Tuesday, August 30, 2011
It's the Small Stuff that Does You In
Hard day today. All kinds of small stuff that was so hard to handle. I found HPs favorite silver ankh pendant, which he'd worn day and night for many years on a silver chain, until he went to the hospital two and a half years ago, after which he couldn't safely wear jewelry like that again. It was in a drawer I was tidying.
And then the cherry tree he loved, that huge branch coming down, most of the shade on the patio he loved now gone. The logs from part of it on the hearth waiting to dry and season and be used on the fire.
And while I was looking for a hat to go out walking, I saw his shoes, the ones his physio used to put on him for his standing exercise, now back on the shelf. I freecycled his ankle weights today to a grateful receiver.
Something at every turn. Notes with his writing on them. A Valentine he gave me last year, shopped for by HS but written painfully in HP's own writing, among papers I was sorting. Almost the last thing he ever wrote.
His eyeglasses, which I parceled today and sent to a charity which will use them for people in countries who can't afford the cost. I knew he knew his situation when he finally refused to have his glasses on. He was helpless without them, had always been very quick to want them on in the morning. So when he said quietly, no, I don't think so, when I asked him if he wanted them on, I knew, too. About ten days before he died.
Wanting to point out the birds on the patio today to him -- the male cardinal feeding two babies on a branch, the mother nowhere in evidence, probably at a shore house resting up, and a hummingbird, very rarely seen here, hovering around the feeder and the tree, who settled on the tree for a moment then darted away.
This is the hard time, when other people have returned to their lives, and I have to figure out the new shape of my life, but there's so much yet to work through and so many emotional landmines going off at any time. And I'm so tired. Now that I can afford to be tired, I am.
I keep remembering the labyrinth's advice: let it come, let it roll over you, then let it go.