DRIVING DOWN A FAMILIAR ROAD 2

I incorrectly titled my posting the other day.  This one really is about driving down a familiar road.  Gwen and I had many an exciting road trip together.  Back in 1963, before we were married,  we drove from Gaastra to Ann Arbor where I had an interview for graduate school.  Quite an adventure in those days.  I believe we stayed with Ted and Jackie in Lansing, and also spent time with Dick and Mary.  Then, a year later the trip to Reedsville, Wisconsin, followed a year later by one of three trips to Oregon.  Even later there were trips to Boston, New York, Florida, and, a particularly memorable one when we drove Mike to Austin, Texas, for a diving meet.  It was August, hot, and our, little Renault Le Car didn't have air conditioning.  A fairly recent trip that I remember fondly was when we flew out to Colorado and then Bob and Jeanne lent us their Honda for a trip to the Grand Canyon and several other points of interest.

I always enjoyed driving, and even now look forward to some road trips this spring and summer.  Gwen enjoyed seeing new things, but was always more concerned about getting to the destination than she was about enjoying the ride.  She would often nap; I didn't mind, it gave me time to think and just enjoy being able to spend time together.  I miss that very much now that Gwen is gone; others who have lost a spouse tell me that it's often while in the car that a wave of grief will overtake them.  I wrote this poem about it:

 DRIVING DOWN A FAMILIAR ROAD

It overwhelms me, sometimes,

that lonely, empty feeling.

Driving down a familiar road,

completely lost,

that’s how it makes me feel.

It never felt that way

with her at my side,

excited about what lay ahead;

the cottage, the U. P., something new.

Nibbling on orange cookies

from that place in Frankenmuth.

Making plans for the rest

of our life together.

I massage her neck, as she naps,

gently stroke her hair,

see her once again for the very first time.

The whine of the tires

on the steel grates of The Bridge

awakes her, confused for a moment.

It’s OK, I say, we’re

driving down a familiar road.

John A. Bayerl, March 20, 2011

The Bridge is, of course, The Mackinac Bridge, a destination for many Apple Knockers, but to us just another five miles, except for the time we walked  it on Labor Day.  It was always a welcome to God's Country for us.  How I loved those moments when I would see you again for the first time.  Maybe that's the hardest part about all of this, not being able to do that any longer.  

I SURE WISH I KNEW

It's a Mozart kind of Monday morning. ( Resist the urge to go on with the alliteration: murky, moldy, miserable, misty, moist are words that come to mind.)  I'll get over to the gym this afternoon, but, for now, it's a good morning to reflect and remember and maybe even rejoice a bit. A friend sent me a poem about people growing old together, and a particular part of it caught my attention.  What that part said was: "True love is an acceptance of all that is, has been, will be, and will not be."  The last part of it, ". . .and will not be,"  is what is so difficult for those of us who grieve.  Gwen was young when she died, only 68 years old.  She was five years younger than I;  I've thought about the unfairness of that.  The irony does not escape me that she was sick for five years.  I take solace in and perhaps even rejoice  a little in knowing that we were able to spend those five years together, pretty much able to do whatever we chose.

One of the things I reflected on this morning was how much Gwen loved to tease me.  Beginning with, "You know what, John, maybe we should think about getting married."  Of course, that wasn't much of a tease after all, but at the time she made it sound that way.  She had that way of getting down to the truth with me. She understood true humility, praise where and when it was due, but never will I let you get too full of yourself.  What a gift she was to this basically insecure individual.  This poem about her teasing came to me this morning:

I SURE WISH I KNEW

“Gee, John, I sure wish I knew

how everything is going to work out.

I wonder. . .”

She would tease me

with words like that.

Then add words like these:

“If I dream, I hope it’s of you.”

“We’d be millionaires if we got paid

every time we wished we were together.”

No more wondering, 

everything  worked out,

as in the end all things will.

We dreamed of each other often.

Gathered our millions in love notes.

She also left these words,

no teasing, sweet and simple.

I long to hear them every night.

.

“Good night, Hon,

all my love.

Forever.”  

John A. Bayerl, March 21, 2011

All that will not be is a dream.  What was remains, and that is wonderful.  There really is no greater gift than the gift of love.

I'll Wait for You.

It's a cold, dark, rainy late afternoon, there's even a little thunder;  a good time to be as sad as I want to be.  And, I want to be sad for a while. It's still so hard not having that warm presence here with me.  I don't think I'm over-idealizing her.  We found each other and made it work and I miss all we had.

 I went to church this morning and again counted my blessings; four children who love and support me in every way possible, friends and relatives who look out for me, good health, a place to live, able to do everything I want. I even have friends all over the country and world who encourage and support me.  Who could ask for more?  Much to be grateful for.

Sally was in church with her daughter and her husband.  Don wasn't there.  Don's been getting radiation treatments for a brain tumor.  I hugged Sally, and she clung to me.  A side effect of the treatments is unwarranted, unexpected anger.  She reacts with resentment and anger of her own.  Who wouldn't?  I told her to own the anger.  She's earned it.  All of us who have felt the evil power of cancer have earned every bit of whatever we may feel at any given time.  So, I'm going to feel sad for a while longer.

These words just kind of came to me:

She was here
she mattered

she’s gone

that matters.

So, yes, I'll feel sad for a while longer.  I heard an old Bruce Springsteen song today, I'll Wait for You.  Sure means more now.

