I remind myself again, she's gone...

Maybe I had too much fun last week, playing volleyball and joining in an open mic singing group. Come Sunday, all the pent-up emotions simmered to a boil. 

Jenny’s vision kept recurring in my head. I reminded myself that she is gone.  I will not be able to see her again, she’s gone.  Forever and ever.

“You know if not for you kids, I really have no reason to want to go on with my life.”

It was as gloomy as I could put it, much as I hated myself later for uttering it.  We had just finished Mass and visited Jenny’s niche, now our usual Sunday routine and I was behind the wheel, on our way to a lunch place in China-town.  My daughter K, had her ear-phones on. Thankfully so. But it elicited a response from my boy, who was clearly perturbed.  

"Why would you say that?"

"because really, all that I am doing now, keeping myself busy is just whiling time, time before I go. I do not see much of a future for myself, really".

That was my reply.  Sad and pathetic but honest, as I had felt then.

“There’s not much we can do if you choose to waste your life away. Mum is gone and you have to accept that.”

No reason to go with my life. This was how low I had sunken to over the weekend, letting my misery spill over to infect my kids. It was not only shameless and lamentable, but totally needless.  I hated myself for not being able to bottle up my anxiety to myself.  

In truth I was dwelling on the future, my life ahead. And the outlook, no matter how I see it, appears bleak.  Crystal gazing into the future was something I had resolved to avoid. I should be focussing only on the present. Live a day at a time, as I had written in an earlier post.

But in the depth of my sorrows,  I got careless.

My boy went on to lecture me on my negativity. 

“You should now plan to do the things you like to do and do it for yourself, not anyone else.”  

That should not be a problem. There are a host of things I could do should I decide to retire early and find myself with time to fritter away.  But nothing would have changed. Activities can fill up the time but not the giant hole in my life.

“You should also find someone new to share your life with.”

It was funny to hear this from my own spawn. But I was feeling too low to let out a laugh. So I kept quiet, too speechless to respond.

Find someone new.

Problem is I do not want anyone new. I want Jenny and there is only one of her, but again as I reminded myself, she is gone. I saw her lifeless body riding the automated cart into the furnace.  All that is left of her now is a few handful of ashes inside an urn. Somewhere in St. Mary’s.  I felt my muscles tightening and heart racing. I took in deeper breathes to beat off the stressful thoughts.  My mind presented the factual truth but deep inside me I could not accept it.

So last night, sleep was punctuated with weird dreams. I kept losing things. Things that were important to me, like my laptop at work or a book on loan and even my pants! I could not find my car around the parking lot.  I woke up in the morning, feeling lost and desperate.  Hollowed out.

Today, Monday, the calendar was nearly full. Many consecutive meetings. I should be thankful, if that would put my tormented mind on hold. But I could not shake off the dark clouds. Felt despondent for most parts of the day. In between the long meetings, I was sure I wanted to dump everything. To scribble a quick letter to the bosses that I have had enough.  I was really tired of working on masking my misery.

But good sense prevailed. Eventually, I survived the day.

Yes, there is no sense in cultivating the haunting memories. Yet I could not suppress them.  Jenny suffering during her last months at home and in hospital.  Jenny in her prime of health, radiant and cheerful.  The Jenny I missed the most. 

And I remind myself again. She’s gone. And the absence is unbearable.

 

To go or not to go

To go or not to go.

I started the week in a bit of a quandary. Last week I had summoned enough courage to join in a Volleyball on Sand meetup, my first of such participation, where individuals with similar interests band together via an online portal and actually get together to pursue their interest as a group.

It was the first time in more than a decade that I had played Volleyball. I had to jump, spike and dig.  Sometimes diving even to try and salvage a wayward ball. I felt the full force of the years creaking in my aging body.  After the game, tail between my legs, I had resolved to say good bye to the game. I was quite sure that last week’s volleyball meetup would be my first and last. 

