Hiatus – Of Travel, Trees and Aging

A recent hiatus from writing my blog happened unintentionally. I created this outlet for my thoughts and memories on January 1st, 2018, almost seven months after Michael died. Since then, I’ve published 542 different posts, with another 127 unfinished drafts in a queue. That’s about 6.7 pieces per month, on average. In my head, I’m writing daily, often jotting down a thought or idea so I don’t forget where I’d like to follow it. I’m also a champion at creating nifty titles. Yet, somehow, after February 2nd of this year, I just stopped. I had some organized paragraphs spread out under four different topics, but I couldn’t finish any of them. I haven’t exactly figured out why. I realize that the over-arching political situation in this country has been wearing me out for ages, every day revealing a new piece of crazy news that I can’t wrap my head around. I’m not alone in this, I know. In addition, I’m acutely aware of what feels like the rapid acceleration of time passing. I never was one of those people who got freaked out by “big” birthdays. I blew past 30, 40, 50 and 60 without blinking an eye. Seventy felt different as close family and friends who populated the landscape of my life started dying more frequently than before. And with my 75th birthday looming this month, I’ve definitely become more engaged in having experiences rather than writing about them.

But today I got a little mental kickstart, probably as May is looming with its emotion-laden days, starting with what would’ve been my 50th wedding anniversary on the 1st. Of course, I remind myself that when that day arrived in 1976, Michael and I had already been living together for four years and had been friends for five. So actually, fifty-five years of my life have been wrapped up with “us,” this “us”which is still an essential part of me, despite his being dead almost nine years. The undercurrent of our bond remains a mysterious connection that I’ll never be fully able to explain. But it’s undeniably real for me and has been sustaining as I’ve proceeded forward. I love his constant presence in my deepest core. Now that’s simply a given.

This year began with multiple trips scheduled for me. I’ve traveled more since Michael died than I ever did before, but he was still working before he got sick, which made leaving town less flexible. In any event, I’m moving around a lot more, grateful that I’m physically able to keep going. My daughter gifted me a getaway weekend with her at a spa in Wisconsin in January, to a place I’d had the pleasure of visiting a few times before. Then in February, I joined my son and his family in New Orleans. I’d been there before, but never during Mardi Gras, which was a wholly different and truly entertaining experience.

The good news about these interludes is multi-faceted. First, there is the great pleasure I get from knowing that my kids and their families include me in their lives in a way that feels like I’m still a person with whom they can enjoy themselves. So far, there’s no caregiving required from them in regard to my capabilities, either physical or mental. The twenty-five years I spent as my mother’s primary person after my dad died, were fraught with challenging responsibilities that seriously frayed our relationship. I want to avoid that erosion in my own family for as long as possible, maybe even longer. My kids say they’re happy to step up for me as the situation may someday demand. And I believe them. But I still don’t want to burden them with my needs, all their best intentions aside. I don’t think I’ll ever get comfortable with that prospect – my scars from that part of my life are still too fresh. Secondly, changes of scenery are definitely good for keeping your mind fresh. Going to different places seems to create new neural pathways for me, while simultaneously stimulating access into my memory bank. I’d been to both the Wisconsin spa and New Orleans several times with Michael. I really enjoyed the almost holographic images which popped into my mind from those times, stimulated by the still familiar places we’d shared together. A true travel bonus.

But in between these good times, I was struggling with what felt like an onslaught of deaths in my immediate universe. During the months preceding these two little trips, I was involved with three different women friends who’d suffered the deaths of their partners. As a widow with practice at grief, I was doing my best to be a supportive sounding board for them. And I was managing that pretty well without much of a personal PTSD response, as I confronted my own traumatic experience one more time. Instead, what really rocked me were two other random losses. One person was an old friend from high school, Stuart, with whom I’d reconnected via Facebook some years ago. We’d exchange messages and memories frequently. The last time we’d communicated was in October of last year when we were chatting about a hot dog business started by mutual friends out in Boulder, Colorado. Just a nice social exchange. But in January, I received what I thought was a fake message from some stranger informing me that Stuart was dead. What??? Impossible. After all, I’d just talked with him. I didn’t have any personal relationships with his family or other friends who might confirm things, so I poked around on my own and discovered that indeed, Stuart had died only two weeks after our last conversation. I didn’t get informed until two months later, after posting a birthday greeting on his Facebook page. That stranger had actually done me a favor by letting me know he’d died. The peculiar truth about social media is that unless an individual has given someone else the authority to remove their Facebook or Instagram accounts, their pages exist in perpetuity. I gave myself the macabre assignment of counting the number of deceased people I knew, for whom birthday reminders are still sent out annually on those platforms. To date, my list has 33 names. So weird.

