Taking our Time

On the train from Boston to New York City, I can’t help but think of what awaits me there, a summer week with my little grandson. From the moment he was born, this child brought pure joy into my life—the first time I freely opened my heart after I lost my husband Paul in December, 2013.

During my grandson’s first year, I commuted between Boston and New York every month. I made this commitment to my daughter and her brand new family with complete pleasure. I didn’t want to miss a thing—from his changing size, appearance, abilities, personality, temperament—to his first smile, first tooth, first word, first step.

I documented it all with photos and journal entries, but most importantly, I savored the sweetness of his presence in my arms and in my life.

After his first birthday party, a picnic on the lawn in Central Park, I let up—but only slightly—on the monthly schedule.  I want my grandson to know me as a steady presence, one adult out of the many who love him just because of who he is.

He moved along his bright path of change over the early months and now going on two years. He takes in everything from the world around him and processes it in his own mysterious ways. He greets each day with wonder in a setting where love, kindness, and encouragement surround and support him.

In the first year after Paul died, my own path of change was strewn with obstacles. Each month of that long, sad year presented yet another attack on my senses, another challenge to my sanity.

January, the unbearable darkness.

February, the shock of facing a world that did not feel real, full of Paul’s absence, everywhere.

March, the truth of my loss hitting me in the heart, sitting on a New York City park bench with my daughter, both of us bereft.

April, joining a bereavement group, a place to pour out my heart with my companions in grief.

May, removing winter debris from the gravesite, seeking the presence of my husband in the place where his soul took flight.

June, visiting my son in Israel, sharing memories and tears, then returning home to summer and sunlight that did not console me.

July, opening the tool shed to find the shovels and rakes to tackle the seasonal yard work, from now on my lonely responsibility.

August, dreading my wedding anniversary and birthday, for the first time alone.

September, the hint of death and decay in nature reappearing to take me down.

October, my beautiful mother Rose dying—and mourning doubles down on me.

November, reliving the nightmare of the year before, when Paul was impaired, hospitalized, rapidly losing ground.

Then, December fourth—the first anniversary of death, there is no way to prepare.

That year unfolded like no other. I navigated through the fog of each day, grateful when it ended so I could rest from my relentless emotional labors, unpaid, unrewarded, deeply exhausting. But that didn’t mean I could sleep at night.

Losing a life partner is a devastating experience, searing the mourning soul on the inside and destroying the life of the mourner on the outside.

🌿      🌿      🌿      🌿      🌿

Looking back from where I stand now, I am grateful for the surge of positive spirit and energy that gathered momentum after enduring my first year of living with grief, leading me away from my inner struggles and, over time,  towards a brightening path of my own—to acceptance and peace of mind.

The support group I attended at the hospice where Paul died—“Writing from the Heart of Grief”—opened up an unexpected pathway. Being a lawyer, I had always identified myself as logical, systematic, organized. The raw feelings that I threw onto the paper unleashed a surge of creative power that I never knew existed.

Surprisingly to me, I’m now leading my own writer’s workshop at the senior center, gaining acceptance by the local community of writers, and sharing my poetry and personal narratives with an audience through open mics, senior center newsletters, and now this blog.

I thank Paul for every gift in my life that I have been granted, even the new ones. I will always pay tribute to his generosity of spirit that informs my life  He accompanies me on every step forward that I take. I feel his strong support for how I live my life, even now, as it is changing.

🌆          🏙          🌉

I look out the window to the New York City skyline in the distance—the Triboro Bridge, the boats and barges on the East River, the Chrysler Building—and realize that my afternoon journey is nearly done. I prepare myself mentally for the rush-hour onslaught in Penn Station and bring myself into the moment again.

This will be my grandson’s week to shine. I’m not the cooking, baking, or shopping kind of Grandma. When I do bring a gift, it’s most likely a book, classics like “Ferdinand the Bull” or “Now We Are Six.” I plan to take many photos and video clips on this visit—at the zoo, on the playground, in Central Park—maybe some selfies of us with silly expressions.

Sweet grandson, the early months have taken their course for each of us, turning into years for both of us, as we move forward with the blessings we have been granted along the way. I can’t help but think, and feel, and know, that your Grandpa Paul had a lot to do with it.

_______________________________________________________________

**Photo taken in Central Park Conservancy Garden, October 2014