I later shared this with my best friend J over breakfast. But he advised me not to give up. You should persist. Don’t give up so easily.

He was right. It was not like I had torn my muscles or broken some bones. Why should I balk at playing again?  Yes, my joints were aching for days after the game. But what should I expect, from my long years of inactivity? No pain, no gain. And I should know that very well.  Sure, my ego took a bruising as I was rusty from the long years of layoff but why should I care what the other Meet-up groupies think? I could only improve if I continue playing more.

So come Tuesday, armed with renewed confidence, I made my way to the sand pit again and joined in to play. As I had expected, I was more relaxed and performed better.

Volleyball on Sand in action

Volleyball aficionados.  I was not in the picture, having left earlier.
 

Over the week, the good got even better.

I had some weeks earlier also registered for an Open Microphone meetup group. That event was to happen on Thursday evening, at a small restaurant downtown. The Meetup had about 20 members who had signed up via the portal. As expected, the members who turned up were a mix of yuppies, young working adults and even a few college kids.  I would again enjoy the dubious honour of being the most senior in age, youthful only at heart. But I sort of expected that from the start as Meetups are a relatively new trend and older folks are always slower, playing catch-up.

But if there was an age divide for this Open Mic meetup, I did not feel it.  Most of the people turning up were also first-timers so everyone was all-smiles, friendly and polite. My initial awkwardness melted as soon as we started chatting.  We were united by at least one thing – our common love for music, so the evening started with a lot of social blathering and sharing of musical interests.

As far as music talent was concerned, my younger meetup groupies showed far greater maturity than me. Each took turn to sing or play an instrument. We had a ball of a time and continued singing and jamming till close to mid-night. 

Chilling out on a musical get-together

Friday evening found me again sticking out like a sore thumb. There was a huge party thrown by the university to celebrate the hard work and sacrifices made by all our student leaders and I was invited for the sake of building staff-student rapport.  And what else could we expect from student leaders? The rah-rah energy level was raised to a crescendo as the students showed off their mettle and talents. I was but an awe-struck spectator.  Thankfully, the buffet spread was good.

I left the student leader’s party before it ended and took a short walk around the shopping complex before getting back to the car. Downtown, Friday night. Many couples were out in force, most walking hand in hand.  While watching my students sing, dance and prancing around on stage, my mind was already drifting back to Jenny.

How I miss her. 

The week was chockfull of work matters and I had plugged in some of the evenings with meetup activities to play volleyball and strumming the guitar with a bunch of would-be strangers.  It might sound like I am finding a new course in life to make up for my loss of Jenny.

If Jenny is alive, she might even be pleased. I am pretty sure she would not mind me passing my time and getting into such social indulgences, though it is doubtful she would endorse the volleyball part.  She would be extremely anxious that I would injure myself.  But I do not think Meetups would appeal to her. She was not one who would feel terribly comfortable amongst unfamiliar company, whom she is not accustomed to.

I had in the past stayed out late on my own many times, for work or for other social engagements, returning back home only in the wee hours of the night.  But there was always her to return home to.  If it was not too late, I would find her laid back, relaxing on the couch, playing her iPad games or watching her favourite Korean drama. Or she could be already sleeping snugly in bed. I would gently steal a kiss on her cheek to let her know I was home.  The sight of her was such a source of comfort I had taken so much for granted.

Now she would not be there when I return home. I felt shitty all over again. 

Jenny had passed on some 19 weeks ago. I should be used to her absence by now.  But that does not make me feel less miserable.

I went home, cleaned up and took a light supper before curling into bed to sleep. 

 

 

 

Still her husband

A widower.  That should be my new status. So should I alter the title of my blog?  Yes, I am grieving but technically speaking I am not a husband anymore as Jen is no more, so the Grieving Husband name for my blog is a misnomer.

But what the heck. Grieving Widower sounds weird. To me at least. 

