included not only directing a school but participating in all of its activities, from cooking to development. That’s the way at this rural Quaker boarding school, where community is a practice for both teachers and students and not merely a sound bite. I was anxious to get going, originally having planned for a 6 a.m. departure, but it looked like it would be closer to 8 before I got on the road.

On the way to Iowa to see my daughter Mia whose mourning for her other mother had prompted the visit, I had played sappy and upbeat jazz standards on my Ipad, songs that pierced me with both pain and sweetness, like Ella Fitzgerald singing the uplifting “Blue Sky,” and the seriously sad and beautiful “Unforgettable” by Natalie and Nat King Cole. On the East and West coasts, the hills, valleys, and ocean provoke sighs of wonder at the spectacles. In the mid-west the flat lands allow you to project your own emotions onto the placid landscape. In between jazz takes, I tried to pay attention to my surroundings, noticing that the blue sky I had been listening about was often overtaken by grey. I saw what I thought to be a white owl perched on a stick of a tree outlined against the wintery fields with straggly corn husks peeking up through the snow. The trip seemed to go smoothly, punctuated only by a few pit stops where I could grab a bite, load up on gas, and move my stiff limbs. And I arrived safely at Scattergood’s rural campus with its organic farm and hearty-looking staff and young people, tucked away in the village of West Branch, tired, but not debilitated.

Whereas during the first leg of my trip, I had eagerly anticipated seeing my dear daughter, the trip home was more fraught by my anguish of leaving her once again, to return to a home still half empty. Still, I was anxious to see Regina, and I looked forward to getting back to the comforts of home, like good strong coffee, a well-heated house, and those well-worn objects and furnishings that helped me to be at ease with myself.

Despite my early morning debacle, leaving the guesthouse for the car, I caught a glimpse of a peachy patch of sun hovering against the luminous whiteness of the sky and the snow-covered hills and meadows, which seemed to augur well for the drive home. As I made my way to a quiet stretch of highway, I called my mother. For some reason, the blank landscape had brought my lamentations to a crescendo. I loudly lamented my loss, personal inadequacies, and feelings of abandonment. She listened, only interrupting once in a while, which is a gift to a person who is mourning. Did I have the resources to walk through my life alone and help to steer my children as they muddled through their own grief? The highway stretched ahead of me, the sun glinting off the snow and very little traffic save for a few truckers on this flat highway. Every once in a while my mother would suggest that perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea for me to be driving in such a distraught condition. Nevertheless, she did not stop me until I had emptied myself of the worst of my distress, and I was ready to release her to more cheerful pursuits than listening to her grief-stricken daughter.

As I put down the phone, I realized that it was time to get my morning coffee. I loved Scattergood, but their lack of coffee was a serious drawback. On my smart phone, I found what seemed to be a cool coffee shop just off the highway. I love finding my way to hipster coffee shops, featuring the latest in coffee cuisine. At thirty-thirty Coffee Co. in Peoria, Illinois, I was greeted by a friendly bearded guy with gaudy tattoos and a deep respect for the art of coffee making. I brought my laptop computer in to catch up on some work emails, while drinking some strong Guatemalan brew. When I got back to the car, I checked my Ipad for navigational advice and realized that while wallowing in my grief I had veered off in the wrong direction, losing up to two hours worth of driving, meaning that my trip would turn from seven hours to nine.

I eventually made my way home just in time to take Regina out to dinner, which I had promised to do. While I unpacked and tried to settle in for the evening, I noticed that my computer was missing. This was a serious computer that had been purchased for me by my workplace. My previous computer had been ruined by a wine spill, as we prepared for Nancy’s memorial service, so this was bad indeed. Typically, such an event would send me into a full-scale panic, but I tried to convince myself that far worse things had happened in my life and in the world, that if I had to cough up some extra dough to get a new computer, so be it. I had most likely left the computer at thirty-thirty Coffee. I looked them up on my desktop computer, but since it was evening now, they were closed. Later I checked my email to find the following message: “Ms. Grant, We at thirty-thirty Coffee Co. have potentially found a lost item of yours. If you have been to our place recently and are missing an item, please contact me at this email address, or one of the numbers listed below. Hope you are well.” After the long day, I knew that I would rest easily that night, grateful for kind people who wish the forgetful strangers who visit their shop well.

Who’s that woman crying in the grocery store?