And then there was the disappearance of my friend Peg. Peg used to be the best friend of Michael’s older sister Betsy, for almost 40 years. We periodically socialized with them, Michael and I never quite understanding how Peg tolerated the often rude and selfish behavior Betsy displayed toward her. Eventually Peg walked away from that relationship while continuing to build one with us. Over the course of the next 15 years, she became one of our most valued friends.

Two and a half years ago, Peg wrote me to share that she had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease. She requested no phone calls from me, which I assumed meant that she wasn’t emotionally prepared to confront all the ramifications of her diagnosis. So for months, our communication was limited to brief texts. I had no information about her prognosis. I’d never met her adult children and had no relationships with any of her other friends. It was a bleak time. Then last year, I got an unexpected birthday greeting from her. I decided to follow up with a phone call and to my delight, she sounded like herself and was interested in getting together. Peg lives in Denver. As my son and his family were now living in Colorado, an opportunity for a visit arose last June, when I was staying out there for a month to help welcome a new grandchild. My son and I drove to see her for a day. The visit was rough. In person, I could see both the physical toll of her disease, coupled with the very obvious mental decline that had transpired in a scant year. At the time, she was very angry with her children who she said were trying to take control of her life. I’m sure that was true, as it was clear that independent living was getting to be a dangerous situation for her. But she couldn’t see that issue clearly, only as a power trip against her. Our time together was emotional and unnerving. After that day, we texted sporadically. Life moved along. And then at the beginning of the year, I realized Peg had disappeared. No more notes, no more texts.

I have tracked down contact information for Peg’s two kids and written both of them. I don’t know if they’ll reply or if they’ll simply delete my messages. I don’t know if Peg is alive and in a facility or if she’s dead. A vanishing. It’s a terrible feeling to have someone disappear. I know that these kinds of things happen to people all the time. Stuart’s death and this situation with Peg are new for me, quite unlike living through the hard times of watching loved ones eventually succumb to an illness. I know how to do that kind of loss – but these are a different kind of sobering, the transient and ephemeral nature of life, right up in your face. When I’ve had to hold my dogs when they are euthanized, I’ve had a similar sensation of thinking that the line between life and death is just a brief flash. Over, just like that. And then and then…

In March, I was spring cleaning in the yard when I noticed a split in the trunk of my 37 year old redbud tree. We’ve rough winds and powerful storms with lightning, and many tornadoes near where I live. I planted that redbud tree when my son was three. The buds for this year were formed on its branches. But the split got worse. When I called a tree service company to come and have a look at it, they recommended immediate removal. Otherwise the next big wind could topple it and plunge at least half of it into my house. Everything happened so fast.

Losing a tree, especially one you’ve planted, is deeply disturbing. With the environment and climate change in the forefront of my mind anyway, having a tree go is like a death. Is that dramatic? Maybe for some people. But I spend a lot of time appreciating and admiring trees which provide so much for humans and animals alike. While living in our home, I’ve planted six trees on our lot. The redbud is the first of them to go. Michael and I were both forest walkers and tree lovers. After he died, I was preparing a pamphlet for his celebration of life. In his famous red notebook where he wrote his thoughts about his illness, his life and his impending death, I found this poem by Maya Angelou. It was clear that it resonated with him so I placed it on the bifold of his program.

And then and then…I parted with my 23 year old car and reluctantly got a much newer one. And then I was back in the traveling mode, on another extended trip, this time to Colorado to visit with my grandchildren. Somehow or other, as people die and disappear, I’m still running around through airports and flight delays. I know I’m aging and slower than I used to be, but so far I’m keeping up with it all and trying to squeeze the best possible experiences out of this time I continue to have.

While on these trips to Colorado, I usually pick up the viruses that the day care kids bring home to share. So far they haven’t killed me. I wonder how long I can keep going along at my current pace. Trying to stay strong is certainly a life goal although I realize that anything can happen once you hit your mid-seventies. During this particular journey, one of my oldest friends who’s lived abroad for decades had a birthday. I sent him my usual greeting but received no reply. I have no way of knowing whether he’s okay or not. Then I received an email from a swimming friend informing me that one of our fellow water lovers had died. I missed her funeral. At the very end of my trip, while at the airport, I got a call from still another friend, telling me that a lovely woman we’d known since college had died quickly from a massive stroke. And to top off all this news, my daughter called to let me know that a huge maple tree right across the street from me had come crashing down, taking out a relatively young tree on my parkway. The front of my home, shaded by amazing trees since we moved in here in 1978, was now totally exposed. My shade garden is now a sunny one.

These first months of the year have felt like a lot. I miss my trees. I’m sad about the shrinking of my social fabric, although I’ve known for a long time that this part of life is for those of us still living, a time for thinking about age, diminishing and loss. I still remember my mom frequently asking, “why am I still here?” I had no answer for her back then and I have none for myself as I continue on my road. Life’s mysteries.