I am not yet ready to give up my badge of honour as Jenny’s husband. Jenny and I, we're an item. I have told her that many times in the past, sometimes in the presence of friends or my kids and watch her blush. She would frown and I could read her mind. You think we are still teen-agers? 

But she would not dispute that we were such a united couple, our two hearts beat as one and the trust between us was unquestionable.  I knew, quietly she was happy about it. Jenny does not speak her mind much but I could read her like a book.

So how else could I see myself other than belonging to her? I was proud and privileged to be her husband. And that has not changed with her passing on. Married, ineligible and already committed, that is how I still see myself. Have I got the space in my heart for someone else to fill in? Perhaps, one day and time will tell, but Jenny cannot be replaced.

So far, my life as a “single husband” has been an emotional roller-coaster.  In the company of good friends and with my kids, I have learned to laugh again. At the office, I could focus when work demands my undivided engagement and concentration. Most days were packed and left me drained, depriving me of the quiet time I would like to set aside each day to think of her.

But the longer I remained busy the more anxious I might get. I worry that I might lose my connection with her.  Fretfully the memories of our life together might get fainter, as I start forgetting how she laugh, gripe, walk and talk. It is only 4 months and a few days since she passed on. But memory of her is already getting blurry.  It is gradual loss but it is annoying. So I looked harder at her photographs whenever she pops up from my screensaver, and I gaze longer at her pictures hung on the wall. I need to strengthen the synaptic connections in my head.

Chief amongst my list of regrets is that I have not taken more videos of her. I have a small collection of home and holiday videos taken many years ago but the focus was always on the kids, tiny toddlers then. Jenny and I were mindful that they would grow up too quickly so recording those tender years and capturing all their precocious behaviour and childish blathering was the order of the day. There were only short traces of her in the video.

If only I could foresee that I would now be missing her so much. But how could I?  If I had then suggested to make a video solely of her to prepare for this day, she would have ticked me off. So you are so sure I would soon kick the bucket?

Sigh, we know better now, I suppose.

So my emotional mental state moves from high to low, over the week if not within a day. Like a roller coaster.  You would think that it makes sense to try and prolong the high and minimise the low.  

A colleague had recently asked why I had so often chosen to lunch out on my own.  I confided that I needed time out to be by myself. Would it not be more helpful to be engaged, amongst colleagues? Then I could take my mind off from my loss, she surmised. I did not expect her to understand me. Nor anyone who has not suffered such personal loss before. How do I explain to her what I am going through? That I actually do not want to avoid and run away from the pain. That keeping myself constantly busy and occupied with other things or other people provides only temporary relief.

Grief ebbs and flow like waves beating on the shore.  The mood is sombre, eyes are moistening and my heart grew heavy. Time now for this grieving husband to spend with his dear beloved wife. 

Joining a Meetup group

This week started somewhat differently.  I felt more uplifted in spirit and zesty even. Perhaps the last busy work week got my engine running on higher gear. And the momentum caught on.

With the start of the new football season, I had the TV for company during my weekend nights. Even since hitting mid-life I was a die-hard English Premier League football fanatic.  Jenny bore up with my mad obsession though she had no interest in the game, complaining only when I got too boisterous cursing when my favourite team, the Mighty Reds turned up not so mighty with a bad run of play.

Over the weekend I had even responded to a local Meetup group to meet and play Volleyball on sand. Meetup is an online social networking portal that facilitates people who are unified with a common interest to actually get together.  This is the second time I had actually responded to a Meetup invitation. A couple months ago I had also agreed to meetup for an open microphone singing session. But I got cold feet.  

Anyway, the game was arranged on Tuesday evening at a condo no more than 10 mins drive from my workplace and the timing was perfect.  I have been yearning to join a volleyball group for some time. I had enjoyed playing this game at a social level from young but it was like more than 10 years ago since I last played so I was unsure of responding to the open invite.  Come Sunday evening, I realised they had only 1 slot left so I decisively RSVPed to claim it.

