Archives for category: Anger at loss

9 months exactly (and the first time I will express this only in months without weeks)

Wintersong

The lake is frozen over
The trees are white with snow
And all around
Reminders of you
Are everywhere I go

It’s late and morning’s in no hurry
But sleep won’t set me free
I lie awake and try to recall
How your body felt beside me
When silence gets too hard to handle
And the night too long

And this is how I see you
In the snow on Christmas morning
Love and happiness surround you
As you throw your arms up to the sky
I keep this moment by and by

Oh I miss you now, my love
Merry Christmas, merry Christmas,
Merry Christmas, my love

Sense of joy fills the air
And I daydream and I stare
Up at the tree and I see
Your star up there

And this is how I see you
In the snow on Christmas morning
Love and happiness surround you
As you throw your arms up to the sky
I keep this moment by and by

– Sarah McLachlan

I miss you, my love.

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No one should have to endure watching their mate slide way. I love her and the kids more every day.

I finally screwed up the courage to look in Ray’s most recent journal. I have kept it, along with a few personal items, neatly arranged on my dresser like some kind of shrine. I didn’t intend it….it just happened.

Portrait of Ray and card by KAth Boake; metal flower by Kathryn Diakiw

I have touched the journal many times, wondering when I would have the courage to have a look. There are others around….written when he was more well. This was his last. I picked the book up today as I wanted to make sure this little shrine was pristine and free of dust. As I did, the floodgates opened and I wept loud and hard. I talked to Ray and I felt him trying to reassure me. I told him I missed him and just wanted to talk to him and hear him talk to me. I opened the journal.

The passages were a bit spotty, mostly how he was feeling and documenting the staggering number of interactions with doctors. On January 28, my brother-in-law, Sean (God love him) came to take Ray’s office on the main floor apart and move it upstairs to where our guest room was. The hospital bed came in the next day and it was the last night Ray slept upstairs with me. What followed was the collapse of any efficacy of chemo; daily pain readings and planning for a little shopping trip to Pottery Barn. On February 18, he wrote the quote above. It’s the last thing he wrote in this book.

I find myself looking for crumbs now. In the closet, folded and piled in haste, sits the outfit he wore on his last night, dressing up for his baby sister Savannah’s birthday party. I can’t even think of moving that. I feel like his soul is still in that little pile somewhere. This is the dilemma we face with the loss of someone so important. We imbue “things” with their essence. Their being becomes inseparable from a pair of jeans and a well-worn pullover. Rays’ hand, clearly failing over the last few days of entries, wrote those loving words to me and to my kids. It’s as real now as it was when he wrote it. It is no fainter or duller for the nearly six months that have passed. It is a message suspended in time — and it breaks my heart…again.

Twenty-one weeks, two days

It was our youngest’s 24th birthday on Saturday. Cass and I celebrated with a decadent shopping trip to Seattle this weekend. It was loads of fun, eating and shopping and having some giggles.

I got back tonight aware of that giant hole again. Where was he? Why couldn’t I share this all with him? Sometimes this ache is so huge, I can’t even look at it for fear it will swallow me whole. Everything in my adult, and virtually conscious life, has involved Ray. Even if Cass and I did something like we did this on a weekend, I would come back to Ray, to tell him the stories, and we would laugh. GOD DAMN IT! IT’S SO EMPTY IN MY LIFE WITHOUT HIM!

It’s such as weird dichotomy. I feel joy…I do. I don’t feel guilt about it. But I am so aware of these vast empty spaces where Ray just isn’t any more. There is NOTHING to fill that void. Nothing ever will. Again…that soulmate thing. I could have the best friend in the world again, but never this one. Never that person who knew my thoughts and knew my joy…even before I felt it. No man, no woman will ever fill this space. And I don’t mourn that I won’t have it with someone else. In fact, I don’t want it with someone else. I just can’t imagine that what I had is actually gone. It’s so hard to look at, I avoid it studiously. It is, in a word, unfathomable. And I guess that’s where it stays. Unmeasurable. Unimaginable. Unfathomable.

Eleven weeks, five days

Again, I am choking out sobs. I have just watched Dr. Wayne Dyer interview Anita Moorjani. The timing is heaven sent.

I have been consumed of late with thinking about Ray’s last hours. They weren’t good. He struggled and fought. He would fight to get up out of bed, even though he was only semi-conscious. His breathing was so laboured. I cannot find a way to calm myself about his state. I can only see suffering of the greatest kind. I can only imagine fear. It has filled my days and nights with guilt, horror, sadness and an overwhelming desire to comfort and take it all away…even though it is now long past.

We cared for Ray at home. He died, in his former office, in a hospital bed provided by the Province, with no less than 10 people with him. His brother, my sisters, my nephew, his sisters, my daughter, son and daughter-in-law were all there — talking to him, trying to comfort him and feeling the impossibility of letting him go.

I have been so haunted by Ray’s last hours. Tonight, I watched a PBS talk by Dr. Wayne Dyer, and he introduced a woman named Anita Moorjani, who had been admitted to hospital in Hong Kong with organ failure in late stage cancer. What Anita Moorjani said gave me some comfort. I’m not in any way relieved, but I feel there is a possibility that Ray was not suffering as profoundly as I believe he was. As she drifted into death, Anita experienced an expansion of consciousness — something Jill Bolte Taylor talked about in her TED talk called My Stroke of Insight. (I encourage anyone and everyone to watch this. I have done so numerous times. It is new information everyone should have.)

Anita saw “the other side”, saw lost loved ones and, at the same time, those grieving by her bedside — but she felt overwhelming peace. For some reason, God gave her a chance to come back.

I think Ray got that chance on the operating table at VGH in March of 2006. The surgeon told me that they had almost lost him. It was a 12-hour surgery with profound complications. The surgeon thought of closing and giving up, but said he knew he had to go ahead. It gave me and my family six more years with Ray, a man more expansive in his generosity and humour, a mentor to young designers, an inspiration to countless people.

We can’t know what passing into death is really like. We can hang onto the words of those who have come close. For me, they give me a bit of comfort. As it happens, I have been present at the death of a number of people — some peaceful, some violent. In all but Ray’s case, I have seen peace sweep over them. I am still so unsure in Ray’s case. He wasn’t done and I’ve said that before. Was he willing to let go? Was he okay with going to “the other side”? I won’t know til I get there myself. Sometimes, I really want to be there, but not in “that” way. Just in the way that I miss him so badly and I want to see him again. I can wait until it’s my time, but I certainly don’t dread that day.

Seven weeks to the day

Unless you’re a masochist, don’t attempt a funeral too close to your own loss. Although we can’t control when the next important someone passes away, unless you really need to be there, take a pass. I went to the memorial of an old friend’s mom today. I’d attended her father’s funeral some 35 years earlier and I will never forget it. This time, I figured I had it all under control. I didn’t.

When we said the Lord’s Prayer, I couldn’t even form the words. The last time I said it, I had repeated it over and over in the process of saying decades of the Rosary while Ray lay dying. And yet, I felt profoundly detached from the religious aspect of this memorial. I think I am really pissed off at God.

I feel that this has set me back about six weeks. I am in such a deep hole, I feel like I’ll never get out. I know that I will, but right now I just want to sit under a heavy table and rock back and forth.

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