Dreams and pens..

Night times are hard. The house is so quiet, so dark and still as I lie alone in bed trying to go to sleep. Before long, the inevitable tears flow, soaking my pillow. It's incredible how much I miss David's warm body next to mine. I still reach out to touch his pillow in the night.

"Please send me a dream," I entreat him, "so I know you are o.k. So I know you are not gone, not passed away, but passed within". This is an expression I heard from my on-line widows support group. Our loved ones have not passed away, they've passed within. I like that.

I did manage to fall asleep,and when I awoke in the early hours, a vague sense of having dreamed of David splashed across my brain. What was it? Ah, then I saw a picture of me in a boat. I don't know where I was going. I had a small child by the hand. Try as I would, I could not remember who this child was. I think it was a little boy. A grandchild? Nephew? One of my own boys? My husband as a child? Dreams are funny. Time does not run like it does here on earth. My children are grown now, but when I dream of them, often they are still toddlers, or teens. And I am the same age. A grandmother. So I don't know who this child was.

There was a stethoscope around my neck - David's. As most of you know, he had been a doctor in this life. A gentle and respected physician, who loved his work. Somebody on the boat addressed me as doctor. I was too weary to correct him (or her, I forget). Upon awakening, the message was clear. David was within. We are one.

It must seem a strange way to think, for someone who has not experienced the loss of a spouse, a partner, a lover. This "passing within" rather than "passing away." It's a deep feeling of love, centered in the heart. Both of my parents and my brother have passed away. I still feel a connection to them and dream about them from time to time, but there is a detachment, a feeling of letting them go. It's just not the same.

PEN STORY, PART II
Earlier in the month, I was back at the notary's office as there were more legalities to be sorted out. This time, I checked my purse at least 3 times to make sure I'd brought a good pen. I had. But just to be on the safe side, I reminded everyone right before the meeting began, to make sure they had their pens handy. The notary looked at me as if I had 5 heads. She had obviously forgotten our last meeting where nobody could find a pen (I was sure David had hidden them all). The financial advisor, who was sitting on my right side must have remembered, for he gave me a self-conscious smile.

The meeting began. A document was produced for me to sign. With a flourish I whipped out my pen, placed it on the paper and.....
nothing....but a scratch.
I could not believe it. David up to his tricks once again! If he couldn't hide the pens, then he'd just make sure mine didn't work! Ha! And I thought I'd been so smart, so prepared this time.

Good old Financial Advisor leaned forward and lent me his pen. It worked and I signed what was to become the first of quite a few documents that morning.

"You can keep it," he said with a smile.

A little birdie told me..

Monday afternoon.

I had had a particularly lonely and grief-stricken weekend.
It seems I can go for a few days feeling fine and then - Wham! Out of nowhere I am overwhelmed with feelings of pain and loss.

Monday afternoon, I was babysitting my two grandchildren. Little Nathan was down for his nap. I had given him his bottle upstairs and gently placed him in his crib, sound asleep. His sister was sitting in the living room watching a childrens' program on television. Otherwise, I would be hearing "Grandma - where are you?" "Grandma - I have to go potty!" "Grandma - is Nathan sleeping yet?" So with the TV as distraction, Nathan could be put to sleep undisturbed.

Quietly, I closed the bedroom door. Made sure the baby monitor was turned on. Tiptoed downstairs. Peeked into the living room. Jasmine was totally absorbed in her show. Good. Went to the kitchen to heat up my coffee in the microwave. Just then the dog barked to go out. O.K., so I took my coffee to the patio door and let Whiskey out.

It was a beautiful day. Sun shining brightly. Sky a clear blue. Too nice to be sitting inside. So, I took a couple of minutes to walk barefoot in the backyard grass (no I did not step in dog poop). I just enjoyed the feel of grass on my bare toes, and talked to David as I always do. "Why are you gone? Why don't you come back? Where are you?" Silly questions, but I ask anyway.

Heard a chirping. Ignored it. The chirping did not go away. In fact it became louder and more persistent. So I looked around. A bright red cardinal sat chirping for all he was worth on a telephone wire. I watched him for a while. Looked for the female. Could not find her. Just him. Sitting chirping as if trying to tell me something.

Walked back in the house. Left the dog outside lying on the grass, chewing on a plastic dog toy. Peeked into the living room. Jazzy was just fine.

"Would you like some juice?"

"Yes, grandma."
"Yes, please," I instructed.
"Yes, please," she repeated.

Poured her some juice. Re-heated my coffee (I like it hot, even on a hot summer's day).

Finally ambled into the living room to sit on the sofa beside Jazzy, snuggling up to enjoy the closeness of her three-year-old body; but still conscious of the sharp pain of loss - knowing David and I will never snuggle up together again.