DRIVING DOWN A FAMILIAR ROAD

Today I spoke with Gwen's high school friend in Iron River.  It's always special to hear that strong Stambaugh accent.  It will be nice to visit with her and Gwen's other best friend, Rene, this summer.  There's something about their connection to Gwen that I find very comforting.

It's been a pretty easy day.  I attended a breakfast for volunteers at St. Mary Student Parish.  After that, a nice long workout at the gym, then I decided to just lie around the house and do some writing.  Words are starting to come back to me.

A former student at NMU who is now a counselor in the U. P. wrote and told me that she had seen Gwen's name in the NMU Alumni Magazine.  My copy came in the mail today, and there, listed under Deaths was the name Gwen Bayerl, 1962.   Seeing her name there, one of several other people who died, somehow diminished the fact of her death.  I want her to be remembered as the strong, assertive, caring, loving person that she was, not just a name in a magazine.  I know, that's not the way it's done.  She dropped out of NMU at the end of her sophomore year, so I was initially puzzled that she was listed as a 1962 graduate.  Then I remembered that she had been awarded an Associate's Degree in Business.

Today at the breakfast I talked with a friend who reminded me to cherish the special, loving relationship that Gwen and I had over the years.  As he put it it, sometimes the spouse left behind says, "I'm glad the bitch is gone."  Of course that happens, but it makes me heartsick to acknowledge it, and I really don't need to be reminded to cherish the love that Gwen and I were given.  In a letter to me way back in 1963 Gwen sent me this; she copied it from something she was reading:

No matter how often

I level the weed,

It returns after rain,

As if there is need

To remind men who sever

Life’s delicate string

That destruction is never

A permanent thing.

 In a letter from Gwen, Wednesday, February 21, 1963.

It's kind of beautiful now;  how prescient that was.  What a wonderful reminder from her so long ago that she is still with us ,"destruction is never a permanent thing."  Indeed it's not.

Another Busy Day

Today began with a drive over to Clarkston High School where I observed one of my student teachers from NMU.  When I arrived a young woman, paraprofessional, escorted me to the student's classroom.  On the way there I mentioned that I grew up in the U. P.  "So did I," she said.  "Where," I asked.  "Menominee," she replied.  "Me too," I said, "In Birch Creek."  "Oh my God," she said, "My parents live near Birch Creek, we go to Holy Spirit Church there."  "So did I."  Small world, eh?

Another nice day, so I played a little golf at Huron  Hills, just the front seven holes are open.  We all have to be somewhere, and there are worse places to be than on a golf course on a nice spring day.  Once again I had this feeling that Gwen was walking with me on the course.  I remembered when she was at Glacier Hills recuperating and I would stop at Huron Hills on my way over to see her.  It's so different now, no sense of urgency, still a little tad of guilt for some reason.  I don't know what the guilt is all about, it really doesn't matter; I could play golf from sunrise to sunset if I chose.  That's one of the hardest things to get used to with Gwen gone.  The complete and absolute freedom of not having to be anywhere or doing anything in particular.  One would think that would be enjoyable; it's not really, it's a weird, vaguely anxious feeling, like something's not quite right.  Of course, I know what it is, it's hard to go from being a care giver to being a carefree giver, or something like that.

It's Friday night; Gwen died on a Friday night.  It seems I'll never look at weekends the same way again; an awful lot got packed into that Friday night back in November. It's not necessarily all bad; it's just a lot of memories, some good, some not so good, all are important to the rest of my life.  Now I think I'll listen some Beethoven and then call it a day.  I'm going to get up early tomorrow morning and work on that poem about tears.

Long Ride Home

Bob, Jeanne, Nick and Izzy left for a vacation in Dubai today.  They called from the airport, and I had a nice talk with Jeanne and the kids.  I made them promise to take lots of pictures and videos to put on FB.

Sometimes it's amazing the way things happen.  This morning I went over to the gym and had a good workout.  Then, it was a really nice sunny day, so, rather than go right home, I decided to take a little ride over to a coffee shop in Saline that I like.  I'ts called The Drowsy Parrot.  On the way over I thought about my friend, Lou Thayer, who lives in Saline.  Lou was a colleague in the Leadership and Counseling Department at EMU for the 20 years I worked there as an adjunct lecture; he is one of the best, and I admire him greatly.  His wife died of cancer about three years ago and then about a year ago he was diagnosed with cancer and has been undergoing treatments.  I found myself regretting that I didn't have his phone number so that I could call and have him join me at the coffee shop.  As I was ordering my coffee, Lou walked in.  I pointed out that there are really no coincidences.  "Life is an endless series of intertwined events", is what he said.  No matter what, it made my heart feel so good to have that encounter with him.  He's continues being a treasured friend.

Early in the afternoon I participated with Story Time Players in a reading at Northside School, the school where Jim and Liz's Max, Luna, and Anna attended during their stay in Ann Arbor.  The temperature got up into the 60s today, and, right on schedule, my friend, Ed, called and suggested a round of golf.  We were able to get in nine holes and the weather remained fantastic.  Tonight was my online bereavement group.  Now, at last, a chance to unwind a bit.

Son Mike was so nice this morning.  He sent me an e-mail message with a song by Patti Griffin that I just love.  It's called Long Ride Home.  I found these lyrics particularly meaningful:

The house is dark as it can be

I go inside and all is silent

It seems as empty as the inside of me.