As expected, the other 10 or 11 players who turned up were a lot younger, by decades even.  Most were Caucasian expats so were a lot taller and stronger.  The volleyball court is a sand pit so we played beach volleyball, another first for me.




Volleyball on Sand Meetup group

So how did the game go for me? Well the good news was that I did not seriously injure myself. I knew all along that at my age, jumping to spike or diving to save a wayward ball would be darn risky. But other than muscle strain I escaped unscathed. Except my pride took some battering. Hence, the bad news was that my volleyball skills were too below par. It really felt a long time since I last played. I was slow and awkward, and performed miserably to the chagrin of my team-mates (we played 4 aside). Playing on sand exacerbated my clumsy movement and I was saved from embarrassment mainly because the other players were too polite to laugh.  In general, they were a civic bunch but after 4 or 5 games I knew I overstayed my welcome. My over-strained sinews were also prompting for an early exit. 

So will I go again next time, next week? That might be pushing my luck to the edge. For now my arms, shoulder and neck ached like hell, telling me that I should face up to the fact that there are things I should not be doing at my age. I could hear Jenny reproaching me, as she had done umpteen times before, “Look at yourself - you think you are still young?”  She always have my welfare at heart.

Yes, age is but a number as often said.  But the body has limits even if the mind is willing. I can still do a myriad of things but for volleyball, better to be a spectator.

Working Blues

Work-wise, last week has been one of my busier week. This come as no surprise since the last Golden Jubilee super-long weekend gave us a shorter working week, so all our meetings had to be squeezed into the remaining days, back to back.  My Division had also marked off the entire Friday for a day-long retreat. We were to engage in activities that would enable us to all “bond” better as a team.  Admittedly, we had great fun during the team bonding event, which was run like an “amazing race”, seeing us scurrying around the campus building like frantic children and inviting curious stares from the students passing by. But as the head of the team, directing the retreat event compounded my existing workload.

Since Jenny’s passing on, work had somehow taken a different meaning. It might sound like a poor reflection on my work attitude, but it is hard be all fired up when the heart is sodden with grief. Colleagues of all ranks alike had been sympathetic to my situation from the moment they learnt that my wife was stricken with a life-threatening disease. In the months that followed, I was granted permission to work from home, returning to office only for the most essential meetings.  There was total flexibility on how much time I needed to put in and many of the chores which were typically mine to deal with were duly re-directed to others to shoulder.

After Jenny’s funeral, I was expected to settle back to normality. Sad as I was, I felt a heavy obligation to make up for lost time and return the generous support that the company had given to me. But returning back to the normal work routine turned out to be a tough call. I was awash with grief and needed space and time to deal with it and try as I did, it was hard to disguise my sadness. I was clearly crest-fallen, feeling lethargic from lack of sleep and it was hard to hide this from others even as I tried to put on a brave face each day.  My HR head could not bear to see my “sad and tired face” (in her exact words) and had privately suggested that I should see the company’s appointed professional counsellor, assuring me that confidentiality is guaranteed. The company would pay all the fees too. I gave it serious thought but decided that I should learn to deal with the grief on my own. I was also sceptical. How much could the counsellors truly help with their textbook advice, unless they too had the terrible misfortune of losing a beloved spouse of 30 years!

Truth be told, a few caring colleagues had expressed concern, asking me how I was coping.  Some had even invited me out for lunch, to cheer me up and welcome my return to office and help me ease back to normalcy. But by and large, most avoid mentioning about my bereavement, which sometimes made me feel awkward also, even if the intent was good. I think most people are too dumbstruck to find the right words to say.

So I usually avoid lunching in at our company cafeteria to spare me from all the pointless small talk and office politics. Whenever my schedule permitted, I would drive off to a more secluded food court outside the campus to eat on my own, making myself anonymous amongst the lunchtime crowds. The quiet time I created for myself gave me much needed reprieve though I know I could not overdo it as my bosses might notice and fault me for slacking. But truth be told again, I have already lost my beloved wife so what more could I lose?

