- Buster and George
Recently I was petting my dog, Buster, and I suddenly realized that it had been weeks since I had spent any time with him.
Then I realized that it had been months since I fed him.
It absolutely stunned me. I couldn’t believe how out of it I still am.
Buster was always George’s pet. They hung around together every minute George was home and Buster slept all day in the bed with him, George with his hand on Buster’s back. I swore that George was compromising his sleep with all the togetherness, but if George loved something that was it, and he loved sleeping with Buster.
If Sara hadn’t come to Pennsylvania, I’m afraid not just Buster, but maybe Lily and I would have starved to death and been found in the house days later, TV blaring.
Everyone tells me I’m doing so well after George’s death, but my progress is selective. I can’t sleep without a pill, and I can’t dream without waking up breathing hard and sweating. The house is a mess, in a constant state of flux. Sometimes Lily looks like a little sheen of dirt is on her, and I realize she needed a bath yesterday (or the day before.)
We’re trying to pack, but it is overwhelming, and making decisions is so wrenching I make a few and then go to bed, pull down the room darkening shades, and hibernate. Lily is always with me, scooting closer and closer to me in her sleep until I am hanging off of the bed, another reason to stay awake and dwell on our loss. Nearly a year since George died, and in some ways I feel I haven’t even begun to face his passing.
Watching “Sense and Sensibility” on Masterpiece Theater the other night, I stiffened up when Edward told Elinore, “When my father died, I was like a boat who had lost its anchor. We must all have someone to listen to us and to understand what we feel.”
I always felt so lucky to have a loving, engaged husband, someone who wanted to witness my life. Our time goes by so quickly, and really, not enough of us have willing witnesses to remember and share our stories.
I hope I am doing that here for George, who remembered every detail of our history and shared it with friends and family at any opportunity. It was something I loved about him, cherished in him.
Without him here, I truly do feel like an anchorless boat, drifting aimlessly.
I’m trying not to numb out, and I’m gathering my strength for this big change in my life. There is still so much unknown ahead, and this is a time when I crave the familiar. I know practically no one in Asheville, and the thought of trying to find friends is daunting.
Lily is excited, but scared, and I am trying to find the right recipe of encouragement about the move and understanding of her reasons for wanting to stay. Loving people effectively during such stress is difficult. We tend to automatically love others the way we ourselves need to be loved. In this situation for me, love is understanding; understanding what I’ve lost, what I fear, how alone I feel. Luckily, these are Lily’s needs as well.
We cling to each other. She craves emotional honesty, and constantly leans against me, hugs me and tells me repeatedly she loves me.
Honesty can come hard, like when she asks if she will see her friends again. She’s had quite a few breakdowns, getting panicky about her future without familiar classmates and teachers. I tell her the truth, and then we face how it makes her feel together.
When George was here, always sleeping, always trying to get enough rest, I would often lie in bed with him and throw my arm across his chest. Feeling his chest rise, I would think about how everything I loved about him was inside his warm body.
My mom choked on a bite of steak in a restaurant three years ago. As she turned blue, and then black, I , and then George, a volunteer fireman and then the paramedics worked to dislodge it. They saved her, but since then, I’ve s had an intense fear of those I love being hurt. I’m very aware of how fragile we are.
In the movies the other night, I spent several minutes panicking because Lily was eating popcorn and I had read that day that popcorn is one of the top five choking hazards for children. I imagined her choking, her breathing stopped, another horrible loss. Finally, I got control of my thoughts and tried to pay attention to the rest of the film.
But I left the theater exhausted.
If I could go back and see George again, could have the ultimate do-over, I don’t think I would do much differently. I told George I loved him, I showed him, I felt it every day. I really have no regrets except for failing to make him change jobs.
In the end, my worst fears were realized and now my husband is gone, and with him so much love and security that anchored Lily and me.
Sometimes that’s just the way it goes, and I know worrying that it might happen again is useless.
But I do lay next to her at night, my arm flung over her chest, thinking about how her thin, delicate body holds her out-sized personality and everything I love. Buster is on my other side, snoring his little snore. We’re together, we three, and after all that has happened, we are happy to have each other.
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{ 7 comments }
Thank you for reminding me to stay present with the ones I love, to notice and to appreciate.
I have noticed that in Asheville, as opposed to Atlanta or other larger cities, folks smile and look me right in the eye as I walk down the street. First time it happened I was puzzled; vexed even. What the HELL? I snarfed inwardly. But, after I relaxed into the Asheville pace, I met and enjoyed so many acquaintances.
It will be a wonderful place to live.
I’m looking forward to it.
This is the first time I’ve seen any of your blogs. Reading them has helped me understand what you’ve been going through, altho I certainly suspected as much. Your Mom and I have been grateful to be living up here near you, Lily and Sara. We’re also looking forward to eventually moving south to joining youall in Asheville, altho we are dreading the move As you know, getting up here from New Orleans almost did me in. Luckily, we found some great MDs once we were here. Now, I hope we’ll be as lucky there. Nancy will move with us so we’ll have quite a compound. love, Dad.
I love you, Dad.
Lisa,
I think of you and your family so often. Like you, I am very aware of how fragile we are, which seems to only be driven “home” as the result of something bad happening. Trying to find balance between significant loss and the good things that still exist is hard at times. Resilience is a good thing, although sometimes it forgets to kick in. Please let me know at any time, if I can help you in any way. Heartfelt hugs to you, Lily, and all of your creatures great and small. (p.s. – I have a Chincilla webkin just like Lily’s!) -Alison
She loves that critter! Thanks Alison
Whoa…… I love your writing….
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