January 27, 2015January 27, 2015juliagrant115 Comments

I cried today when I bought “Smart Food” in the grocery store. That cheesy popcorn was one of Nancy’s favorite snacks, and just thinking about that catapulted me into grief once again. I was purchasing it for my daughter Regina and her friends who were hanging out at our house after school. I’ve been apt to tear up at the grocery store, the traffic light, yoga lessons, in fact, just about everywhere these days. There are so many reminders that Nancy is permanently vacant from my life, at least in the physical realm (and I’m reserving judgment on the afterlife—haven’t heard from her yet).

But it makes me wonder: why haven’t I ever noticed people crying in the grocery store before? I can’t be the only widow, person who’s lost a child, whose world has been upended by divorce, by losing a home, a job, or whose relatives here or in other countries have been the victims of natural or unnatural disasters. Nor can I be the only one who responds to such calamities of life by tears. I wonder if I have been immune to the suffering of others, inoculated by my comfortable life with a stable partnership, two daughters, a nice home in a safe neighborhood, and a decent job? Sure I’ve had my own crosses to bear. With a sick partner for many years now, a labor-intensive job, and kids with needs–both special and ordinary–I have had my hands full. All these years, I’ve been huddling down into myself as I go about my shopping, single-mindedly pursuing my task of getting items off the grocery store shelves and into my basket, without taking notice of the sadness of other human beings around me.

Frequently I’ll make small talk with folks at the grocery store and other places, something that annoys the hell out of my kids. But I don’t think I probe beneath the surface of their superficial remarks. A friend of mine named Tami, also a lesbian widow, does probe beneath the surface in her interactions with strangers. While in the line to see a movie, she heard someone ask the woman behind her how she was doing. “Fine” the woman replied, but Tami heard in her voice that she was far from fine. She asked the woman: “Why aren’t you fine?” And the woman told her that she had just lost her husband of forty years to cancer. After which, they shared their individual stories and comforted each other. I want to be like Tami.

Recently, I’ve been reading Anne Lamott’s Stitches: A Handbook on Meaning, Hope, and Beyond. I’d long ago put self-help books behind me, not because I didn’t have problems but because I believed that I had no need for their clichéd object lessons. I could solve my problems on my own. I no longer have the arrogance of thinking that I don’t need help, solace, or inspiration from those wiser than myself—or even just wiser in ways that I am not. Desperation does that to you.

Lamott defends the “overly sensitive child” in her book. Chastised for being too sensitive as a child, she wonders if being sensitive to the many occasions of brutality and personal loss that is inherent in this life isn’t a reasonable response. Considered an overly sensitive child myself, I felt somewhat redeemed by her analysis. But I want to be overly sensitive not only to my own personal losses but to the losses experienced by others.

During the time period of Nancy’s last stage of life and her death, our nation witnessed the horrific shooting in Ferguson and its aftermath of urban turmoil and outrage in the city and beyond. I was aware of what was going on, but I skipped through the facebook posts and the news, numbly insensitive to the world’s greater cares in the light of my own personal tragedy. We can only experience so much pain at once, I guess. But I hope to reclaim my ability to care about the world beyond my own experience.

But, really, my personal goal is less lofty than that: I want to use my experience of loss to try to become that woman who, having cried in the grocery store, is more open to the suffering of the world. Maybe then, I will notice all of the others who are crying in the grocery store.

The Gift

Image January 22, 2015January 28, 2015juliagrant14 Comments

Christmas Eve in 2014 was just three months shy of the death of Nancy. The children and I were visiting Nancy’s family in Chatham, Cape Cod, which was often our tradition. I had geared myself up to exude at least some Christmas cheer, sharing holiday greetings, hugging Nancy’s nieces and nephews, and stacking up the gifts under the Christmas tree. Nancy’s family members were optimistic people, even through many tragedies in their lives, so I tried to immerse myself in their holiday activities, and keep my grieving to a minimum.

The family was large and extremely close knit: throughout the holidays, Jack, Nancy’s brother and his wife Beth would be surrounded by all of their five grown children, their spouses, and Nancy’s mother and brother Pete.

Jack, Nancy’s oldest brother, and his wife Beth had been stalwarts in the life of our family. Jack’s love for Nancy was intense. The two siblings’ bond likely had been strengthened by the loss of their sister when she was just twenty-eight. But they had been close buddies since childhood, routinely “borrowing” idle sailboats in Chatham and sharing a love for the sea and boats ever since.

Jack’s warm and gregarious wife Beth had fostered the relationship of the two families, cheerfully visiting Michigan with Jack on regular occasions, and spending many holidays and vacations with us. They had been second parents to our children, caring for them while Nancy had undergone chemotherapy, and walking with us through many moments of our life, both joyful and dark.