However, my cavalier attitude towards my job was tempered by my own basic sense of responsibility and the love I have for my job. I also felt beholden to my company for all the support given to me as I rode through what was the most difficult period of my life. I was also mindful that I still have a role to play and much unfinished work to help grow this fledging university that is providing so much hope and promise to increase education opportunities to the underclass. Many of our students come from disadvantaged backgrounds and may not receive a better opportunity for affordable education. I have also a dedicated team of young colleagues.  They had entrusted their careers largely under my care and I am not about to let them down.

I must confess that Jenny’s tragic demise has blunted my self-confidence to a large extent. Perhaps my fears and apprehension are more imagined than real but I am sometimes overly conscious of how colleagues see me. A broken man, crestfallen and a dismal object of pity.  But in all likelihood, most people are too busy to care.  Unless our work roles are so intertwined and their performance depends much on my mental state, why should colleagues be at all bothered about me? I really should not read too much on what they think of my situation.

But as it is, work has so far proven the best way to take my mind away from Jenny’s loss so for much of this week, the packed schedule afforded me little time to gravitate back to her.  By the time I returned home late in the evening, I was all bushed out. 

All in all, my employers and colleagues have been kind and supportive.  And this should be counted as another of my many blessings.  If I can pace myself in the office, aside from helping me pay the endless bills that I am still saddled with, work is fulfilling and even therapeutic in my journey of grief. I should not take my job for granted.

 

 

 

 

9th August - Our National Day

Today our nation celebrates its Golden Jubilee. It is our 50^th anniversary. Everywhere around our tiny island city state is awash with red and white, the colours of our national flag. Even in church, many parishioners were donning red, as was I in my bright red Liverpool jersey, but that was only to remind myself that my favourite football club will be kicking off later tonight for the start of another new football season.

We started the day looking for a tyre repair shop as our car had a punctured tyre that needed fixing. Fortunately the car repair shops at the back of our estates had no qualms about opening on National Day.

Mobility restored, we drove over to Jenny’s parents for a short visit, before getting to church for Sunday Mass.  Her two aging parents are not in the best of health and a visit by their grand-children should bring them some cheer, even if the sad and tired look on my face might remind them of the tragic loss of their own daughter.  Both Jenny’s parents were at the hospital shortly after Jenny died and I still remember how sorrowful they wept on seeing her lifeless body on the hospital bed. Jenny was their favourite child (I like to think so) and the pain of seeing her leaving this world must be unbearable. 

In the church, seated next to a mountain of a man, who took up half of my seat in the pews, I found it too uncomfortable and promptly dislodged myself for an earlier than usual exit to get to Jenny’s niche.  I now have more quiet time to spend with my late wife within the columbarium, thanks to my oversized church-mate.  


Inside the columbarium where Jenny's ashes are kept
 

It was nice and peaceful inside the columbarium. The gentle sound of running water combined with soft instrumental music played from the built-in audio system provided an ambience of solace that is most ideal for quiet contemplation. 

Once at her niche, as before I rested my face against Jenny’s plaque. The ceramic finishing feels cool and calming, and I could almost feel her hugging me and resting against my shoulders.  Amidst the trickling water, I could hear the pipe-in music softly playing. It was a most familiar tune - “Unchained Melody”, the theme song from the classic movie, “Ghost”.  How utterly appropriate is that? Should I expect Jenny’s spirit to take control of me at this point, as played out in the movie? I would be happy if that had happened, but the song faded after a few minutes; there was no out-of-the world or any strange phenomenon worth noting.

Later in the evening my two girls and I will make our way to the bay front, braving the crowds and snarling traffic to catch the fireworks and if we are lucky, the aerial displays.  We expect no less than a spectacular display of fireworks as this is our jubilee national celebration.  Jenny would have looked forward to be there too. I rarely bring her out on such occasions as I abhor large crowds. But my daughters had agreed to this outing and I felt I needed a change of scene also instead of confining myself at home as I do for most evenings.