Enough focusing on the pain! (I admonished myself). Looked up at the TV screen to see what Jazzy was watching. Childrens shows are short, usually lasting 10 or 15 minutes, so I thought we'd watch one last one and then turn off the set. As it happened, a new show was just beginning.

It was about a little robin who was sad. He was looking out of the window in a child's room. The robin had been injured and the child had brought him home. But now he was well and longed to be outside.

The mother of the child walked into the room, sized up the situation, and told the little boy to let the robin fly free. He obediently opened the window and the robin flew out. But a few minutes later, the bird was back. He perched on the child's finger, told him thank you for your care, I'm sorry I have to leave, but I must fly free now. I love you.
"I love you too," replied the child.

The mother explained to the child that the robin was happy now. It had to feel the wind on its wings, join the other birds, build a nest and go on to a brand-new life.

Nice little story.

And then it hit me.

That story was meant for me. It was a message from David saying he was well and happy - flying free now. Thank you for helping me heal, but I must go on to a new life.

No, no, no, I argued with myself. I must be going nuts. How can that be?

It's the timing. The precision of the timing. I had just sat down at that precise moment to cuddle with Jasmine and look up at the television. Had I not let the dog out, heated my coffee, watched that bird, put Nathan down earlier or later, etc. etc., I would have missed that show.

It's always the timing that brings home the message.

Oh, and I wonder what the cardinal had been trying to tell me?

I wear his watch...

...on my left wrist.
I sit in his place at the kitchen table, so I don't have to look at his empty chair.
I drink coffee from his favourite cup in the morning. The cup I used to bring him in hospital, to make him feel a little bit closer to home.
I carry his wallet in my purse.
I sleep in one of his t-shirts.

Over these past weeks, whenever I went to Tim Horton's I would buy a coffee for me and a coffee for him (double-double). Back home, I'd sit under the oak tree in our backyard where I have a candle burning to light his way. I'd carry on a conversation with David while sipping my own coffee. Then I'd pour his under the tree. I just could not bring myself to buy only one coffee. I had to buy David his coffee too. Even my children when coming to visit would bring me a coffee and one for David. It became a ritual; pouring David his coffee under the tree, so he would get it wherever he is.
But now I don't need to pour his coffee under the tree. When I sip my coffee, I feel we are sipping together, as if we are one.
Am I losing my grip on reality?

Maybe..... but I feel him....close to me.
Our love is our connection. Our bond. Our bridge from one world to the next.

David loved pens. There are oodles of pens in his desk drawers. Pens sitting in a coffee mug on a shelf next to the telephone. Pens in every pocket of every jacket. Pens lying on the surface of every coffee table in our home. When David and I would go shopping (that seems light years ago now) to a stationery store like Staples, he would head straight for the pens.
"David, don't you think we have enough pens? We must have a hundred or more at home. Why are you looking at more pens?" He'd just smile and head on over to that department anyway, leaving me to pick up whatever we had initially come into the store to buy.

I am sitting in the notary's office (here in Quebec, we use notaries rather than lawyers for real estate transactions, estate management, etc.) a few days after David's passing. His son-from-out-of-town was there too. As was my financial advisor. I was asked to sign a document. Opened my purse and started rummaging inside. No pen. I knew I had one in there. I always carry a pen with me. Looking up, I noticed that everyone was looking about for their pens. Nobody could find one. Finally, the very red-faced financial advisor stepped outside to ask his secretary for a pen.

Ha - I think David had hidden everyone's pens.

Three days ago, I was down by the lake where his ashes had been scattered. It was very peaceful with sailboats on the water, cool breezes caressing my face, ducks swimming among the rushes close to shore, and blue blue skies. I walked for a bit and then sat down on a rock under a willow tree.

After a while, I headed back through the grassy field towards the road where I'd parked my car. A melody floated through my head.
....let's go down to the river to pray.....

Oh, did I come here to pray? Hmmm. Maybe I should.
The morning of David's passing, I kept hearing a voice in my head saying "call the priest." So I asked the nurse to call him. When the Father arrived, he asked me to join him in saying the Lord's prayer.

That prayer came back to me as I walked that grassy field towards the car. And when I had finished, I looked down on the ground, and saw.....
lying in the grass...
a pen!

Finding comfort in nature..

Opening to the morning light....

Reaching towards the afternoon sun...

The Natural world is full of healing if only we would notice. The shamrock (above) bloomed just a day or so ago. I didn't notice. I'd been too busy to pay attention. I had bought this plant for David just this past spring...

