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Some of Donna’s ashes released in Maine
On August 7, 2011 Donna died in hospice. She entered hospice exactly 21 days prior. She was diagnosed with Stage IV cancer 938 days before her death. Or 22,512 hours.
August 7, 2011 was 10,311 days after we were married on May 15, 1983. We had 247,464 hours of marriage, love, and more.
This anniversary will be 4,384 days since her death. That is 105,216 hours of grief, memories, hurt, and learning.
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Jodie Comer signed Playbill “Prima Facie”
Even after these years of grieving and loss this random moment tells me I'm not died inside. I can feel what I felt when I first met Donna, a presence that captured me. Held me in awe. A presence that bolstered my being. Comer passed by me in a nano second but left a deep impression not just of her as an artist but a reminder of my ability to feel again. To see again. To be again.
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All I can say is it feels like what I write about is like explaining Norway to a dog. I'm not sure what I write, share, and video really speaks to what I feel or want to say. It must be my failure to communicate. I knew Nina our Westie heard my words but Nina kept turning her head trying to figure it out.
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“How are you going to meet a woman and bring her into your loft that’s a shrine to Donna?” Gail said.
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There is a back story. There always is. A back story playing out around him for years and years that was never considered because nothing mattered.
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I'm residing on a new continuum. It's my current state as I speed towards an expiration date. The two points on this new continuum are "Nothing Matters" and "I Don't Care". I feel chained to this with no Houdini like skills to escape. I pull and pull at the chains holding me in this state of being to no avail. Or maybe I just don't care and this is what it is. I weight the way and the what for's of this moment. Hard to say with any certainty why but, I can hazard some guesses.
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As they say in a court of law, "You should never ask a question you don't know the answer too." I learned my lesson when I asked Open ChatGPT what they thought about my book, "Donna, A Photo Memoir of Love and Loss".
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His current state of being shouted there was nothing to motivate or assuage the amber like state of his emotional of his life. His ever-present expiration date with all its transient aches, pains, hypochondria, and surrender of meaning whispered like a wind chime. The memories became elongated trailing shadows following him in the sunlight of today. Nothing seemed to matter any longer.
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Donna was a latte soul. There was the ritual perfected over many years. The stainless steel pitcher selected to hold the milk and steam to fill Donna’s beloved oversized latte cup. The latte cup made one Christmas in a pottery pop up with some cave like drawing of Nina, her beloved Westie, and an angel. Glazed in blue.
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Donna holding Ruggles in Hospice
Hospice is about dying well. There is no good death any death is bad and painful but dying well surrounded by friends family loved ones changes the dynamic for both the patient and the family. It makes the time to the finite end better and kinder and comfortable but more important is the time after death. That is our long darkness the time after death of a loved one. Our
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No matter the day the face on the nightstand clock was useless. It was always the same time. Why look? The reality was clear, there was really nothing to ever accomplish today or any day for that matter. The pretend there was something anything was wearing thin exposing the soft pink underbelly of a future.
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The patio in Cape Elizabeth where Donna and I would sit
In no particular order of importance here's what is seen though my review mirror as opposed to the mud and bird shit stained windshield looking forward.
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I was never a YouTube watcher. It may be due to an undiagnosed case of ADD. Sitting and watching videos makes my head cycle thinking about "Did I leave a dirty fork in the sink?" "I need to sort my graphic t's into colors and messages." It's true. There is an endless suffocating loop in my head of next, next, next, sit the fuck still.
I started a YouTube Channel.
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The 9/11 Survivor Tree
The 9/11 Tribute Museum was not a collection of things. Things from that day do tell a story. The viewer needs to absorb that thing in order to learn and appreciate its value and meaning. They have to work from their knowledge, context, and being to find meaning. That's only a partial understanding of 9/11 and one that is subject to variations of understanding. Our context shapes what we learn when we're not engaged with others.
Read moreIf this was a Venn it's a Venn of two circles overlapping greatly. One circle was a widowed man of a certain age alone without meaning and purpose. The other circle was the grief community, my grief journey/work, and my desire to bring meaning to my loss and others loss.
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Oystering is the word of moment. Pull back but not surrender my kindness to others just to myself.
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Not a lot matters yet, these things do here and now and into the future. Grandparents and grief. Lost pregnancy and community. Mental health support for teens. Mental health first aid. Suicide. Bullying. Kindness! Working parents struggle with children and mental health.
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In a week I share many links and posts. I thought I would put a weeks worth on a single link and just stay in my lane.
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Clearly I've drank deeply from the realm of grief. I've imbued past moments and memories into my being, into my current self. I've said and know that the wound of grief has let light in.
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Quote is from an Ezra Klein Podcast with Ruth Ozeki and help craft this post
When Donna died I flayed at finding meaning and purpose. I never gave up trying. At this moment it seems that I've lost agency too. Agency over myself and all that I am doing with regard to my work/journey. A journey of musings without witnesses.
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