This SG50 event was heavily publicised and hyped up over a large part of this year and even from last year.  Jenny was still in pretty good health during the last National Day. But what a difference a year could make because now she is no more here with us. And how my life had changed so irrevocably.

Nevertheless, I need to keep my spirits high. The last thing I want now is a mood swing that might cause me to change my mind about going out and disappointing my daughters.


We had dinner at a Mexican restaurant at Clarke Quay 

 

A Long and Lonely Drive

How do I deal with the grief of losing my dear belated wife?

For a start, not a day could pass without me thinking about her.  The spells vary according to the demands of work and humdrum of day-to-day routine. But she is often on my mind.

It is impossible for me to ignore the loss. In the house I am surrounded by a myriad of things to remind me of her. Her footprints are everywhere. I have not got the heart to de-clutter and remove her belongings.  What do I do with them?  Throw or give them away? I haven’t yet got a clue. 

Outside, within the neighbourhood centres where she normally does her shopping, I could still “see” her walking in and out of the stores. So many habits borne from 30 years that now need to be weaned off, to undo and unlearn.

In my office, the empty space on the walls are adorned with her pictures, enlarged so as not to be overshadowed by the other art pieces that I had acquired from my student’s art-shows.

Morning time is usually the toughest part of the day.

That is because a peaceful night’s sleep is usually a rarity.  On some nights, subdued by sheer tiredness, I might sleep an uninterrupted stretch of 3-4 hours, most times waking up in the middle of the night with the familiar sunken feeling and I try to get back to sleep with varying success.  I still confine myself only to my side of the bed, keeping her pillow neatly arranged on her side.

The bed looks too large now. I could picture her lying there on her side of the bed, snugly bundled under her comforter blanket to keep warm from the blast of the air-conditioner.  Waking up first each morning, I would try to stay quiet as I worked through my toilet routine while she continued with her snoozing.

But now the silence within the room is deafening. And the emptiness on her side of the bed mirrors the emptiness within me. I drag myself up each morning, bleary-eyed and worn out from a night of disjointed sleep. It is the dawning of another brand new day. But it will be another day without my wife. Another day to miss her by.

Jenny would normally leave the house with me each morning to get to work. I would fetch her to the company bus pick-up point, about 10 minutes drive from our house. Now there is no need to make this extra allowance in my travel time anymore.

Most days I still have to leave early allowing for at least 45 minutes of driving time on a route, which during non-peak travel might take less than half that time to commute.  Traffic in Singapore comes to a constipated snarl along most thoroughfares in the morning, especially along Clementi road towards Dover, a 4km stretch that I have to drive thru to reach my office. My car would slow to a crawling speed that takes up 20-30mins of the drive time. 

It is hard for me to avoid thinking about her during my drive but what can I say?

You see, I have her picture vividly displayed on my car dashboard, so she is always within my field of view, even as my eyes are peeled on the road as they should be. The Citroen Grand Picasso is one of those rare car models with a dashboard background that can be customised digitally and I have a collection of Jenny’s best pictures loaded on a stick, to be brandished at a touch. 

My favourite picture is the one taken by my son during a holiday to Sydney a few years ago.  We were at the Blue Mountains, on a vista point overlooking the Three Sisters rock formation. The late afternoon sun was gleaming down from a sharp angle.  With her eyes gazing intently into the sky and the sunlight glimmering off the back of her hair she appeared relaxed and happy. Her lips were pursed into a half smile that dimpled her cheeks.  I find it hard to resist a second look. Because she looks angelic and more attractive than ever, a picture perfect, at least through my eyes as the beholder.  I would not ever tire of looking at this particular portrayal of my angel wife.  I had thanked my son more times than he felt he deserved for having taken this shot.  Of course he would not have realised at that time, how important this picture would be for us to remember Mum by. And the eye candy treat that he had served up for Daddy.

