Solar Power

Cooper was spayed last week. When I picked her up I was told to keep her quiet; no steps, no long walks, keep the stitches clean etc. I thought she would probably be a little more subdued for a few days following surgery. I was wrong. I was very wrong. She ran into the house to greet Carmen and ran wild. I blocked both sets of stairs so that she had to stay on one floor. I couldn't figure out how to keep her from jumping over the sofa; yes, from the floor in front of the sofa, a running jump and landing clear on the other side. This morning I noticed some drops on the floor- she had some leakage coming from the surgical site. I took her back to the vet, where they did repairs, gave her antibiotics and sedatives. Hurray for doggie downers! It took her a while to give in to the calm, but soon she was a peaceful puppy; not unconscious, but not rambunctious.

Her determination reminded me a lot of David. He was always very determined to keep going no matter what he felt like. He would push himself to get things done at work and around the house. There were times when he would fall asleep while talking to me- mid sentence, wake up and insist that he was capable of driving, preaching, or whatever needed to be done, only to doze off again. While it could be frustrating at times, I was glad that he was never willing to just quit. If he told me he couldn't do something I knew that he was right. His determination was a great strength and served him well.



I don't know if is part of the long term grief, the recent death of a parishioner and friend, or just that the earth is so dark and grey, but the past few days have been a struggle. It is probably a combination of all of these and other elements added to the mix. I find that I am feeling sorry for myself, which bothers me. I don't want to do that. I really want to be the happy, positive person that I know is somewhere deep within me. The children recently heard a reference to Pollyanna and wanted to know who she was. I gave a brief summary and asked, "Don't you remember seeing the movie?" "No," they replied, "but we remember that Daddy would call you Pollyanna." I know my optimism sometimes got on David's last nerve. This was before cancer. After cancer he was sometimes more optimistic than me.

To battle the darkness in my soul (see- I can't just be sad- I have a deep smothering darkness) I have purchased a light box. I was explaining to Sophia and Judson how it worked. We talked about days being shorter in the winter and how our bodies need sunlight in order to be healthy. They got a full lecture on seasonal affective disorder, vitamin D deficiancy, and all the other risks of living without light. As their eyes began to glaze over Sophia dryly commented, "So, you're saying we are solar powered." Perhaps in some ways we are. It is snowing in central Missouri tonight, but I have batteries charging and will sit with some rays tomorrow. If you see me in a straw hat with flowers on it, you will know it worked!

New Year Reflections

I have had my first visit to West Virginia to see David's family since his death. Judson, Sophia and I drove out on Monday and returned on Thursday. It was a visit that I looked forward to and dreaded at the same time. I love my in-laws and always enjoy spending time with them. I knew that being there without David would be challenging.

While I was there I slept past noon most days. There were several reasons for this. Long drives are tiring and our bodies are on central time. We have a tendency to stay up later while we are there. The visit was emotionally exhausting. I also shut down as a way of dealing with the stress of being there. Sleep is a great escape. There was no place to go that didn't remind me of David. Every where I could go was a place that David had introduced to me. People looked like David. People talked like David. At times this was comforting, but at other times it was overwhelming, so I slept.

Usually when we go to WV we stay at the home of David's parents. This time we stayed with his sister, Mary Ellen. I was very grateful for this difference. David's mother has dementia. She didn't recognize us and repeatedly asked who we were and how we were related. I don't know how many times I said, "I'm Bonnie. I'm your daughter-in-law. I'm David's wife." These are questions I've answered with her for the past few years. I am patient and don't mind spending time with people with dementia. However, I thought I would choke or scream if I had to say "I'm David's wife." again. I didn't want to say "I was David's wife." She is easily upset by little things, so awareness of the death of a son would really be difficult for her. She also would not be able to retain the information for very long. Thankfully she only asked once where David was. I responded by saying, "Well, you know David is a minister. We met in seminary...." and avoided answering her question. I worry about David's father and Mary Ellen. They do a great job of caring for his mother, but I know how exhausting it is to continuously care for someone.

The kids had a great time. They are accustomed to Grandma's dementia. She still loves children and comments on how they are beautiful, tall, smart etc. They enjoyed playing games and watching movies with older cousins. They are good travelers.

Friday was my birthday. Some friends put together a party for me at a local restaurant. We had a great time- as evidenced by the fact that we stayed until closing time! I am grateful to be surrounded by strong women who are very smart and very supportive. As I looked around at the women sitting with me I was aware that they had all had some stressful event in the past year. Each have led interesting lives thus far and have incredible stories to tell. Our stories woven together would make a good chick flick- the type where you laugh and cry throughout the movie. (don't worry ladies- I only write my own story!)

Life has continued to be challenging. I seem to be developing a labile affect where one minute I am too depressed to function and then within a few minutes I feel great hope and joy. At other times I am completely numb. It is all a normal part of working through the grief process. The mood swings will even out over time. The most frustrating and challenging aspect for me right now is dealing with brain fog. I've gotten comfortable with the emotions that come and go. I hate not being able to think as clearly. I still find it difficult to focus at times. I'm forgetful and easily distracted. I lose words and items. My thoughts interrupt each other. Again, normal for a person who's husband has recently died. Still I want to be just plain normal, not normal within a specific context.

Yet, as I write this I am very aware of all the joy and grief life brings- not just to me, but to each person on earth. As I am typing I hear a helicopter flying over- at this time of night it is probably transporting someone to the hospital. Somewhere, someone is scared and worried. Someone is full of fear, while another if full of hope. Most are holding the two extremes in tandem. I anticipate a call soon from the family of a parishioner who is in his last hours. I am privileged to be able to share in this sacred time with them. I also have a parishioner who is probably going to be giving birth tomorrow- again, a sacred time in life. Parishioner is a cold word for these people, for they are people that I love dearly. They are not just congregants, clients, or acquaintances. They are a part of my life. That is the joy and sorrow of what I do. It is the risk and the reward of becoming emotionally invested in people. It is a blessing that we do not have to celebrate nor grieve alone.