No more “I love you’s”
The language is leaving me
No more “I love you’s”
The language is leaving me in silence
No more “I love you’s”
Changes are shifting outside the word.

Sung by Annie Lennox
Written by The Lover Speaks

I love this song.  I ask Alexa to play it over and over again on Echo.  It is the words themselves, as well as my cousin Annie’s beautiful voice, which captivate me.

Yes, my cousin Ann – actually my third cousin, once removed.  No, we haven’t met.  In my possession is a love poem written in 1856 by my 2^nd-great grandfather James Chalmers; he is Annie’s 3^rd-great grandfather.  I always thought it would be fabulous if she set the Scottish poem to music.  A trip to Aberdeenshire, Scotland is on my bucket list, but she doesn’t live there anymore.

From high school on I have been interested in my family history, which is Dutch and Scot mostly.  My 9^th great-grandfather is the historical figure “Anthony the Turk.”  One of his daughters married my Dutch immigrant 8^th great-grandfather in the 17^th century in what is now New York City.  I’ve devoured family histories, scoured online resources and even had my DNA analyzed.  The conclusion is that I am the same as most of the world’s population – a mixture of expected and unexpected ethnicities.

Family lore is so interesting.  Over the generations, the tales change.  Some ancestors become larger than life; others simply disappear.  Illegitimacy exists in several of my family trees – fascinating to me in 2017 but surely sources of gossip in previous centuries.  There are other family “secrets” that simply exemplify the customs of the day, which in 2017 are shameful to me.  Both the family tales and the truths enrich my understanding of my ancestors’ lives.

Reality, which is perhaps only perception, is seen differently by each individual.  My mother seemed to only remember proud moments and accomplishments within her family.  My father was more fact-driven, but like the rest of us, preferred to talk about the positives.  I could ask them about the same experience and hear two totally different versions.  A sobering example of this is when I asked them about how they started smoking – my mother asserted that no one initially knew cigarettes were bad, while my father acknowledged that they were called “coffin sticks” even back when.  (This is so sad, as they both died of lung cancer.)

As time goes on, I tend to remember the highlights and the low lights of my parents, both gone.  My memories of my years with Rick remain fresh and accessible for now – I fear the time when the middle ground fades away – the day-to-day rhythm of our life together.

There are myriad organizations in the world.  Sports fans follow soccer, football, NASCAR – you name it.  Political entities unite behind their candidates.  Birders show their journals off to other enthusiasts.  Grateful Dead fans and Parrot Heads follow the music.  Huge groups of people which are just so enthralled with particular ideas or activities are all around and yet invisible to the likes of me.

In the past year, I have joined the following groups:

• Mahjong players
• Dragon boat racers
• Widows and widowers
• Vintage Blues fans (and still Fabulous Rockers fans)
• United Way Women’s Leadership Council members
• Americans who have visited Cuba
• Bloggers
• Women who think somehow growing their hair out will make it become straight and sleek (Sorry, I digress . . . .)

I joined a new club recently:

• Joint replacement veterans

Since my hip replacement just a month ago I have been rehabbing.  Besides using some gym equipment, my surgeon directed me to do a series of easy movements in the pool a few times each week.  So I have been going to an indoor pool near my home, joining others as they rehab their knees, hips, shoulders, or backs.  We usually share a quick summary of our surgeries and progress.  I’ve even had people glance at my 5-page workout summary and immediately know my surgeon’s name!

As I go about my business with a heightened awareness of telltale scars, I make eye contact and nod to my fellow joint replacement club members.  We don’t even need to talk; we know we belong to the same club.

Back in the old days I liked June.  It meant summer was officially underway and there were fun adventures planned over the next few months.  Sometimes my cousins had gatherings in the West, to which we usually traveled by motorcycle.  Occasionally we traveled overseas, other years we moved from south to north, and back to south again.  In 2001 Rick motorcycled from Michigan to the Arctic Circle in Canada before reaching Anchorage, and back again – he and his buddy racked up more than 10,000 miles that summer.  He loved that trip and always wanted to do it again.

Last year June came on the heels of a special Memorial Day weekend.  For the first time in about a year and a half, Rick had his entire family visiting us in Florida – both daughters, grandchildren and son-in-law.  Although he was weakened by then, his eyes were alight with love and he smiled widely with pleasure.  He was so interested in each family member’s life and thrilled to the promise seen in his grandchildren as they entered adulthood.

