The Last Firsts. Never Alone, Ever Lonely

·   10 Months  ·   43 weeks  ·   306 Days  ·   7344 Hours  ·   440,640 Minutes

Today marks 10 months since That Day.  I’ve rounded the corner, nearing the homestretch toward the finish line of painful “firsts”. And that last turn was a double whammy! George’s birthday last week led me (and Charlie, my goofy Golden and constant sidekick) on a 400+ mile, 24 hour road trip to some of our favorite places. It was just us, and it was exactly what we needed. My Kahuna was with us. We both felt his presence. 

Paso Robles, CA. His favorite winery

Moonstone Beach, Cambria, CA. 

Charlie, my  sidekick

Three days later, my Valentine’s Day broken heart was comforted by an extraordinary outpouring of love from my Village. Cards, gifts, messages and dozens of roses, including 50 red roses from Daughter – symbolic of her dad’s last Valentine’s gift to me - representing the number of years we had been in each other’s lives.

Showered with Valentine's Day love!

I feel so loved - and so alone. How can I be surrounded by my abundance of “Framily” yet ache with such emptiness? No amount of  distraction, self-talk or happy moments can replenish the hole in my heart. Instead they are a warm blanket comforting the constant ache of chronic grief. I have added more notches to my widowhood belt, but still wonder if it will ever get easier. All that remains before the anniversary of That Day is my birthday, just three weeks before the horrible milestone that changed the course of my life. My life. This really IS my life.

Widowhood is a strange juxtaposition of past and present, adjusting to the new life “After”  that fate handed me, while hanging on to the sweet memories of the life “Before” -  the one I wasn’t prepared to lose. I was skilled at dealing with all that Before threw at me. The After? Not so much. I have been complemented for being so strong. So resilient. Yet in my own eyes, I’m still frightened – sad, lost and lonely - hiding behind a carefully crafted veil of fortitude, but actually just hoping to survive another day. So far I have survived 306 Kahuna-less days. I guess it’s fair to say grieving gets easier with practice!

Why is the quiet so deafening? The solitude so heavy in its emptiness? George and I loved being in each other‘s company. I have come to realize our relationship was symbiotic. We thrived because we were together. Neither of us had jobs that required frequent travel. We were independent individuals, yet we gravitated to each other as our favorite people to be with. As I lay in bed last night, holding his pillow in my arms, I made my nightly love call to George. “Good night, honey. I love you. I miss you. Please come visit me tonight.”  Life, absent of his physical presence feels as if half the air has been removed from the space I inhabit. 

Suddenly it hit me. I have been Paula, party of one for only 10 months out of my almost 68 years of life. From the day I was born, through childhood and adolescence, through college and courtship, I never lived by myself. I lived all but the last 10 months of my life either being taken care of, or taking care of others. After 18,110 days shared with my Kahuna, how could I expect to have adjusted to this solitude in just 306 days? I know it’s a lifestyle chosen and/or accepted by many. But it has never been my reality. When his heart stopped beating last April 19, my rug – a tapestry of beautiful past memories and exciting future dreams – was pulled out from under me. I had no choice but to pick myself up and learn to walk on the slippery floors of widowhood. A life alone.  

There are a few amusing takeaways about my 10 month solo act…

Less laundry. My Kahuna was a big guy with big clothes. He loved daily fresh towels, and while he was willing and capable of running a few loads, my “clean-freak” tendencies and work from home schedule afforded the time to willingly take on the chore.
Less hair! Yet another grief-given gift, I have discovered, is hair loss. My once thick, coarse hair has been reduced by about 40%. Hello, Rogaine and Biotin. I'm hoping it's temporary - and grateful for the talents of my great-niece and her skillful color and cuts!

Dishes? What dishes? When you don’t eat much and struggle cooking for one, it’s amazing how infrequently a dishwasher is used. The neatnik in me keeps every dish clean, but now the drying pad on the counter has more items than the dishwasher.  

Bedtime is anytime. I can go to bed at 7 o’clock or 1 o’clock and not worry about side-eye from my housemate.

Restaurant leftovers for days. A lunch or dinner out becomes lunch and/or dinner for another day or two. I can eat at the kitchen counter, or not eat at all, or eat an entire sleeve of Thin Mints without judgment.

I am the master of the remote. We had markedly different entertainment preferences. I can binge watch whatever I want, whenever I want. I don’t do it often, and it feels indulgent when I do.

My vocal chords have had a 10 month hiatus. There are days when, except for talking to Charlie (and my goodnight love call to Georgie) I may not have uttered a single word. Thank you text messaging and email communications. Or should I say thanks for nothing!

I can sing loudly in the car. My Kahuna preferred hearing music sung by the artist, not by his LPM – except for his pride in my Tuesday night “harmony gig” with our very talented musician friends. Thankfully, Charlie doesn’t seem to mind when I belt out harmonies as Pandora plays any number of favorites.

I can take in the views at a scenic lookout. George was always trying to beat Google maps’ estimated arrival times.  He indulged me the occasional “Oh, pull over here!” moment, but more often said I had made the request too late, making the sudden stop dangerous. Drive a few miles and turn around? That was never in the Kahuna’s destination driven playbook.

Gorgeous  Central Coast view - and a Kahuna beam from Heaven?

In these 306 Kahuna-less days, I have also felt his absence in so many big – and not so big – moments.  I miss him when…

·   I see a spider in the bathtub.

·   I can’t open a jar

·   A light bulb needs changing.

·   Something is on the top shelf

·   I hear news about the Dodgers

·   I see pictures of us together

·   I feel the empty side – his side – of our bed

·   I see couples holding hands while walking

·   I need a hug

·   I need an Opera Night

·   I am afraid

·   I need comfort from the demons that haunt me from traumas of my childhood

·   I see my grandchildren, and think of all they will miss without Grandpa in their lives.

·   I look at my own children, and feel their pain at losing the man they admired and relied on for advice, guidance, and unconditional love.

I’m taking steps forward, but there is no way to forget the force of nature that was my Kahuna for so many years of my life.

So the journey continues. I am making progress on my path to discover the After Paula Marie. A course in mindfulness meditation is helping me process my grief and find peace. My Grands, Kids, Friends and Family have been a constant source of love and support. I am committed to making this my year to Bloom. I am still learning how to ride this unicycle of widowhood. It’s not easy and certainly not pretty, as I try to find my new center of gravity. And, as these 10 months have taught me, I cannot rush the process. Thank you for sharing this journey with me. Can someone please open this jar??

Last year. 

This year. Same place. Same scarf. Less hair!

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NOT MY MOTHER'S 60