Although it is good to be busy doing things that I enjoy, I still face daily everything that's contained in those lyrics.    The golf course where we played is the same one where I played last fall on the day that Gwen died.  It was tough reliving all those memories. For just a brief moment, on the golf course, I had this wonderful feeling that Gwen was there with me, enjoying it.  That was so great.

A Better Day

It's amazing what a little sunshine can do.  Things look a little brighter today even though there's a sad edge to the day because it would be so much better if Gwen were here to enjoy it with me.  Today I noticed that the hyacinths are poking their heads above the ground.   I can't help but think about how much she loved them, and looked forward to seeing them bloom each year.  And, of course, there was always that thing about whether or not she would see the flowers bloom each spring.

My golf  lesson this morning was wonderful.  Dave, my instructor, is one of those teachers who teaches by sneaking up on the student.  We don't  seem to be doing much, but all of a sudden I can do things differently and better. Later I met with my memoir-writing group, an amazing bunch of people.  There was a little teasing because of the article in the newspaper, but all in good humor.  Today I read a piece I wrote about Gwen's dad, Barney, and how I was finally able to gain his approval by ,with a lot of hard work from Gwen, typing and publishing his memoirs in the form of a book. I surprised myself by crying when I remembered how good it felt when he finally accepted me as a suitable husband for his daughter.   Of course, more sad memories; they're all gone now; Gwen and her parents.  I will always stay in touch with her brother and sister.

Lately I've been much more keenly aware of how much I miss my perfect partner.   Some of it has to do with a lot of things I wish I had done better, ways I wish I had been better. One thing was dancing.  Gwen was a really good at dancing; she tried to make me a better dancer, but I was too stubborn and proud to listen.   I wrote about it:

WISH I’D  BEEN A BETTER DANCER

Wish I’d have danced better

for you,

you loved dancing so much

 were so good at it.

You saw something in me

you were willing to exchange for

smooth moves on the dance floor.

What a lucky guy.

John A. Bayerl, March 16, 2011

What I wouldn't give to have a dancing lesson with you right now.  I'm still working hard on trying to figure out how to be me without you--it's hard. 

Just not today.

It's been a busy day.  The bereavement group from Arbor Hospice met for the eighth and final time.  We met at a restaurant; it was refreshing to see everyone in that kind of setting.  Those eight weeks sure flew by.  I enjoyed meeting everyone in the group, and look forward to getting together with them periodically.  


It's been really nice having Anne spend the last two nights with  me while she is working at her new job in Southfield.  Last night she and I and John and Amy and Brooke had dinner together, also a nice break in the routine.  Tonight Anne went to mass with me at  5:00 and then went to dinner with friends.  My friend Art and his wife Anne were there, and we went to dinner together afterwards.  


I've been sad all day; even a long workout at the gym didn't help much.  It's still the hardest thing I've ever done trying to figure out just who I am without my better half. We'll see what tomorrow brings.


I'm working on a couple of poems; tears and dancing are the themes.  More on the way, just not today, and that's OK.

MEMORY FLOOD

My friend, Marie, has been at this longer than I.  I often saw her in church, and had heard that her husband died, but I really didn't know her real well.  She is in the bereavement group I've been attending, and, through our participation in the group, we've formed a bond.  (Oh no, another Mary.)  Anyway, Marie called today to ask about our group meeting tomorrow, and, in the course of that conversation, we talked about how as time goes by we sometimes miss our spouses more than ever  And, we cried.   Gosh, it's such a hard thing, this grieving.  I try to keep in mind that Gwen wants me to be strong and happy.  I try to  cherish fond memories of our special love and marriage.  Still it hurts to know that she isn't there sitting in the chair next to me. That's the hard, cold reality of it.

A while back I visited a gift store that Gwen and I had shopped in a year ago at Christmas.  This was the store where she surprised me by getting the figurine of a man and woman that I now cherish and have in a special place on the mantel.  It was another of those first times without her.  I'm learning that if I talk with people about this kind of experience they are always understanding and incredibly caring about it.

MEMORY FLOOD

A  memory flood,

that gift shop

where you shopped for

my Christmas present.

Clearance, Christmas items,

memorial ornament,

faceless, heart of gold,

 “Kept forever in the heart.”

Best of all, sweetheart,

75% off.

I told the woman in the store,

the owner,

about our last visit there;

you in the wheelchair,

how special it was.

She cried,

gave me some expensive

bonbons

one for you

one for me.

How sweet of her.

John A. Bayerl, 2-7-2011

Each time I have an experience like this it reminds me of how precious what we had was; something special  that we created and then nurtured and grew for our time together.  Of course I'm going to miss that--for a long, long time.  In one of her letters she said: I love you and will always miss you when you're not here with me.  Forever.  I like all of  that, especially the forever part.

A Different Kind of Day

It's just been different today.  At mass this morning we sang On Eagles Wings, I couldn't get through it.  Too many memories.  My picture was in the paper today with an article about a writing group I attend.  I've heard from a lot of people.  Wonder what Gwen would think about that.  She was a pretty private person.

I've begun sorting through a folder I found that is full of poems I've written over the years.  Some of them are pretty old!  My plan is to clean them up, type them up; put them i n a file in my computer.  I wrote this one over 20 years ago, but it kind of describes my situation today as I try to live without Gwen at my side.