The Gardner home in Chatham had been a place of joy and respite for our family for several years. It was a large rambling home close to the ocean, the fish pier and Chatham’s antique downtown. The kids made annual treks to the infamous Candy Manor, and I had often visited the coffee shop where regulars would gather on the benches facing Main Street during my early morning walks. On Friday evenings, folks laid out their blankets early in order to occupy a place on the lawn to enjoy the Chatham band concerts, which featured old timey music, with elderly couples gracefully dancing to big band music and children joining in on the bunny hop. Chatham was almost the cliché of the small town all-American village, although its wealth shielded it from the harsher truths of life.

The Gardner’s had moved to the village shortly before retirement, and Jack had bought a boat, which he had lovingly named the “Nancy Alice” (Alice was Nancy’s middle name). The boat became a centerpiece around which many vacations revolved. Jack often took us out to the deep waters so that we could marvel at the whales that cavorted off Chatham’s shore. On one such trip, we were surrounded by whales swirling dangerously close to the boat, so that we had to take off in fear that the boat would be tossed into the ocean waters as the animals played. Still, even that was part of the fun. There were so many photos of Nancy on that boat, completely at home on the ocean and with her family.

Since Jack moved to Chatham he had taken on the vocation of fishing with a vengeance. Jack had often enticed the girls, and sometimes Nancy, into rising at 5 a.m. to go deep-sea fishing at sunrise. Photos of Regina and Maia struggling under the weight of huge fish with extravagant smiles on their faces had elicited sighs of envy and admiration from many, especially my colleagues who were fishing aficionados. The memories of that house and of that place had always included Nancy. Surrounded by her family and the sea, there was perhaps nowhere on earth where she was more joyous.

On the Christmas Eve after Nancy’s death, the Gardner’s were hosts extraordinaire, providing everything needed for their visitors to have a good time. Beth had been busy all day long, making preparations for the feasts for both Christmas Eve and Christmas day. On Christmas Eve, I’d been eating wonderful lobster salad sandwiches and drinking good red wine. We engaged in a rollicking “Yankee Swap,” involved picking out an anonymous gift, and then swapping with others until the last player got to choose the final gift. Finally, the group was onto another rousing game of Guestures, a fast-paced charades game, which generated much silliness and hilarity.

But I had gotten tired of all the revelry and needed to retreat to my room, where I could gather my thoughts and experience feelings that were out of place in a merry Christmas Eve gathering. The hollowness that lurked behind my holiday persona was overtaking me.

Fortunately, Beth had chosen to give me a different guest room than the one Nancy and I had shared year after year. Because Nancy was ill, we had been granted what was arguably the most beautiful room in the house on the ground floor and just off the deck. At first, Beth thought that I might sleep in that room on this visit, but, fortunately, she changed her mind when other visitors arrived. I was relieved.

How could I now sleep in that room, where looking through the window you could see the ocean peaking through the horizon, where you could walk out on the deck to view the placid waters of the salt water pond at the bottom of the hill, the vibrant rambling red roses, and the humming birds at the feeder? Nancy had often relaxed, as she did so well, lying on the hammock or lounging on a chair on the deck right outside of our bedroom door with a cup of coffee in hands, swaying to the warm breezes from the nearby surf.

In the middle of July, Jack and Beth had held a wedding party in our honor, and everything in that room, from the bedding to the curtains and the view, was the same as it had been during that short respite from Nancy’s treatment. The thought of sleeping in a place that had brought so much pleasure to her was seemingly unendurable.

But, thankfully, I was assigned to sleep in a room where I had never slept before and which had recently been redecorated. The room was restful; the calm colors of brown and blue provided me with a space that was comfortingly neutral, where I could get away from the holiday frivolity when I needed to.

My daughters slept in the room just next door to me with two twin beds. I was grateful to have a space where I could retreat when I needed to, but appreciated the close proximity to the girls. My deep loneliness was abated when Maia came home from school for the holidays, for not only Nancy but Maia had also left home this past fall, leaving Regina and I with a house that was half empty. Although Maia did not grieve overtly often, whenever I expressed my pain an angelic look would come over her face and she would lovingly comfort me. But there were days over the holiday, when her grief did overcome her, and she had difficulty sleeping. One day she told me that she could not bear to see anyone connected with Nancy, and spent the day alone in her room.

