Plodding through the snow

I went to visit Jane’s grave today. To get there, I had to climb over a three-foot high drift the plow left behind when it cleared the narrow road through the cemetery. Then I trudged through the 10-12 inches of powder yesterday’s storm dropped, tramping it down so that others can get to the headstones of their loved ones more easily.  I should have brought a shovel.

…that feels like moving forward.

The snow has reached Jane’s name on her family’s stone.  The snow is actually deeper than that but the wind has hollowed out a space around each grave in that section of the cemetery. It looks strange. The cemetery is at the top of a hill and the wind blows through there at a pretty good clip in the winter. I put some Valentine’s Day decorations on her grave but I didn’t stay too long. It’s been colder there on other days, but on the best of winter days my body won’t stay there long. I can hear both Jane and her mother chiding me for standing out in the cold.

Changing spaces

As these monthly anniversaries go, today was not bad. Last month, I had trouble getting out of bed; every minute of the day was a struggle. I spent yesterday shampooing the rug in the dining room and hall. This morning, I moved the plants and furniture back in place and decided I still don’t have the living room set up in a way that works.

 I should have brought a shovel.

Truth be told, the way Jane and I had it set up originally was just about perfect. Unfortunately, I discovered very early on that I couldn’t live with it set up that way after Jane died. In fact, I’ve redone every room in the house in terms of how the furniture is arranged–and in some cases have changed the purpose of the room as well. What was our study is now my bedroom. The room Jane used for her crafts is now a combination library and home office. The bedroom has become a TV room that doubles as a guest room and a place to keep Walking with Jane items we use for various events.

Mixing pasts, presents and futures

And I’ve been gradually repainting all the rooms in the house, changing the colors from the careful neutrals Jane and I chose when we built the house to warmer, darker tones. It’s not that I am trying to expunge her presence–I have photographs of Jane scattered throughout the house, as well as her cross-stitch and other craft projects.

…I’ve redone every room in the house…

The houseplants we both loved still dominate the living room and dining room as they always have, though I have rearranged them as they’ve grown. And though I’ve replaced the mattress in the bedroom, all the furniture we bought when we first married is still part of my bedroom–and I still sleep in our bed every night, though never on her side of the bed.

Different people, different responses

I know people whose houses have not changed in any way since their spouse died. I know others who sleep on a couch or in a chair at night because they cannot face sleeping in the bed they once shared with their husband or wife. I know others who gave away every stick of furniture they had purchased together because living with those constant reminders was more than they could handle.

…I still sleep in our bed every night…

I know people who sold their house for much the same reason–and others who were forced to sell because with a single income they could not afford to live there no matter how much they wanted to hold onto those memories. There is no magic formula to dealing with grief–no right answer. There is only the answer that works for you—-and that answer is different for every person who grieves.

Moving  thoughts

There are times I think about moving. This house and its yard are too big for me to handle by myself sometimes. And it has too many stairs for me to deal with when I get old. But we spread the soil on this land, planted the grass and the shrubs and the trees. We installed the suspended ceiling in the basement and hung the sheet rock on its walls. We spent hours looking at chandeliers and light fixtures and deciding on countertops and cabinets. I am not ready to abandon those memories–and I am not sure I ever will be.

…that answer is different for every person who grieves.

But I can’t live in some kind of unchanging shrine either–a place where everything is precisely as Jane left it. I want my memories but I don’t want to be overwhelmed by them every day. For fifty months now I’ve tried to reestablish a sense of balance in all areas of my life. Part of me thinks I haven’t been very successful at that. But then I realize that Jane and I spent 23 years together, growing closer and closer every day until, at the end, we truly were Aristotle’s single soul in two bodies.

Questions of balance

And then she was gone–and everything was different. Fifty months is no time at all compared to the years we spent together as a singular entity. We made every decision together, did every chore together–lived our lives as together as two people can be. When Jane died, I suddenly did not know who I was anymore. I’m still trying to figure that out.

I am not ready to abandon those memories…

But change is the nature of life. The carpet and linoleum are beginning to show their age. I replaced the faucets in the bathroom and the kitchen over the last year. I’ve expanded the vegetable garden and enlarged a flower bed. I reworked the sitting area under our deck, digging out the sod and replacing it with stone. I’m thinking about setting up a bee hive, planting some fruit trees and creating a large bed of wild flowers.

Moving forward vs. moving on

People talk about moving on after someone dies. The truth is, often we don’t move on. The further I get from Jane’s death, the more I am convinced I will not “get over it” in the way that most people mean that phrase. But we can move forward–which is very different from “moving on” or “getting over it.” In fact, we have very little choice about moving forward. Life forces us to do that by its very nature.

Fifty months is no time at all…

Faucets do wear out. Lawns do have to be mowed. Driveways do have to be resealed. Our bodies do have to be fed and cared for. We have to cook and clean and do the routine little things that in the depth of grief we do not want to do–but that we do anyway.

Moving through the snows of grief

My muscles ache tonight. I’ve moved over four feet of snow in the last two weeks. I’ve moved every plant and piece of furniture in the living room and dining room at least twice in the last two days. I’ve run the rug machine until my arms hurt and my hands have blistered. There is more snow in the forecast for Thursday and again for Sunday.

The truth is, often we don’t move on.

But for now, the snow is shoveled and half the living room looks and feels right to me. For 50 months after Jane died, that feels like moving forward.