JOB CHANGE          

This kind of thing was

so much easier to do

when I was twenty five

years old.

Being more than twice

as smart

is not enough reward

for being less than

half as young.

Back then it was simpler.

I did what I did

for as long as it took

to do it.

Now, knowing more

about what I need to know,

I do what I can

and hope it’s enough.

God!  If they knew

I was sitting at my desk

writing poems

would I ever be able

to convinced them that

I’m only trying

to face fifty firmly?

John A. Bayerl, June 11, 1987

It kind of describes pretty well what it's like doing what I'm doing now as I try to satisfy the description for the job nobody wants.  Good night love.

THINGS HOPED FOR

Today it is four months since my 50 year love affair with my perfect mate ended here on earth.  It's not been an easy day, made more difficult by the fact that, purely by coincidence, a local veteran's charity came to pick up the last reminders of Gwen's illness.  This included walkers, a wheel chair, sanitary items, rubber gloves, a cane, and other paraphernalia.  I also got rid of some of my old clothing.  I've lost a quite a bit of weight, and I was able to get rid of a lot of my "fat" clothes.  Saddest of all, they also accepted books, and  I was able to give them all of Gwen's nursing books.  So, my life is a little less cluttered. And, a little more empty.  Some would say that there are no coincidences.

To honor Gwen's memory I spent time in the room where we spent the last couple of years, lay on the bed, stared at the ceiling she stared at for all those days, snuggled under my afghan and had a good cry.  Particularly poignant was my memory of the times I would read aloud to her from a novel.  She found that so relaxing and calming, particularly when I massaged her scalp at the same time.  Love made tangible.  The power of being connected by touch.  Maybe that's what I miss most, just being able to touch her.

There were certainly times when we cried.  I've been thinking about those times lately.  When she was diagnosed with diabetes and we lost the child she had been carrying for six months I recall a most tender time in her hospital room when I held her in my arms and we cried.  When she had spent two weeks at her parents home with our two young children while I drove to Oregon and got settled, and she then flew out with the two kids we had a joyful reunion, I held her in my arms and we cried. (This  remarkable.   As I am typing this my telephone rang, and it was one of our old friends from when I attended school in Oregon.  Her husband, my classmate then, died three years ago.  She called to see how I am doing.  Coincidence?) When we came home from the doctor after she had been told of her cancer I held her in my arms and we cried.  Early in our relationship when we shared intimate moments I would hold her in my arms and we would cry.  All of those times were blessed times when we became totally open to the love we shared, and, in a manner of speaking, everything, including tears,  leaked out.  That is the love that surpasses death.  Gwen and I made a habit of always hoping for the best.  A year before she died, I wrote this to her.  I didn't know then how true those words would ring a year later:

THINGS HOPED FOR

There are faith, hope and love.

It has been said that the greatest of these is love.

To be sure,        

we keep the faith

and love each other always.

It is hope that keeps us going

and binds us together in faith and love.

John A. Bayerl, November 15, 2009

I attended a meeting on Thursday and ran into an old friend of your from the OR at Kellogg Eye Center.  She hadn't heard about your death.  We had a good cry.  Like everyone else who knew you, she talked about what a wonderful person. You  never had an unkind word to say about anyone.  Way back when you sent me the picture you had taken when our engagement was announced, I wrote to you that when I saw the picture it was scary because you were so beautiful that I couldn't see how you could possibly have fallen in love with me; it made me the luckiest guy in the world.  I felt that way again when your friend said those nice things about you.  

EASY CHAIR

Tomorrow is one of those anniversaries we who grieve gather like charms on a bracelet.  It will be four months since Gwen died.  In recognition of that,  I will gear back my posts to this blog site.  It would be too simple to say it's time to move on.  One simply doesn't advance in that sense.  Yesterday I heard  someone say that the event of death is very different from the permanence of death.  That is so true.  It's one thing to abstractly say that my wife died four months ago, it's quite another to get up each morning and realize all over again that she's no longer on the face of the earth.  Similarly, it's one thing to say that Gwen and I loved each other; it's quite another to have the time now to reflect on that love in all the ways it showed itself to be true.  In one of the groups I participate in I recently reminisced about how over the past five years I was so busy caring for the love of my life that I didn't have time to care about her.  I hastily corrected my thinking by remembering that, especially during her illness, I never missed a chance to say "I love you."  Isn't that the ultimate in caring about someone?  It was for us.  It was easy:

EASY CHAIR

Sitting in my easy chair,

staring

out the window,

isn’t easy anymore.

Your empty chair

is all I see.

John A. Bayerl, March 11, 2011 

Every morning you are missing.  Every night you are missed.  The love I discover each day goes on forever, just like you said it would.

ASH WEDNESDAY REFLECTIONS

Yesterday was Ash Wednesday.  St. Mary Student Parish, where I am a member, serves The University of  Michigan student population.  Not surprisingly, the 7:00 p. m. mass was literally full to the rafters last night.  There's something about getting that black smudge on the forehead that has a pretty irresistible pull, even for busy college kids.  As a volunteer, I was asked to help distribute the ashes.  Put the thumb in a custard bowl filled with the ashes of burnt palm branches from last year, make a little cross on the forehead of the young person before you-- cute how some of them kind of smile shyly, some are very serious, none of them look bored.  Made an old guy like me feel a little younger for a while.  It was also nice to see old friends Ed and Paulette as well as new friend Mary.  To me, at the heart of  religion it's all about community made real.

