(This is seventh in a series reflecting on how life changed in a way that was–and still is five years later–unfathomable to me.)
I made the dreaded notifications about Terry’s death in the morning, first to Michael, then to Steve on Long Island.
“I’m sorry I didn’t see your call last night,” Mike said.
“Mom never got to meet her grandson,” Steve wailed.
I called Terry’s sister, Rosemary, now the only surviving member of what had once been a family of five.
Then I called my extended family, including my 93-year-old mother.
I delayed the call to Matt a couple of hours because of the time difference in Colorado.
Matt would fly home as soon as he could and stay with Michael. He could not handle being in the house.
Around noon, I called Vicki and asked her to tell the rest of our friends.
All were shocked.
Ditto. Which was a favorite Terry word. Picked up from one of her favorite movies, Ghost.
In between, and after, the family notifications, I called the funeral home and my parish to make arrangements.
It helped to be busy with the calls and walking the dog and all the minutiae of daily living, but there were long, lonely moments and crushing realization.
Terry had not been home for over a week, but she was all over the house: bills to pay and her unopened mail on the kitchen table, her notes on the calendar (August 24: Haircut-10), her pillbox on the counter, her cane propped in a corner, combs, brushes, a closet and bureau full of her clothes, her car in the driveway. It was like she had gone on one of her business trips and would be back soon.
That night, my siblings, trekked an hour to East Greenville to bring dinner. We sat on the deck and I caught them up on things. I was exhausted
One of the worst things that began to happen was waking up in the morning. For a second, just a second, everything feels normal. Then reality bites. Terry will not be next to you when you roll over. It occurred every single morning.
On Thursday, I took Rio to his scheduled grooming–what was the point of postponing it– and sat in my car and made some calls and texts, canceling appointments no longer needed, notifying others who should know about Terry, calling Terry’s phone so I could hear her voice.
I went to the funeral home in the afternoon and, on Friday, I met with Father Anthony.
The viewing/funeral Mass was scheduled for Aug. 27. Burial would take place the next morning. It is a truism that funeral planning is almost a godsend because it keeps you busy with planning and execution, like writing Terry’s obituary.
I knew that the night of August 28 was going to begin the real grieving process. That’s when all the this-time-last-years begin.
The funeral home gave me a book on dealing with the process, Grief One Day at a Time by Alan D. Wolfelt. The title of this essay comes from the advice for August 19. The actual heading in the book was “Smile, breathe, and go slowly,” a quote from Thic Nhat Hanh, a Vietnamese monk. The author’s advice was to “amend this quote to say: Smile or frown, breathe and go slowly.” Smiling was completely out of the question. Memories of Terry were bringing tears and facial expressions and feelings more associated with nausea.
On the way home from the rectory, I stopped at the store and was ambushed by grief once again. As I went up and down the aisles, I would automatically ask myself if Terry needed this or Terry needed that.
And just like waking up in the morning, that bastard grief would yank me back to reality and tears would well up.
I was partnerless and helpless.
The Q-View 