Last week, two friends entered the Land of Widows.
Anita's husband had been ill for some time, and she shared her care-giving journey through paintings and drawings created as she navigated the endless labyrinth called health care. These last few years have been a blur of doctors and hospitals for them, and she recorded it all. Her work has been on display at HCMC, the place where Josh received much of his care. Lately, Anita was spending more and more time at the hospital, and I think we all knew Josh was losing his battle, but in typical Anita fashion, she never let on.
I will go sit a spell with Anita at her home, and I will see her at shul...sitting in her usual spot in the pew behind me, or in the social hall talking with friends. She has a strong circle to support her, and she will grieve as only Anita can grieve. She may only show us so much, but know this is a deep and abiding wound that will take time to knit. Anita will draw through her pain and sing her Flamenco songs, and if we're lucky, she will let us join her in a chorus or two.
[I] painted as I sat in a corner of Josh's hospital room as he slept or had a treatment…Let me tell you that doing these symmetrical pieces balanced and continues to balance out my psyche...there is something calming about these motifs…they brought me joy as I faced the roller coaster ride of uncertainty with Josh...art heals and reveals.
I will go sit a spell with Anita at her home, and I will see her at shul...sitting in her usual spot in the pew behind me, or in the social hall talking with friends. She has a strong circle to support her, and she will grieve as only Anita can grieve. She may only show us so much, but know this is a deep and abiding wound that will take time to knit. Anita will draw through her pain and sing her Flamenco songs, and if we're lucky, she will let us join her in a chorus or two.
The next day, in Michigan, Randy died. Suddenly. In his sleep. No warning.
His wife, my friend Pat, told us on Face Book, apologizing for the post but, as she wrote, "I have no voice."
I am unable to breathe just thinking about it. I know that feeling. I once stood in the same place.
His wife, my friend Pat, told us on Face Book, apologizing for the post but, as she wrote, "I have no voice."
I am unable to breathe just thinking about it. I know that feeling. I once stood in the same place.
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| Oh, What A Lovely War Student Enterprise Theater Oakland University ~ Fall, 1970. |
He pushed against my plebeian musical horizons, introducing me to other loves of my listening life: Tom Rush, Hot Tuna, Willy Murphy & Spider John Koener, Taj Mahal, The Clancy Brothers. and, of course, Bonzo Dog Doo Dah Band. Randy gave me the foundation of my eclectic musical taste, and for the record, not everyone appreciates it the way he and I did. These sounds punctuated my life, making me laugh, letting me cry, driving Ziggy and the boys to distraction; the Senior Son will tell you I think he's a piker on his axe because he can't play Tom Rush's version of PANAMA LIMITED. To hear one of those songs is instant Randy. And I always smile. That will never stop.
I may be wrong, I but think Pat and Randy first met when we did Arthur Kopit's INDIANS in that winter of 1971. He was Sitting Bull, she was Teskanjavila; I was a newly minted assistant director.A few years later, after I had already left Michigan, I flew in to dance at their wedding. A few years after that, they flew in to dance at mine. There's this story about Aunt Rose, Leroy, and a Rolls Royce...but...another time.
We lost touch for a time, but managed to find it again. I was so happy to hear his laugh on the phone.
Social media is a wonderful thing when it puts you in touch with people you love. Random thoughts, pictures, announcements make us all next door cyber-neighbors. We get to see each others' lives, our kids, our families, our adventures. I am so thankful I had that intersection with Randy and Pat. It reopened old doors, restarted old debates, and provided a whole lotta laughs along the way.
I've said this over and over: no one can tell anyone how to grieve. Every process is personal, individual, and the sum product of one's relationships. I can, however, understand the grief Anita and Pat are both feeling because I've been there. They will figure this out with bad days and worse days, and they will learn to breathe again. Slowly. One breath at a time.
It's almost ten years since I entered the Land of Widows. That shortness of breath, that feeling of abject terror at the sense of loss, that slicing pain so sharp that you involuntarily gasp and flinch as it slides through you, even for a split second, is real. It is not your imagination; it's the physical passing away of a life that has been part of your own. In some ways, it's that pain that reminds us we are still here, still breathing. One breath at a time.
I've said this over and over: no one can tell anyone how to grieve. Every process is personal, individual, and the sum product of one's relationships. I can, however, understand the grief Anita and Pat are both feeling because I've been there. They will figure this out with bad days and worse days, and they will learn to breathe again. Slowly. One breath at a time.
It's almost ten years since I entered the Land of Widows. That shortness of breath, that feeling of abject terror at the sense of loss, that slicing pain so sharp that you involuntarily gasp and flinch as it slides through you, even for a split second, is real. It is not your imagination; it's the physical passing away of a life that has been part of your own. In some ways, it's that pain that reminds us we are still here, still breathing. One breath at a time.
My heart breaks for their families. I will grieve with Anita and Pat.
I will grieve for Randy.
The Wifely Person's Tip o'the Week
In loving memory of A. Randolph Judd
The Parting Glass
Thank you, Susan. very touching and heart wrneching.
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