On Being A Widow

It is November 14, 2012, six months to the day I lost my Husband.  These past months have been filled with all sorts of emotions for me.  Emptiness, pain, sadness, loneliness to name just a few.  I am trying to adjust to being alone although it is not easy.  On Monday of this week I woke up feeling very sick.  I had a terrible headache, dizziness and felt quite nauseous.  I am not a person who likes being alone when I am sick.  For the last 30 some years I have had Sam who would do anything possible to help me feel better.  Needless to say not this particular day.   I was so sick I could not drive, so I had to rely on my family and hope they had the time to help me out.  Lesson learned?   Keep this stuff on hand.
So, at a time when I am actually loving this place again, I am seriously re-thinking selling the house.  It is a sixty mile round trip journey to Kalamazoo.

I find that I am much more industrious now that I am alone.  In an effort not to sink in a valley of tears
keeping busy is the secret.  It doesn't work all the time,  as some of my friends will attest to, after receiving calls with me on the other end, just needing to talk.  I am back to work selling real estate and there is something very comforting about seeing old collegues in a familiar setting, after so much change.

Here is another thing I have learned, grief cannot be handled alone.    You must reach out to others be they professional or not, but I recommend experts.  If you don't connect, go elsewhere, but keep trying.  At some point you must emerge from the darkness, it is what your loved one would want.  You must go on living your life, even though you only want to be with them.

I haven't changed my marital status on Facebook, or taken off my wedding ring.  I still tell him good morning and good night.   I so miss the guy in rose colored glasses I met 33 years ago at the "Y".

A Message From Heaven

I must be willing to give up what I am in order to 

become what I will be.

Albert Einstein

Death is a very scary thing.  I dare say we fear it mostly because we can not bear the thought of leaving those we love along with the uncertainty of what awaits us after we leave our physical body.  Is there a heaven or hell or purgatory?  What happens to our spirit, our energy when we die?

The week before Sam died, I experienced the worst headache of my life.  It was in both by temples and no matter what I tried there was no relief.  Finally on Wednesday Sam convinced me to go to the doctor.  Not really knowing what it was, I was given a Tramadol shot and after an hour or so it subsided a little, but came roaring back on Thursday.  I laid down in bed for a while, trying to get some rest.  It was then that I noticed a vision, I was in a near sleep state, and to my right I noticed a couple of figures, that I could not identify, there was a white horse fence between us and I knew immediately they were here for someone.  I must have fallen asleep after that, because I got up and had forgotten about the visit.  On that Sunday night we went to bed and Sam was dead approximately 1:30 a.m. Monday morning.  They were telling me that Sam would be going home soon.  

The day after he died, the telephone rang.  I picked up the receiver and it kept ringing, I hung up and still rang, one long ring.  I had to unplug it to get it to stop.  Sam was telling me he was okay.

Monday morning October 22, I was sitting in my chair watching television when I happened to look at my running shoes on the living room floor.  The right one was sitting flat on the floor, the left was on its side a little ways away.  All of a sudden the shoe on its side moved a little and flipped back onto its sole.  It looked like someone had hit it with their foot as they were walking by.  Sam was telling me he is here with me.  He has helped me start the lawnmower and find things numerous times.

We all have our Guardian Angels that watch  over us and Sam is mine.  He is with God and me and his loved ones who have gone before him.  The universe is vast and we have no idea what is within it that is beyond our understanding and what we know as reality.

 "Eye has not seen, ear has not heard, what God has ready for those who love him."

Death Comes Knocking

Sitting here on the deck overlooking the lake, I am painfully aware that my sweet Sam has been gone two months. Sixty days, sixty good mornings, and good nights and I love yous, and at least ninety bowls of oatmeal with brown sugar (he ate it almost three times a day toward the end).


Even though we knew he was terminally ill, we were lulled into believing we had more time.  He seemed to be holding his own.  It was a shock to everyone when he started hemorrhaging  and dropped dead on the bathroom floor in the wee hours of May 14th.  With him he took the better part of me - he was the best part of me. Knowing he is not coming home again is the harshest reality.  There is no joy in Muddville.


I am trying to adjust to being alone and find the silence or absence of his voice deafening.  I am overwhelming lonely for him.  This house we found and lived in the last year and a half that he loved so much, no longer has the appeal it did when we shared it.  The boat is gone, his beloved Harley Davidson is for sale,  and our kitchen remodeling must be finished by others.  He worked so hard to get it done for me.  They tell me that life must go on, and I hear Sam telling me, "Don't cry all the time when I am gone."

