Chapter one part one 'The genie Flies Out Of The Bottle'
Wednesday, January 1, 2020
Friday, October 26, 2007
chapter 15: part 3
continued from chapter 15: part 2
Steven and Diana deliberately held off their visit until everyone else had left, so that I wouldn't be alone just yet. They helped me buy two Himalayan cats that Hal and I always planned to get when Hephzibah finally died. Karuna and Shama are good companions; they sleep on the bed with me and they give me a reason to structure my days. They need feeding and that long hair needs constant brushing.
On a cold, rainy Sunday, we took Hal's ashes to a public place in Toronto that meant a great deal to him. He loved that city so much. We were very circumspect and no one knew what we were doing. I recall the crematorium man told Mike that Hal was now environmentally friendly. Yeah, that too. Now we were littering. Jason and Crista, my eldest grandchildren made me so proud. Each one reached in the bag and took a handful of ashes and scattered them.
The pain lessens but you never get over it. Not if you built something lasting.
I have gone through a lot of the "firsts." Our thirty-eighth wedding anniversary was a week after he died, there was his birthday, Christmas, my birthday, Valentines day.
I settled down to write this book. I've stopped sleeping with Hal's sweater in my arms, but I am surrounded by his photos. He had trouble leaving me and I felt his presence for six weeks after his death. I finally mustered the courage to ask him to go because I couldn’t get on with the rest of my life if I felt him close by. I don't feel his presence any more although the children sometimes do; he is on his new life and I am on mine, like it or not.
For six months after Hal’s death, Mark drove into the city every Saturday to visit with me and do any odd jobs. We’d sit and drink tea together and talk, talk, talk about that incredible year.
I don't see our married friends often; sometimes they'll invite me to dinner but I'm always the only guest. I remember one friend looking at me as though I were a stranger and said, “What are we going to do with you now?” I was now a single person. They just don't know how to handle an "odd" person.
All through my life, up to Hal's illness, I'd wake at night feeling fearful about the what-if's. I'm changed now. It's as though my worst fears have been realized and there is nothing left to fear.
I pulled together my own support network of friends who were widowed before me and they have always been there to help me through the rougher spots.
I have only one regret. I never asked Hal, "Are you afraid?" He never said and he didn't seem afraid, just terribly sad.
For years, he used to say to me, “You know, it really would be best if you died before me. I don’t know how you would manage on your own.” He was right. The woman he married depended on him a great deal, mostly because I sensed he wanted to be leaned on. I found quite quickly that I could manage on my own, without pestering friends and children to make decisions for me.
Hal sent me one last love message. Diana, who lives in Medicine Hat, sat at her desk on the morning of Valentines Day and she got a sharp inner message, “ CALL HAL.” "The only Hal I know is our Hal and that can't be," she thought. She went into a deep contemplation and asked inside herself if Hal had a message for her. "Please tell Patsy I love her and send her some white orchids," was the strong message she got. She and Steve immediately arranged to have the flowers sent to me.
I have grown orchids for years, not too successfully, but all of them were gifts from Hal, something Diana didn't know.
In the past, whenever I am missing a subtle message I should be sensing ,there will be a quick, powerful thunder and lightning storm and I’ve learned to stop and pay attention. The florist arrived minutes after the storm passed overhead.
Without that nudge, I would have been touched by the flowers but wouldn’t have made the connection. I called Diana and she told me of her experience.
The last thing we did at night we'd hold hands while we fell asleep.
Wherever you are Hal, I still feel your hand in mine.
The end.
Steven and Diana deliberately held off their visit until everyone else had left, so that I wouldn't be alone just yet. They helped me buy two Himalayan cats that Hal and I always planned to get when Hephzibah finally died. Karuna and Shama are good companions; they sleep on the bed with me and they give me a reason to structure my days. They need feeding and that long hair needs constant brushing.
On a cold, rainy Sunday, we took Hal's ashes to a public place in Toronto that meant a great deal to him. He loved that city so much. We were very circumspect and no one knew what we were doing. I recall the crematorium man told Mike that Hal was now environmentally friendly. Yeah, that too. Now we were littering. Jason and Crista, my eldest grandchildren made me so proud. Each one reached in the bag and took a handful of ashes and scattered them.
The pain lessens but you never get over it. Not if you built something lasting.
I have gone through a lot of the "firsts." Our thirty-eighth wedding anniversary was a week after he died, there was his birthday, Christmas, my birthday, Valentines day.
I settled down to write this book. I've stopped sleeping with Hal's sweater in my arms, but I am surrounded by his photos. He had trouble leaving me and I felt his presence for six weeks after his death. I finally mustered the courage to ask him to go because I couldn’t get on with the rest of my life if I felt him close by. I don't feel his presence any more although the children sometimes do; he is on his new life and I am on mine, like it or not.
For six months after Hal’s death, Mark drove into the city every Saturday to visit with me and do any odd jobs. We’d sit and drink tea together and talk, talk, talk about that incredible year.
I don't see our married friends often; sometimes they'll invite me to dinner but I'm always the only guest. I remember one friend looking at me as though I were a stranger and said, “What are we going to do with you now?” I was now a single person. They just don't know how to handle an "odd" person.