Things shouldn't be so surprising anymore, but sometimes they are.  The words that are said while the thumb is tracing a cross on the forehead kept me aware of the urn on my mantel.  Each time I said those words to the person before me, I knew and felt their meaning at a much deeper level than ever before.  These are the words:

Remember, you are dust.
To dust you shall return.


A young married couple sat next to me  last night.  He held her hand, just the way I would have done with you last year, dear.  As we were leaving I thanked him for reminding me of what that love looks like.  He cried and hugged me.  Still hard to believe that last year I wheeled you up to the front and we both got black smudges on our foreheads.  A humbling reminder to live each day to the fullest for we know not when.

THE RAW MIX

Those of us who have taken the long cancer journey know that it is aptly described as a roller-coaster ride.  Gwen and I loved roller coasters, but not the ride we were forced to take on this one.  Oh no, we would much rather that we didn't have to get on in the first place.  She is with me now in a different way as I travel the up and down contours of trying to recover from losing her physical presence.  Once again, these words come to mind: it will take as long as it takes.  I have to keep reminding myself of that.  It's finding that balance between weepy, whiny self-pity and falsely courageous false hope.  This is going to take as long as it takes.  Time means more that  Tears In My Eyes. 

This is a poem about this complicated process:

THE RAW MIX

The raw mix has changed

a shift, one way or the other,

something’s been added

or subtracted,

there’s more this

less that.

The weeping subdued

and quiet.

Wait! 

You’ve been fooled before.

Round that corner,

you could be right back

where you started.

John A. Bayerl, March 7, 2011

Stay with me, dear, we'll learn to enjoy the ride. 

ON A BRIGHT SUNNY MORNING

Actually, this isn't a bright sunny morning.  Not yet, anyway.  I did see two robins in the yard this morning.  That must count for something.  Later this morning I'll attend the second to the last meeting of a bereavement group sponsored by Arbor Hospice.  In a way those six weeks have flown.  Many people don't find groups helpful, I do.  Gwen and I were both thankful for the support we received in three different groups we attended all during her illness.  She and I always looked forward to them, especially the ones that only met once per month; she'd get downright ornery if I ever suggested missing one of them.  The one that met weekly was our mainstay, I still have many friends we made there who continue to support me.

This goes all the way back to the third year we were married, when I attended graduate school in Portland, Oregon.  As part of the Institute I attended, those of us who were married attended groups with our spouses every week.  The spouses also got together in groups on their own on a weekly basis.  The sum of the whole is indeed greater than the sum of the parts.

This is a poem I've been working on.  It's about beginning to see a shift in how I feel about the loss of my perfect partner.  I still want her in my group, every single day, and am grateful that I had the chance to love her while I had her:

ON A BRIGHT SUNNY MORNING

On a bright, sunny morning

like this one

I lie in bed

and enjoy no longer feeling

that suddenness about everything.

I enjoy no longer breathing

air moistened by tears.

It begins to seem

a little bit possible

that I’ll be able to think

about the day ahead.

John A. Bayerl, March 7, 2011

That love we shared goes on.  Those two robins had your name on them.  The family we created, our primary group,  such a source of strength.  All of our relatives, the friends we made, such a blessed group.

Gone

I need to add something and re-post this.  Yesterday was another first for me; I went to the movies, by myself, at the theater where Gwen and I always went.  I thought about calling a friend, but this was something I had to do by myself.  It was difficult at first.  I went into the theater and sat in one of the seats where she and I used to sit, the ones for people in wheelchairs and the like.  Just before the movie began, a young woman pushing her mother in a wheelchair came in.  I offered them my seat.  It felt really good doing that.  It used to irk us when non-handicapped people sat in those seats.  The movie I saw was Black Swan, I cried at the end.  I would have so enjoyed seeing that movie with Gwen.

My friend, Dave, sent me this poem.  What can I say?  It says it all:

Gone

by Ronald Wallace

The sorrow one feels after the loss
of a father, a daughter, a wife, is so
intense it takes up residence in
the soul's house, shares its pain
with a dailiness that can seem un-
bearable as you go through the mundane
acts that keep you human,
the little rituals that keep complete

numbness at bay. God knows
you wish you hadn't had to
take in this unwelcome boarder,
wish you could send him away
and gain back your composure.
And then, the sorrow goes.

"Gone" by Ronald Wallace, from For a Limited Time Only. © University of Pittsburgh Press, 2008. Reprinted with permission. (buy now)

Those of us who mourn the loss of a great love, do not easily take in that unwelcome boarder.  If we hadn't loved so well when you were here, then I wouldn't miss you so much now.  Sounds simple, doesn't it?  We know better, don't we, dear.

BROKEN HEART DOCTOR?

It snowed last night, time to get out and clear the driveway, it's March, for goodness sake, what are we doing with four inches of snow on the ground?  Just realized, that doesn't sound like someone who grew up in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan talking, does it?  It was always nice to come in from out in the cold to have Gwen waiting with a cup of hot coffee and something she just  took out of the oven.  It's the little things that seem to break our hearts, isn't it?  Friends and former student would recognize a saying I've used in the past:  "It's not the mountains ahead that wear you out.  It's the grains of sand in your shoes."