It wasn’t easy.  Both of us were exhausted.  I don’t know how Rick remained so resilient, motivated and focused on surviving his cancer, even as his body shrank and failed him.  I was worn by the personal care he required.  Sometimes we hugged each other before sleep, making sure each of us knew how much we were loved.  What I would give today for turning over in my empty bed to see his face resting on the adjacent pillow, smiling at me.

I have cried every day this week.  I remember the joy of that last family weekend and I dread the anniversary of his death later this month.  I don’t know what to do with that day.  I can’t comprehend how long each of the hours in that 24-hour day will feel.  What do I do?

In this past year I have worked to get back to the memories of a strong, robust man filled with life.  Now the memories of the havoc both cancer and cure wreaked on him are what I see.  His head and heart were there until the end; it was the rest of his body that withered.  I know I will get back to remembering better days, but not this month, not June, maybe never in June.

Rick and I only lived in this home for one year.  In that year we settled in and found our niches; Rick had an office and I used a guestroom for mine.  I could see a fountain from my window and enjoyed watching the comings and goings in my neighborhood from this front room.  Rick’s office looks out into the open space of the home and his window offers no special scenery.

Two offices are no longer needed.  Two sinks in the master bath are not necessary.  Two of each type of bicycle in the garage is two too many.  Two bar stools at the kitchen counter are not used at the same time.  Two of anything is no longer necessary.  I am just one here.

For a while I moved between the two offices.  My computer, printer and modem were in the front room, along with my files.  Financial documents were in Rick’s office.  Consolidation was obviously needed, but I did not have the emotional or physical energy for so long.  First my computer and printer moved to his office; months later the cable company added outlets and the modem followed.  I bought pretty colored folders and files and reorganized Rick’s desk and credenza to my liking.  I kept his desk accessories, decorated with alligators — appropriate for his beloved alma mater the University of Florida.  Some of his books remain in the bookshelves; I added a few of my favorites and of course photos of him.  His diplomas came off the walls, replaced by mine.

So the office is done.  I don’t like the room.  Rick should be sitting at this desk, smiling at me as I pass by.

My former office has been redone for its original purpose.  The desk is gone.  The daybed has been replaced with twin beds.  Just today thrift store volunteers hauled away the end table I used for my printer as there is now a proper nightstand between the beds.  Photos from my recent trip to Cuba are mounted on the walls.

So the guestroom is done.  It feels barren.  I should be sitting there, peering through the plantation shades at the world.

My house is not a shrine to Rick, but my memories of him and our life together fill every room.

Grief is often described as coming in waves, of drowning, of being submerged.  All of those illustrations fit for me; however, the scenario of body-surfing seems the most useful to me right now.

When I am riding high with confidence and even some joy, I know what awaits – an emotional dip.  It always comes, even if it is smaller than the recent high.  Soon there will be another upswing with the inevitable downswing.  Let me explain.

My parents loved beaches and we spent many vacations on Cape Cod.  As they lay in the sun I often was in the sea.  I would look at the incoming waves, judging how to handle them.  If a wave was quite large, then I might choose to dive through the middle, avoiding its full impact; other times I jumped up to meet the crest.  If the wave was small, then I might simply bounce on the sand to keep my head above water as it went past.  And if the wave was just right, I’d turn towards shore, hold my arms out and catch it at the right time to be carried in.  At the end of the ride, I would be tumbling in the sand, pounded by the water – only to lift my head and realize just a few inches of water surged around me.

So it is with my grief for the loss of my husband Rick, and my efforts to regain normalcy in widowhood.

When my sorrow was fresh and raw, I avoided certain situations because I did not have confidence I could conduct myself appropriately.  While my friends were accepting of my tears, I knew they were not socially acceptable and sometimes I just stayed home, ducking down to let circumstances flow over me.

Now I have the emotional fortitude to do almost anything.  For example, there was a dragon boat festival this past weekend.  I went a day early so that I could hear a favorite band with friends.  At the races, I felt confident in contributing to our club’s wins and cheered as we received gold medals for our division.  I was flying high, reaching over the surge.

As the weekend ended, I hit the shore, struggling a bit to steady myself with the inevitable let down.  I came back to a silent home, unable to share my victories with Rick.  It is easier than months ago.  I no longer feel beaten into the sand; I can raise my head back up and take on the next challenge.

Water gives life.