All through my life, up to Hal's illness, I'd wake at night feeling fearful about the what-if's. I'm changed now. It's as though my worst fears have been realized and there is nothing left to fear.
I pulled together my own support network of friends who were widowed before me and they have always been there to help me through the rougher spots.
I have only one regret. I never asked Hal, "Are you afraid?" He never said and he didn't seem afraid, just terribly sad.
For years, he used to say to me, “You know, it really would be best if you died before me. I don’t know how you would manage on your own.” He was right. The woman he married depended on him a great deal, mostly because I sensed he wanted to be leaned on. I found quite quickly that I could manage on my own, without pestering friends and children to make decisions for me.
Hal sent me one last love message. Diana, who lives in Medicine Hat, sat at her desk on the morning of Valentines Day and she got a sharp inner message, “ CALL HAL.” "The only Hal I know is our Hal and that can't be," she thought. She went into a deep contemplation and asked inside herself if Hal had a message for her. "Please tell Patsy I love her and send her some white orchids," was the strong message she got. She and Steve immediately arranged to have the flowers sent to me.
I have grown orchids for years, not too successfully, but all of them were gifts from Hal, something Diana didn't know.
In the past, whenever I am missing a subtle message I should be sensing ,there will be a quick, powerful thunder and lightning storm and I’ve learned to stop and pay attention. The florist arrived minutes after the storm passed overhead.
Without that nudge, I would have been touched by the flowers but wouldn’t have made the connection. I called Diana and she told me of her experience.
The last thing we did at night we'd hold hands while we fell asleep.
Wherever you are Hal, I still feel your hand in mine.
The end.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
chapter 15: part 2
continued from Chapter 15: part 1
The day after Hal's death, my brother Doug called me to say that Dad had died that morning.
The kids made macabre jokes about their mom, “Typhoid Patsy.” First I have the cat put down. Then Hal dies. Now my dad.
Scott and Peter flew in two days later. They had been out of the loop all these months and they struggled to handle their feelings and cope with our need to talk incessantly about the past months. Melissa had picked up the baby and camped in with me as well as Mike and Lorrie. Mark slept at home but ran back and forth.
We were holding Hal's party on Labor Day weekend and I tried to find a caterer but no one was available on such short notice. I planned the food, shopped for it and prepared most of it. The kids did everything I asked them to do, getting the liquor, renting extra china, and working out the logistics of parking.
The day of the party, we all put on our festive things and so many people came. It was mostly writers’ shop- talk, which is the way I wanted it to be. I remember the men wore suits, and I wasn't used to them dressing so formally.
I had to force back the anger when someone asked to smoke in the house but eventually resigned myself to the fact that they would. They won’t understand. The girls did the hostess duties and I remained quietly in the living room.
I did what had to be done and kept feeling stabbing pains of grief but the tears never came for long. The boys played continuous tapes of Hal's favorite jazz and some of those tunes tore at my heart.
I was near the kitchen window when one friend said, "Hal would have loved this party," and I replied, "Perhaps he is, he's out there in the driveway in Mike's car." She handled that nicely.
That night, when only family remained I pulled out all of Hal's clothes and distributed them to the boys. No one would take his beloved corduroy pants, which he had specially made. I kept his wallet and the leather change pouch we bought in Florence.
This is when death becomes reality--when the possessions are given away and there is vacant closet space, drawers are empty and soon even scraps of his handwriting disappear.
to be concluded in chapter 15: part 3
The day after Hal's death, my brother Doug called me to say that Dad had died that morning.
The kids made macabre jokes about their mom, “Typhoid Patsy.” First I have the cat put down. Then Hal dies. Now my dad.
Scott and Peter flew in two days later. They had been out of the loop all these months and they struggled to handle their feelings and cope with our need to talk incessantly about the past months. Melissa had picked up the baby and camped in with me as well as Mike and Lorrie. Mark slept at home but ran back and forth.
We were holding Hal's party on Labor Day weekend and I tried to find a caterer but no one was available on such short notice. I planned the food, shopped for it and prepared most of it. The kids did everything I asked them to do, getting the liquor, renting extra china, and working out the logistics of parking.
The day of the party, we all put on our festive things and so many people came. It was mostly writers’ shop- talk, which is the way I wanted it to be. I remember the men wore suits, and I wasn't used to them dressing so formally.
I had to force back the anger when someone asked to smoke in the house but eventually resigned myself to the fact that they would. They won’t understand. The girls did the hostess duties and I remained quietly in the living room.
I did what had to be done and kept feeling stabbing pains of grief but the tears never came for long. The boys played continuous tapes of Hal's favorite jazz and some of those tunes tore at my heart.
I was near the kitchen window when one friend said, "Hal would have loved this party," and I replied, "Perhaps he is, he's out there in the driveway in Mike's car." She handled that nicely.
That night, when only family remained I pulled out all of Hal's clothes and distributed them to the boys. No one would take his beloved corduroy pants, which he had specially made. I kept his wallet and the leather change pouch we bought in Florence.
This is when death becomes reality--when the possessions are given away and there is vacant closet space, drawers are empty and soon even scraps of his handwriting disappear.
to be concluded in chapter 15: part 3
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