But on Christmas Eve she had enjoyed the games. Still, she had difficulty sleeping. After reading and thinking, I fell into a sleep, which, if not quite restful, was at least a relief. Later that night, I felt a thump in my bed. Thinking it was Regina who had often asked me to sleep with her at home, I began talking to her, but she did not answer me. My next thought was that someone had gotten into the wrong bed. But, no, it was my daughter Maia (who was hearing impaired and could not hear me), who had not joined me in bed for many years. She was seventeen now. I felt her warmth beside me, the solidity and roundness of her being. After a few minutes, she put her head on my chest, wrapped her arm around me and said: “I’m so glad that you’re my mother.” I pulled her closer to myself, and relaxed into the restorative warmth of her being. This was my gift on Christmas Eve: the love of my children and the legacy of my life with Nancy.

Me and my Girls, post Nancy: left to right, Maia, Regina, Julia

Footprints

January 12, 2015January 12, 2015juliagrant18 Comments

Today I walked on the beach in the footprints of past walks with Nancy. We were in Chatham, Cape Cod, for the winter holidays. Chatham was the home of Nancy’s brother and his family, as well as the village where she had spent many blissful summers as a child. Nancy’s brother, Jack, his wife Beth, and their five grown children would be joining us for various of the festivities: Christmas Eve, Christmas day, and Jack’s birthday the day after Christmas. But the festivities were all a bit much, just shy of three months after Nancy’s death. I would have to walk alone in my grief, trying hard not to spoil the enjoyment of those for whom the Christmas festivities should not be marred by tears and lamentations.

One morning I rose before the others and walked down to the fish pier, just a short walk from the house. The winter sun did not warm but illuminated the sharply evanescent cold blue of the sky, with the promise of lightening the dark blue of early morning waters.

This brief walk to the fisherman’s pier was one we had taken time and time again. From the pier you could see not only boats, small spits of sand, and sea birds, but even seals, especially after the fishermen had brought in their haul. It was an annual pilgrimage for our family to arrive just as the fisherman came in and discarded their trash fish to the hungry seals that awaited them. I don’t think that the children were more excited than we were, when we saw the seals diving for fish, playing with each other, going down deep and seeming to disappear before they popped up again right in front of your eyes. Now that the children are aging into young adulthood and Nancy is gone, how many more such walks will we take as a family?

Walking down the beach, I noticed the foot prints of other walkers: a child’s footprint next to the three-legged print of a sea bird, then a larger footprint, maybe that of a father. Now I saw what I took to be a father, his dog, and his child. Did they realize the memories they were making? Nancy and I and the children had made many such footprints through the years. The footprints, so finely etched, would be washed away, but what would happen to our memories? Without these written words would they too gradually or quickly lose their contours?

I heard the seabirds calling, some of them sounding almost ethereal, like ancient musical instruments. Once I had seen them as ordinary sea gulls, too ordinary to notice. Now I forced myself to listen and look not only for the remarkable but for the ordinary, newly realizing how attention to the ordinary is one of the great blessings of being alive.

I stopped to take photographs of the lonely boats, idling in the cold waters at the fish pier. I found some boats to be beautiful floating vessels on the sea, but to Nancy boats were more than just physical constructions but embodiments of pleasure. She dreamed of boats, constantly cruising Craig’s list for the perfect little sunfish she could find to putter about in Nantucket Sound in Cape Cod, then bring home to put on Lake Lansing. I worried about the finer details of bringing the boat from the Cape to Michigan, let alone whether her health was good enough to maintain and use a boat during the summer, which would end up being her last one. If she had lived, she imagined joining the skipper of a sailboat and navigating the waters off the East Coast or even some more remote area for some lengthy period. When she verbalized these wishes, I was secretly skeptical of the possibility, given her poor health, but felt guilty about my inability to dream along with her. And, worse still, I knew I could not remain on a sailing vessel for long and feared that I would miss her were she to take off on such a trip.

What she saw in sailboats continued to elude me. During my one stretch overnight in a sailboat of her friend’s, we all got seasick from the swells of an unforeseen storm, the friend’s baby throwing up and crying endlessly. I was struck by claustrophobia. Day trips off the shores of Cape Cod with Nancy’s brother were delightful, but I dreaded the experience of actually living on a boat for more than one night. But this was not my dream, but Nancy’s.