Speaking of broken hearts, I had an annual visit with my cardiologist last week.  A little over a year ago I had a stent placed in one of the arteries in my heart.  Everything is fine now, the miracle of modern medicine.  In spite of all the miracles that are performed daily on heart muscles and arteries and veins, there still is no pill that will ease the symptoms of the absolutely broken-hearted feeling of losing a spouse. I've told others how surprised I've been by these feelings of loss and sadness that continue to invade my life.  You won't know what it feels like until you know what it feels like has become my mantra.  I was feeling a little whimsical after my visit with the cardiologist, and I wrote this:

VISIT TO THE HEART DOCTOR

Today was my annual visit

with the heart doctor.

Everything is fine

he said.

Get your cholesterol checked

take two baby aspirin.

Say, I wondered,

are there baby aspirins

for broken hearts,

the kind you get

when someone you’ve loved

for 50 years 

dies?

Take two of these.

You'll get on with life in the morning.

The best he could come up with,

the heart doctor,

 I’m so sorry for your loss.

That's no way for a doctor to talk.

John A. Bayerl, March 3, 2011

I'll try to be thankful, dear, that we enjoyed a relationship where we never ever came close to breaking each other's hearts.  What a blessing, even though it kind of hurts now. 

FIRST DATE

I'm never quite sure what triggers them, but since her death I have had numerous "flash backs" to moments when Gwen and I had just begun our relationship.  More recent memories also flood my mind at times, especially the ones about her final hours; I think I have to keep re-living that until it becomes real.  It is hard, hard, hard to reconcile the finality and cruelty of death with so many remembered joys and passionate moments that were shared with the one who lay there cold and unmoving.  Of course, were it not for the memories, it wouldn't be so hard to do.  This is about a particularly fond memory of seeing a movie with Gwen for the first time:

FIRST DATE

I remember telling her

how cute I thought she was.

That sounds like a line,

she said.

She was like that,

never had to guess

where I stood with her.

Then  I asked her to

see a movie with me.

She got all flustered.

That didn’t happen often.

We held hands at the movie,

when we weren’t eating popcorn.

I don’t remember the name of the movie.

It was at a theater in Negaunee.

John A. Bayerl, March 4, 2011

 It wasn't a box of popcorn.  I shared a pineapple mango smoothie from MacDonald's with Gwen on her last night.  I held and stroked her hand then as I did in that theater in Negaunee.  Sharing love, feeding and nourishing it.  That began when I held her hand and kissed her for the first time. I don't feel like it ended when I held her hand and kissed her for the last time.

NOTHING NOT TO LIKE

It's natural  to have some regrets when someone you have loved for so long dies, some remorse over things left undone, words left unsaid, promises not kept and the list could go on and on.  Gwen and I were fortunate and blessed to have had very good life together.  Lots of exciting adventures around the country in our early years, the joy of raising four children and being part of their accomplishments, spending time with our grandchildren, seeing their accomplishments;  in later life we traveled and saw the world, and even during the years when Gwen was sick we were able to have many trips, sometimes alone and sometimes with family.  Very late in our life, living in Marquette for six years, making friends there, being close to our relatives in the U. P., especially her mom and dad.  So, no regrets--except, I wish people had gotten to know Gwen better.  She really was a special person;  those who did get to know her are unanimous in agreeing to that.  Mr brother-in-law said it best; it's in the title and the last line of this poem

NOTHING NOT TO LIKE

Friends, relatives and mere acquaintances

have all told me

they wish they knew her better.

They all seem to agree

she was someone special

in her quiet way

always a smile

a kind word.

They admired her spunk

when she saw injustice

as ready to fight

as she was to forgive.

Perhaps Bob said it best

double negative and all

there was nothing not to like about her.

John A. Bayerl, March 4, 2011



I'm having a bit of a rocky day, went to a restaurant this morning that Gwen and I enjoyed going to for breakfast.  Fond memories.  There are days like this when that overwhelming sense of loss and sadness is somewhat overpowering. Nothing complicated about it, I just miss that girl name Gwen.  Even an hour at the gym did little to help.  Gotta own it; some things have to be done by me alone.

COTTAGE IN CANADA

I try to keep busy.  Yesterday was no exception.  Workout at the gym.   My memoir writing group was exceptional.  A reporter and photographer were there do do a story.  We showed off a bit for them. Later last evening, dinner with friends from a support groups Gwen and I attended.

The most wonderful thing was my visit to the gift shop where Gwen bought me the faceless figurine a year ago last Christmas.  I had been near the place a couple of times, but couldn't bring myself to go inside, those "firsts" are always so hard.  Yesterday was no exception.  Wouldn't you know, just as I'm about to enter the store, a young woman pushing her mother in a wheelchair came trundling down the sidewalk.  I held the door open for them, just as I am sure someone did for Gwen and me.  I entered the store, bought a few things, among them a faceless figurine ornament holding a heart.  On the back it says "Held in the heart forever."  You'll like this, Gwen, it was 75% off.  As I was paying for the things I bought I had to tell the owner about the last time I had been in her store, with Gwen, and that Gwen died in November.  She had tears in her eyes as she hugged me and made me take a couple of chocolates for later. I know, Gwen, embarrassing.