Jenny's pretty face adorns my car dashboard

So alone in my car as the traffic grinds to a crawling pace along Clementi Road each morning, my mind unavoidably gravitates back to her. My eyes might moisten with tears and I will need to keep them dry. The slow stop-and-start traffic allows me to release my emotions without compromising too much on road safety but I should not take chances.

Friends had often asked how I am dealing with my grief. Well, I have learnt to deal with it by not evading but confronting and accepting it. It will be a long lonely journey. And it will be some distance before I can say that I have turned a corner. But with time I will slowly come to terms with her loss. 

My sleep is certainly less erratic than it was weeks ago, during the early days after the funeral. Then, I suffered panic attacks in the middle of the night, heart racing and stifled breathing.  I am more productive with my time also and could stay focussed a lot better.

I recalled going to the cinema a few weeks after Jenny’s passing. My two daughters had insisted that I joined them to catch the latest Avengers offering. But half-way through the movie the plot went hazy. In the gloomy darkness of the cinema, I sank into another miserable spell and became oblivious of all the action flashing on the wide screen before me. There was one too many super-hero in pointless battle with too many villains and I could not wait for the confusing tedium to end. Jenny and I were long-time movie buffs and we had visited the cinemas many hundred times over our years together, so sitting inside the cinema without her was an experience quite new to me.

These days, I am in better control of my emotional state of mind. I even mildly enjoyed the last movie outing with my daughters. I was at first cynical about “Ant-man”. "Ant-man? What is that? Just use Baygon", I quipped. But the movie turned out to be surprisingly refreshing and entertaining.

I still harbour a lingering fear that turning the corner in my journey of grief may mean that I would stop missing her.  I suppose if it happens, it happens.  But now I want her so much to remain alive in my mind and in my heart. So I put up her best pictures within sight every which way I look.

I recently chanced upon this song by Mary Chapin Carpenter called “Learning the World”. It carries a sombre tune and lyrically, I can relate with this song because losing a loved one whom you have been so accustomed to means having to re-learn on how to live all over again. I have to learn the world all over again and it will be a long, long drive to get there.

Mary Chapin Carpenter “Learning the World”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_yqHoB16gzU

Grief rides quietly on the passenger side
Unwanted company on a long, long drive
It turns down the quiet songs and turns up the din
It goes where you go, it’s been where you’ve been

And pushing your empty cart mile after mile
Leaves you weeping in the wilderness
Of the supermarket aisle
And in the late night kitchen light it sits in a chair
Watching you pretend that it’s not really there

But it is, so it is and you ask
Are you predator or friend
The future or the past?

It hands you your overcoat and opens the door
You are learning the world again just as before
But the first time was childhood
And now you are grown
Broken wide open, cut to the bone

And all that you used to know is of no use at all
The same eyes you’ve always had have you walking into walls
And the same heart can’t understand
Why it’s so hard to feel
What used to be true
What’s now so unreal

But it is, so it is and you say
I wish I were the wind so that I could blow away

Grief sits silently on the edge of your bed
It’s closing your eyes, it’s stroking your head
The dear old companion is taking up air
Watching you pretend that it’s not really there




         

Living a day at a time

I have learned to just take a day at a time and not think too much about the future.

Some days I get on better, some days, not so good. Mornings are usually the hardest. It is not possible to fool the sub-conscious mind, I suppose. Sleep, if it does come would be rattled by restless dreams. Waking up each morning to that familiar deflated feeling makes it hard to be too excited with the dawning of another new day, regardless of what I had planned to do.

I know well by now that grief would come in waves, and the ebbs and flow could be unpredictable. At the beginning grief surges like a tidal wave and I experience a constant bombardment of pain and even panic attacks that stifled my breathing and pounded my heart. The wave patterns are thankfully now less frequent but it also gets harder to tell when I would be next hit.

Even as over time the storm and turmoil within me might subside there is also a fear that with time, my long endearing years with Jenny would slowly fade away, becoming distant memories of the past, growing faint and weak.