Nancy was a big dreamer, always imagining the possibility of having spectacular adventures, while I limited myself to more mundane and affordable visions of the future. Although a dreamer, more than most people I know, Nancy really knew how to partake of the pleasures of the world, putting petty issues behind her to focus on what was really important: like the first bloom of spring or the first warm rays of the sun after a tough Michigan winter. While I worried about laundry on a Sunday morning, Nancy wanted to sit on an easy chair in the sun with a cup of coffee and experience a day without being encumbered by my trivial annoyances.

The ordinary moments, the extraordinary ones, and even the ones we may or may never have speak to me in new ways as I seek to experience and remember all that Nancy has left behind. I mourn the footprints of where she been, as well as all the new ones she will never make and the rays of the sun that will never warm her back again.

Lost and Found

January 10, 2015January 13, 2015juliagrant110 Comments

In October of nearly every year, when the autumn leaves are at their crispest and most vivid in Michigan, our family had driven to Calhoun County, often with our friends Daria and Virginia and their children, to see the annual migration of the sand hill cranes to the wetlands. Just a one-hour drive, there was usually a festival in honor of the occasion, with distractions for children who were not as excited as the adults were to bear witness to the swelling descent of the cranes. After the children had visited the crafts booths, watched tamed wild animals perform their feats for the visitors, and drank warm cider, we would amble over to the hillside where the best viewing was to be had.

On that hill, devoted bird watchers, many with binoculars, some with scopes, were gathering, patiently waiting for the cranes, which would begin arriving about 4:30 but would not fill the skies until dusk. One could count on the good cheer of people who love birds: outfitted in their warmest outdoor gear, and watching intently as the numbers of cranes grew by the minute, swooping through the sky before their tremulous feet touched down on the watery earth. By the time it was peak viewing for the cranes, the kids were usually getting antsy and ready to abandon the cold hillside for the car and drive to nearby “Turkeyville,” where comforting hot turkey sandwiches and dinners were to be had. All of this was warm and wonderful: the companionship of good friends, the traditional turkey eating, and watching our children traipse about in the wooded sanctuary. But for Nancy and I, watching the cranes was the magical event, to be repeated year after year.

Nancy died on October 1^st, shortly before the sand hill cranes’ migration to Michigan. A memorable photograph of the sand hill cranes was placed near her bedside as she approached death. And as we (Nancy’s closest friends, two of my sisters, and our daughters) sang goodbye to Nancy the night before she died, we hadinvoked the image of a sand hill crane comforting her and carrying her to the other side.

On a brisk and bleak November morning about a month and a half after Nancy died, I decided that I needed to see the sand hill cranes again. I bundled up in my new winter cap, hiking shoes, and down coat, determined that the cold would not deter me from my mission. I planned to explore a nature trail that I had never visited before just down the road from the festival arena.

This was a trip that I had made many times before, and I thought that the drive would take care of itself. But I soon realized that I could take nothing for granted anymore. At the beginning of the trip, as the highway split off into two different directions, I inadvertently took the wrong turn, and it was quite some time before I discovered my mistake. This was a minor setback, and I turned off the highway in order to enter again in the right direction. But when I got to the general area of the crane sanctuary, I took the wrong exit off the highway. After what seemed to be miles and miles of flat farmland that failed to trigger any memories, I realized that I had no idea where I was.

I pulled by the side of the road and wept, overwhelmed by the ways in which my grief was making it impossible for me to find my way. I then turned again to the task of finding my destination. After fiddling with my phone’s navigational device, I eventually got headed again toward the trail I had been looking for.

Finally, I drew in my breadth, grateful that I had finally arrived at the Marsh Nature Trail. The wooden sign told me that I would encounter wetlands, woodlands, and most likely great viewing venues for the cranes. It was cold, but I was fortified for the weather, and braced myself to encounter the grim natural beauty of November in Michigan—a fitting landscape for the barrenness I felt.

After a very short time on the trail I began to see numerous felled trees blocking me in several directions. Many of them were overlapping, and the entire way ahead of me was strewn with obstacles to walking. Whether the trees had been felled by nature or humans was unclear, but as I moved on it was clear that the path was non-existent. I began stepping over fractured and distorted fir trees, telling myself that I was exercising more muscles than I normally would, but also anxious about falling, because it was unlikely that any other human being would be likely to trek through this stricken landscape. I stopped to sit on one such fractured log, wondering if I would ever find my way through this chaos.

Climbing over the branches, I finally found a clearing, with a flat hill ahead of me, a good spot for catching sight of the cranes. The plaintive cries of the sand hill cranes greeted me before I saw them. First a group of three, then groups of four and five spread their wildly wide wings above me, soaring in a pattern I strove to discern, as I could not see where they were headed. It was daytime; they would not be settling down on the marsh. Instead they would be foraging for their meals—where, I did not know. I walked around haphazardly trying to follow their pattern; each time I caught a sight of them I would feel a softening of my grief.