Now that I have time, I find myself recalling and relishing these moments that at the time may have seemed so ordinary.  I think that how it works for me as I come to grips with the loss of my perfect partner.  Not an ordinary event by any stretch of the imagination was when Gwen and I decided to own a cottage on St. Joseph Island, about an hour east of the Soo in Canada.  Such fond memories:

COTTAGE ON ST. JOE ISLAND

Throughout our life together,

beginning with the spring night

when she said

you know what, John,

we should think about getting married,

all of my good ideas

were hers first.

Let’s get a cottage on an island in Canada.

Sure.

We loved the cry of the loons.

owning a moon

that flat out bounced from the lake,

seeing stars we’d never seen.

Never thought I’d drive

a Honda Four-Wheeler

loaded with pudding stones.

The people were the best

Carmen and Linda

and their kids

best neighbors ever.

This spring I’ll go back

to visit St. Joseph Island

and the cottage we sold.

It will be hard

as are most things these days

that bring her near

but this one especially

the loons, pudding stones

the couch by the stove.

John A. Bayerl, March 3, 2011

Thank you, lover, for all of my good ideas that you gave me.  That one about getting married was a really good one.

WHERE YOU SHOULD BE

Even the bright sunshine doesn't help much. This continues to be the hardest thing anyone can be asked to do. It's not as though Gwen decided to spend a weekend in Chicago with her mother and sister.  I could actually enjoy that a little, a nice change in routine, play golf all day, eat some junk food.  Still, the bed would feel empty at night, that never changes no matter the circumstances.  It continues to be so hard to awake each morning and realize that Gwen is no longer on the face of the earth.  Everything she stood for, everything she was, is gone.  Her ashes on the mantel attest to that.  It's maybe impossible to come to grips with it.  At least, right now, for me it is, and all I can do is keep alive the faith and hope that bound us in love for 50 years..  I wrote something about this:

WHERE YOU SHOULD BE

I pat the place next to me on the bed

where you should be.

I cry because you aren’t there.

I see your picture and I cry

because it’s you I want

not your picture.

I cry because I miss your warm body,

not a memory of it.

The place next to me remains empty.

Like all those Sunday nights,

the empty seat next to me

 warm from our farewell embrace

a sad good-bye wave

the long drive home.

I know you wait

with a heart full of love

and I will see you again

running to meet me

your arms open wide.

The empty place holds you near.

John A. Bayerl, 2-24-11

Most of all, I miss what we shared all those years.  Is it even reasonable to think perhaps that could be forgotten?  Or replaced?  I think not.

Midnight Plant

There are days when words come flying at me from somewhere, and I scribble them down as fast as I can.  Later, I sort them out and organize them into something coherent, often in the form of a poem of sorts.  Then  there are times, like today, when my heart and soul feel dry and arid as a dessert.  It's at times like this when my friend Susie's advice is so important.  She lives in England.  Her cheerful "chin up" is just what I need to hear.

This morning I will soon head off to attend the weekly bereavement group in which I participate.  We have three sessions remaining.  We'll probably continue to meet informally after that, at least that's what I hear some people say.  My golf lesson yesterday went very well.  I must remember to again thank Kevin, my nephew, for referring me to Dave Kendall.  He is absolutely amazing, and, he is going to make a golfer of me,  a near miracle.  Golf isn't a game of perfection, he says, it's a game of perfect effort.  Probably could apply that to a lot of life's cares and concerns.

I keep reminding myself that there is still so much of life to enjoy, and Gwen wants me to do that.  It is easy, on days like today, to get mired in futility and just plain feeling sad.  I'll continue to put one foot in front of the other and make sure I don't get so busy thinking about life that I forget about living.  Something I must have been feeling when I wrote this poem 20 years ago.  Gwen like this one a lot:

MIDNIGHT PLANT

Sitting in my easy chair

past midnight

not sleepy

thinking about

what I’m thinking about.

In the corner of my eye

the leaf of a house plant furls open

suddenly.

I’ve never seen that before

had I been asleep

I would have missed it.

Like all the shooting stars I’ve never seen.

John A. Bayerl, November 20, 1991

When I'm awake I need to make sure that I'm awake.  You were the shooting star that lit up my life for so long, and I am thankful that I saw you that night in that warehouse in Marquette. 

My Eyes So Soft

Yesterday was all about the past for me.  While sorting through one of my "junk drawers" I came across an index card with a name and telephone number on it.  Bub and Lou Ann  were friends and classmates when we spent a year in Portland, Oregon, a long, long time ago. It was Lou Ann's name on the card I found.  I had heard that Bub, her husband, had died a few years ago.  I dialed the number on the card, and Lou Ann answered out in Tacoma, Washington.  We immediately recognized each other's voices, but agreed that if we were to meet on the street we probably wouldn't know each other.  After a quick summary of our lives since that memorable year we spent together as students and friends, she gave me Dick and Peggy's telephone number.  Dick and Peggy were also part of that learning experience in Oregon.  I called their number, and had a delightful conversation with both of them.  Yet another reason to make a trip to the Pacific Northwest this spring.  My conversations with them filled me with nostalgia and happy memories of a time in our life when Gwen and I enjoyed  a great adventure along with our young family of John and Jeanne.