Before David's hospital admission, I looked out the front window to see a pair of ducks on our front lawn. There is no pond or water source nearby. It was quite a surprise. I looked up the meaning of Ducks in my Animal Speak book. Ducks bring emotional comfort and protection. I knew we were in for a rough ride.

One evening I happened to look out David's hospital window to the Healing Garden. There swimming on the pond was a pair of ducks. I never saw any more after that.

Sitting on my back deck one afternoon on one of my "days off" from the hospital, I looked up into the sky to see a hawk flying overhead. Now there are hawks in our neighbourhood, but I usually spot them towards the woods - never in my backyard.

The hawk is a "powerful bird that can awaken visionary power and lead you to your life purpose. It is the messenger bird, and wherever it shows up, pay attention. There is a message coming."

I was out walking the other morning, listening to birds as they sang and chirped. I was feeling lonely and sad. Suddenly a tiny brown bird flew down close to me. He (or she) settled on a low branch, looked at me and chirped out a greeting. I wonder.....

Three days after David's passing, I was once again sitting on my back deck. It was a beautiful day, but I was crying in grief and pain. All of a sudden, an orange and black butterfly flew down and perched on the chair next to me. I knew in my heart that it was David, telling me he was alright. I have read that when you see a butterfly, it is a Soul who has passed on coming to comfort the ones left behind.

David

My dear David slipped quietly from this world with peace and dignity yesterday, July 3, 2010. As they say in the COPD world "He is breathing easy now..."

I awoke early this morning to feel waves of love and joy emanating from David's spirit. It was such a comfort, as I thought I'd be waking up in pain.

Yes, I feel sad. Yes, there are tears, but right now I know he is flying; he is lighter, having left his painful and worn out body behind.

I'm not ready

Five weeks ago, the telephone rang just before 8:00 a.m.
I had just gotten out of the shower and was towel drying my hair.

"Hello, this is M.S. Hospital calling."
My heart sank. "Yes?" I managed to croak.

"Your husband is desaturating."
That meant his oxygen level in his blood was very low and if they were calling me, it was because they could not get it up to acceptable levels. Bad news.

"Is he conscious?" I asked.
"He's sleeping."

"I'll be right there."

My mind went into over-drive. He's in a coma and the nurse did not want to tell me. She did not answer my question, but just said he was sleeping. If his sats were that low, then of course they couldn't wake him up. And we all know there is no resuscitation in the palliative ward.

Is he alive? Will he still be there when I arrive?
"Please God." I prayed. "Not yet. Not yet."

Driving as fast as I could, my mind sending David signals.
"Don't go, yet, sweetie. We still have lots to say. Lots to do yet. I haven't given up hope of bringing you home!! Hang on. I'm coming."

I don't know how I managed to do it, but I missed the exit. How on earth could I do that? This car has been driving to the hospital for 3 weeks, doesn't it know the way all by itself?

And then a great wave of peace washed over me. If I missed the exit there is a reason. And there is nothing whatsoever I can do to stop or change whatever will be.

That peaceful feeling did not last long, as it took me an extra 20 minutes (on top of the usual hour) to get to the hospital. Frantically I parked the car. Slammed the door. Bolted up the stairs to the third floor. Passed the nursing station. Hmmm. Nobody there, that must be a good sign. Nobody to waylay me before I enter Hubby's room. Round the corner. Hubby's door is open. Hmmm. Another good sign. If it had been closed....

Tore open the curtain to see David lying in bed, looking a little groggy, but reading the newspaper! I ran over and gave him the biggest, most giganticist hug you can imagine.

He looked at me in surprise. "Am I dreaming? What are you doing here so early?"

Apparently his oxygen mask had fallen off sometime in the early morning hours. I don't know how long he was without oxygen, but when the day nurse came on duty, she saw David in bed, face a grey colour and his mask dangling over the edge of the bed. She put it back on and then got the oxymeter to measure the oxygen saturation in his blood. She told me at first she couldn't get a reading, so called for help. He was still breathing, so after a few minutes the oxygen reading was 50 (normal being from 90-100). The nurse told me it took an hour to get his sats back up to normal. They had to put extra oxygen on to do that.

What a scare for everybody.

His doctor sat on the bed and said "that was a close call, but it wasn't so bad, was it? There was no pain, no shortness of breath."

"But I'm not ready!" came Hubby's sharp retort.

David has had many close calls over the past few years. I sometimes think he is living on borrowed time (as the old saying goes). When I got home that night, I needed to write; as if drawn back into ancient times:



STANDING AT THE BRINK

He is standing at the edge of a Cliff.
Looking down.
Scared. Fearful.
"I do not want to go there."
And he steps back.