I still had plans to go to work that day, so I soon decided to find my way back to my car. The high clearing allowed me to see where I was, but there was no way that I would be returning the same way that I came in, as there was no path to follow, and I had seesawed my way to where I was. So I stepped awkwardly around the trees, until I saw the bench that signified proximity to the beginning of the trail. I was close to the end.

As I approached my car, I checked in my pocket for my car keys, where I had left them. The keys were gone, even though I distinctly remembered putting them there. I looked behind me, paralyzed by the thought that I had lost my keys on the trail. There was no way that they could be found without endless wandering, of which I was incapable in my present state of mind. And even then, it was unlikely I would find them. Whatever resourcefulness I once possessed had been eroded by my grief.

I walked a few more steps closer to the car and saw the keys on the ground just a short distance from the car. The found keys appeared to be a blessing, maybe even a sign from Nancy, or even God if he/she existed, that somewhere in the universe something/one would be looking out for me. Probably the found keys were just a fortunate coincidence, but looking up at the gray sky and at my car awaiting my drive home, I wondered if maybe I would find my way after all.

The Mourning House

January 10, 2015January 22, 2015juliagrant15 Comments

I currently sleep in the guest room of my house. The other room I used to sleep in – which I have been calling the “hospice room”–is now a more hallowed space. That room was redesigned just prior to death of the woman who had accompanied me through life and parenting for 27 years. We’d only been married for 6 months, due to a 5-hour period during which same-sex couples were allowed to marry in Michigan. The death was unanticipated; diagnosis of advanced breast cancer, just one year earlier had led us to believe we had “years” instead of a year to share our lives together. Once a partner, spouse, and co-parent, I must now try on the identity of widow, while existing inside of a house that no longer feels like home.

In the hospice room, the hospital bed is gone, but there are many artifacts put in place for healing purposes. A Buddha statue from Sri Lanka donated by my sister for good luck; framed close-ups of photos of orchids taken by our daughter when we went to the orchid show last year; a print of the magnificent sand hill cranes whose visits to the wetlands of Michigan we witnessed every October.

When I walk through that room I see not the space where my partner and I once slept together, did our nightly roundup of the day’s events, and watched our favorite television shows. Once I had listened to Nancy whisper “sleep with angels, darlin’” each night before we switched off the lights. Now, I see a kind of vacuous shrine that I don’t wish to disturb.

The hospice room is artful. Our antique mahogany bed is spread with a treasured cover from Nepal, and its geometric purple and green hues are echoed in the pillows and in the lilac paint on the walls. Nancy has left many objects containing memorabilia—cigar boxes, a pewter bowl, an old candy tin. When I am brave enough to look through them I find weathered photos of her father and grandparents in sepia, small jewelry boxes containing antique rings and pearls, the invitation to her parents’ wedding in 1950, the baby shoes of our daughters. It contains remnants of a life I once was part of.

In the guest room where I sleep, I still feel like a visitor. The room remains the same as when it housed guests, not particularly inviting and somewhat disturbingly impersonal. The colors clash: pink curtains, a blue patterned quilt, walls painted a jolting lime green. A large unadorned bed dominates the smallish room. It’s not designed for comfort or charm. But in my current uncomfortable frame of mind, it seems to fit my requirements.

A perennial basket of unfolded laundry resides in the corner of the anonymous space where I now reside. My computer, my refuge, stands ready for my use, although I still can’t find a show I want to watch or a book I want to read. Scanning facebook, reading through emails, I seek connections to fill the stillness that stretches before me.

The rest of the house is also still somewhat alien territory, transformed by the permanent vacancy of one of its occupants. My sprightly teenaged daughter, whose easy laughter hasn’t changed much since toddlerhood, begs me to go upstairs with her at night, and she will not go back downstairs again without me, spooked by a house that is devoid of her other mother. She asks me to accompany her to the bathroom at night and in the early dark mornings. She fears that Nancy is somehow here in the house as a ghost, but perhaps not as much as she fears living in a house where Nancy no longer exists.

Nancy’s mother says she cannot bear to visit us in this place, not while the painful memories of her daughter seem to bounce off every surface of the house. But my daughter and I must live in this mourning house, trying to find our way to another kind of home where we can co-exist with what is here and what is not.

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