Disappearing Essence

When I went to get a tissue this morning, two popped out and left an empty box.  Not so unusual, huh?  We do it everyday.  But this box was the one Sam used, it sat on the coffee table by his chair.  It probably sounds odd, but when I throw the box away, it feels like I am disposing of a part of him.  It still sits on the coffee table.  The sheet that covered him on his last night is still on the bed, I still smell him on his chair. It is so terribly difficult to write about this, but I somehow feel the need to communicate what life is like without him.  Maybe it will help me heal.  So when you see me out and about, don't be afraid to come up and give me a hug, I will know what you mean, because only you, my friends and family, can help me get past the loneliness.

On Being a Mom

Mothers Day.   The holiday was created by Anna Jarvis in 1908 and she promoted it, until 1914 when Woodrow Wilson made it a National Holiday.  By the time she died in 1948, the holiday had been so commercialized, she wished she hadn't  founded it.

 I became a Mom at age 24, in 1974.  I grew up in a small town and mostly, you got married and had kids.  Some of us went to college, but it wasn't a necessity during that period.  When my Son came into the world, I relied on my Mom for a lot of guidance and help.  I didn't work and was a stay at home Mom for a while.  If it wasn't for my Mom, I would have been lost.  "What did you do?" I would ask. or "What would you do?"  She always gave me good advise on which I could base my decisions.  We enjoyed the time we spent together.  She taught me how to can fruits and vegetables for my family, and we went grocery shopping together every week.  It was wonderful.  

No Mother is perfect.  By virtue of taking charge of another life for eighteen years you open yourself  up for a lot of heartache and criticism. We do our best with what we have and what we know at the time.  But the rewards can be gratifying.  My biggest reward from being a Mom is the two adorable grandchildren my Son gave me.

On this day, I am blessed to still have my Mom with me.  Thanks Mom for your solicited and unsolicited advice through the years, I listened either way and really enjoyed the time we spent together when Andy was a baby.

Happy Mothers Day!

The End Of An Era

We are nearing the two year mark of Sam's cancer diagnosis.  It has taken a serious toll on both of us, most of all Sam of course.  As I've stated many times before, he has a positive attitude that I am sure helps keep him going.  It is an attitude of gratitude.  We were talking at breakfast yesterday about how he tries to keep in mind that he is dying and there by enjoying each day to its fullest.  Not grouse about what he doesn't have, but what he has been given.  What some would think little things, but to him  very important things.  The fact that we are home, able to enjoy our precious grandchildren, finding that home on a lake at a great price, the ability to enjoy the rest of our life at a place we could only dream about before.  He is still employed for a company that can be best described as his "family".  Still being valued both as an employee and a person,  he takes that very seriously  not wanting to let them down.

It is a miracle in its self that he is still with us.  He has beaten the Mayo prognosis of three to six months, the Bronson ER docs of six months from October of last year, and he amazes his cancer doc every time she sees him.  His biggest setback was the motorcycle accident in October.  When that happened, a decision was made that he would sell the bike.  It shocked Dr. Liepman when she found out Sam was Harley guy.  "Where's your  pony tail and tattoos?" she asked.  He definitely does not fit the stereo type.  Never smoked or drank.  (So why did he develop head and neck cancer?)  Another mystery.

Sam has had a motorcycle since he was fourteen years old.  He loves the feeling of  freedom it gives him.  The wind (and bugs) in his face, the thrill of speed with nothing around you, the overall sensation.  When we met he had a Honda, when we married he bought a Yamaha and then after working the strike at James River, he bought a Harley Davidson with his extra money in 1986.  Only three years into our marriage, I quickly learned about his love affair with Harleys.  The pecking order was 1. Motorcycle 2. Theresa. When walking by the motorcycle, you had to clear it by at least three feet.  You weren't allowed to sit on or touch it either.  And so it went, a Harley Soft Tail, Road King and Fat Bob over the 29 years of marriage we have shared.

When we had to move out to the Pacific Northwest in 2004, he made sure that his motorcycle was shipped out for him.  While he was there for three months by himself, that Harley was his main source of joy.  He would go out after work and look at neighborhoods, houses and best of all, ride through the Columbia River Gorge, the Coastal Mountains to the Pacific shore in Oregon.  By the time I got out there he had a great site seeing trip for me.  He has a collection of Harley T shirts that fills a whole dresser and two boxes and has managed to collect around fifty die cast models.  When you thought of Sam Bond, you automatically thought about Harley Davidson.  He always had custom pipes, so the neighbors knew when he left for work in the morning and I would always listen for the bike when it was time for him to come home.

Giving up the motorcycle is another transition that this hideous disease has brought into his life and the one that most troubles him.  Who ever buys this bike will get a nice one, cared for by tender, loving hands and appreciated for the great piece of machinery that it is.

Live to ride and ride to live.  Amen