"Wife," he says on coming home, "I stood at the Brink today."
"I know," she murmurs, pulling loaves of fresh bread out of the oven.

Time passes.
Another Day.
He finds himself standing at the edge of the very same Cliff.
Looking down, he sees fierce-looking animals.
"No, I'm not going there."

Years before, in a dream he saw himself walking to the end of the Earth.
To the Brink. Where there was nothing but air below.
"I can't go there. I don't have wings to fly."
Just then an angel floated by. His father.
"Not yet," he sang to him, "not yet."

And so he went back home.
"Wife," he says, "I stood at the Brink today. There was nothing below. Just Air."
"I know," she murmurs, ladling out soup for their supper.
Night time. They are sleeping under the Stars.
Wife looks up into the night. And cries softly.
One of those Stars will soon be Husband.
She knows in her heart.
He rarely leaves the House anymore.

Once again He stands at the top of the Cliff. Afraid to look down.
But he knows he must. He's been here before. His body is showing him the way.

Looking down, he sees before him a black pit.
"No, I'm not going there."
And he steps back.
To let somebody else go.
Looking around, he sees many Souls taking the Leap.
Some take the plunge with strength and dignity; others hesitantly with fear.
Nobody returns.

Now there are people with him as he makes his way to the Cliff.
His footsteps grow heavy.
Second Son says "it's just the natural order of things".
"Have a safe passage" whispers a relative.
"We'll make you comfortable when it's time to go," chants the medicine man.
"Are you alright?" concerned friends ask.

"I'm not ready." he tells them all.

And goes home to his wife.
Where he finds her preparing his favourite foods. She knows that one day he will not come home for supper.
But every day she cooks.
Every day she waits for him.
Every day she listens for his footsteps.
Every day they sit down to eat.
"How are you?" she asks.
"I"m tired."
'I love you." her eyes go soft as she looks into his.
"I love you too." his eyes speak from his heart.

She knows his time is near; that one day he will not come home to her.
She knows it will be a time when there is nobody about.
Nobody to watch. No one to interfere.

He will slip away quietly in the early hours.

We look for the silver....

....lining, as the old saying goes. The flowers strewn along our steep and rocky path. The diamonds in the rough.

As you can see, I've taken some time to reacquaint myself with a very good friend of mine - my camera. Out in the healing garden, I absorb the peaceful surroundings and lose myself in capturing a goldfish, a waterfall, spring flowers. How lucky we are to have this hidden paradise, this center of calm, amidst the harsh reality of disease.

David has been out in the healing garden 3 or 4 times since my last post. He tilts his face up to the sun and lets out a sigh of contentment. So relaxing, so nice to enjoy the warmth and healing golden rays. Some days he's too tired. Some days the weather is rainy, but on good days we go out. Just for half an hour more or less, but at least we have this time.

We've also made friends with the volunteers. They are truly incredible people. I did not know just how valuable to the hospital these dedicated souls are. There is one sweet gentleman with white hair who brings my husband his morning coffee and newspaper every day.
Every day.
He never takes a day off. He's always there. You will see him feeding elderly patients, pushing a wheelchair in the garden, accompanying someone to an outside appointment, fetching towels or soap for a bath. He does everything with a smile.

Another one is a wee, tiny little old lady (I'm sure she's 85 or so), who comes around every afternoon with the "snack cart."

"Tea, coffee, cookies, ice cream?"

I sometimes feel like a kid again at somebody's birthday party, being served cookies and ice cream. But she's a dear. And so tiny, she reminds me of a doll with her clear blue eyes and soft white hair.

Oh, and there's Spa Day.

Spa Day happens once a week.

The patient is taken from their bed and put right onto a bath stretcher, covered up with flannel sheets and wheeled down the hall to the Spa Room.

It's dark when you first enter the room.

Ah, but then you see the tiny tea lights glowing softly from the walls and shelves. These are made to look like candles (real candles being forbidden of course) lending a romantic atmosphere.

Champagne cooling in a silver bucket beckons invitingly from a shelf (no it's not real).

Lovely relaxing music plays in the background.

An ocean scene has been painted on the wall to give the illusion of being at the beach.

The bath stretcher is lowered into the tub. The patient doesn't even have to move. They just lie there, secured to the stretcher while fragrant warm water rushes into the tub. Luxuriant bubbles foam up around the person, as much for modesty as for fun, I think.

There is an oxygen outlet on the wall, so hubby can plug in. No worries. The staff are good. I sit nearby and watch. Hubby is fine. He's relaxed and soothed. It's such a treat that the nurses all joke that they need a Spa too!

"No, I'm next!" I joke along with them all.

And we laugh.

It feels good to laugh.