It is a disturbing imagery. I picture her stranded at sea, on a piece of flotsam that is drifting further and further from me till I could barely see her disappearing into the horizon. It is for this reason that I make conscious effort to refresh my mind of our time together – little snippets and moments that we had shared together And there is so much to recall – routine, banal things we do at home or on outings, what her response would be when we had our disagreements, how we dealt with the kids when they fell out of line and a host of other family issues.

Jenny has passed on but I am not ready to let her go. Let it go, let it go. There is this song from the animated movie Frozen that a colleague have the habit of chanting whenever there is a need to defuse tense situations at work. But for now this song does not resonate so well with me.

For most part of the day I must admit feeling quite normal and fine. I started the day with a slow but sprightly jog, opting not to miss my usual Saturday morning exercise routine despite a drizzle. I got back in time to bring my daughter for her dental check-up and shop for the week’s provisions.

Later in the afternoon I plugged my guitar into the amp to practise. There would be a staff performance in the national day observation ceremony taking place in the follow week and yours truly would be providing the guitar accompaniment. Our 8-member staff troupe would be doing a rendition of Dick Lee’s “Home”, which is one of the better national day songs, and a favourite amongst even the musically-stone deaf.  It would be just one song but lack of stage experience might well see me screwing up the show by striking a wrong chord or playing out of rhythm. That would be an epic embarrassment and a major let-down for my other singing colleagues.

I went on to strum and warble a few other familiar favourites – “Horse with no name”, “Eleanor Rigby” and then Gordon Lightfoot’s “Changes”.  This ballad was one of my favourite Gordon Lightfoot number.  GL, if you have not heard of him is a Canadian music legend, now an aging singer with strings of hits under his belt.  “Changes” is not one of his biggest, but its bright but slightly melancholic tune and poignantly meaningful lyrics resonated with me.  It has always served as a tender reminder that change is part of the cycle of life and we need to be braced for it.

But Jenny’s passing was not just a change, it was a seismic upheaval and no less. The song comprises 5 short verses with a short guitar rift in between. When I reached the last verse wavelets of sadness started to build up and very quickly surged into a tidal swell, taking hold and overwhelming me.

     Your tears will be trembling while we’re somewhere else
     One last cup of wine we will pour
     I’ll kiss you one more time and leave you on the rolling river shore of changes

I sank back, slumping on the sofa, eyes tearing and find myself questioning again. Why does she have to die? I am not prepared for such a change. Her loss is too heavy a burden to bear.

It would not be possible to continue with music-making. My old guitar would take a rest for now. Slumped against the sofa, leaning with my teary eyes gazing at the bare ceiling, I sat for some time thinking about her.  If I have to leave her forever on the rolling river shore of changes, then I am not prepared for this change. The images of Jenny floating away into the horizon came back all over again.

I suppose after 107 days (yes, I still keep count of the days) of mourning for my dearest Jenny, I have learnt to salvage myself from sinking too deeply in such situations.  I have taken to journaling and I knew that I may need to write about this experience. But this time, I thought that a change of scene and a breath of fresh air may be good for me.  I got out of the house with my computer and drove to a small swanky restaurant at Dempsey Hill and after a simple but delectable meal, while slurping on mango smoothie I worked on this next posting.

I had recently also joined a Facebook group on mourning.  There was a call for sharing of music that had touched our lives so I added in a Youtube link for Gordon Lightfoot’s “Changes” to share with other members in the group. I felt better during the drive back.

It is too early to say that I have transcended grief.  But I am taking small steps to help myself live with it. 

Each day would pose new challenges.  I have heard from others that time would heal all the wounds, but right now I find that rather unbelievable.  I don’t think I could ever triumph over the sorrow of losing my wife.  There is only one Jenny and is gone. It is hard to fathom and much harder to accept.

So grief will come calling again and next time, it could be like a tsunami.  But next time is in the future. For now, the future is not yet. I will just take a day at a time.