I'd been thinking about something Fr. Ben said in church recently: "We can't change the past, but we can change our relationship to it." When I was studying  in Portland, I heard a lecture by a psychiatrist named George Saslow, and he said something quite similar:  "We are products of our past, not prisoners of it."  Now, what does all that mean in my life today?  Obviously, I can't change the past.  Gwen fought the cancer for as long and as hard as she could.  I cared for and loved her the best way I knew how to do.  On November 12, 2010, at 8:40 p. m. she died.  I am a product of all that and so much more, but I need not be a prisoner of it. 


 She is gone, and I am here.  In spite of the diabetes and the cancer, she enjoyed life to its fullest for as long as she could.  She was proud of and loved with all her heart each one of our children.  Her three grandchildren held a special place in her heart and life.  She cared for and about everyone she knew. That's the legacy she leaves me, and I try each day to  maintain and cherish it. Is that a change in perspective?  Is that a change in my relationship to the past?  I can best describe it as an emerging understanding.  I don't know yet where it will eventually take me.  Steve, a friend I've met in the bereavement group I attend, sent me this poem.  It is powerful and it moves me and describes so well what those of us who have lost a spouse experience every single day as we struggle with our relationship to the past:

My Eyes So Soft

Don't

Surrender

Your loneliness so quickly.

Let it cut more

Deep.

Let it ferment and season you

As few human

Or even divine ingredients can.

Something missing in my heart tonight

Has made my eyes so soft,

My voice so

Tender.

My need of God

Absolutely

Clear.

Hafiz, 14^th C. Persia

  

Someone will always be missing in my heart, dear.  Help me continue to listen to life with soft eyes. 

YOUR BEAUTIFUL HANDWRITING

It was a nice, easy Saturday afternoon and evening.  Watched the UM basketball game in the afternoon, they finally won a close game.  Sorted out a drawer full of  "treasures" from my career in the schools.  All those letters, cards, thank you notes; reminded me of the letters from Gwen; recollections of a life full of love and caring and the wonderful gift of being able to share all that with each other.

Last night it was kind of snowy.  I snuggled in the afghan that Gwen's friend Rene made for me and watched a movie--Ashton Kutcher and Kathering Higel.  Kind of a cute love story, of course, sad that Gwen wasn't here to watch it with me.  When I got in the car to bring the DVD back to the library I got that desolate feeling I sometimes get.  Gwen isn't there, in the seat next to me.  Even during the times when I had to help her do almost everything, including getting in and out of the car, it was still nice having here warm presence there, someone to touch, feel, kiss on the cheek, holler at me for accelerating too fast.  I wonder if anyone who has lost a loved one could ever have anticipated  how much all of those seemingly  inconsequential things would be missed.  I sure didn't.

Today I'll sing in the choir at the noon mass.  This will be a special day, the mass will be in memory of Gwen.  I think I'll always have this ache in my heart whenever I see the words Gwen and "in memory of"  in the same sentence.  I won't lose sight of what she did leave me:

YOUR  BEAUTIFUL HANDWRITING

Your beautiful handwriting

one of the many things

I loved about you.

I see it now

on envelopes addressed to me,

neatly in the corner:

Gwen

Box 558

Gaastra, Mich.

No MI or Zip Code

not then

just beautiful handwriting.

What a treasure

I hold in my hand,

trace with my finger,

kiss.

All you left behind

all that awaits.

John A. Bayerl, February 26, 2011

And I am thankful, dear, for the love we shared.  I know you want me to cherish the fruits of our love; the strength of our four children, the delight of three grandchildren, brothers and sisters, yours and mine, all the spouses, and so many friends, near and far.   Times like this it's good to cherish the pain along with the joy, and remember all it brought us.  All manner of things will be well.

HOSPITAL BED

Sometimes, like last night, I feel as though I'm beginning to get a perspective on things.  (I know, that's always a mistake, to think that way.)  I attended the Huron/Pioneer basketball game at the invitation of Mae, my friend and former colleague.  Our Huron River Rats totally dominated the game, and I saw some other friends from the past.  It felt good to be doing familiar things.  That's the change in perspective.  Nothing changed except everything.

It's been a busy day, an hour at the gym, then a class at Arbor Hospice called Cooking for One.   I'm beginning to recognize some of the people at these events from other groups I've attended. We certainly aren't alone, it just feels that way. My friend,  Marie, was there, the one who translated Gwen's shorthand note for me.  She commented about Gwen's sense of humor.    A new idea I came away with was to remember to sit in Gwen's chair so the empty chair isn't always there as a reminder.  Also, one of the women said something about living a long life; I thought; I'm guaranteed to have a long life, every single day is so darn long. Anyway, it's nothing compared to the months of long days Gwen spent either sitting in her chair or lying in bed, never with a word of complaint. When it came time to have a hospital bed for her, she may have bent the "don't complain rule" just a little:

HOSPITAL BED

She didn't care for the idea

of  the hospital bed;

fought it like mad,

hated those rails,

didn’t want it in the house,

knew what it meant.

I didn’t like it either.

The bed meant so little

in the scheme of things.

It left the day after she did.

All it meant left with it.

Wish she could have stayed,

even with the bed.

I miss her all the time.

All she meant.

John A. Bayerl, February 17, 2011

I do miss you, sweetheart, all the time, with all my heart.  Cute how you signed that note: Sleep easy tonight and I'll probably see you tomorrow.  Yours, Yours truly, Yours very truly, Very truly yours, Gwen. 

ALWAYS AND FOREVER

It should have been a pretty good day; up bright and early, a little snowy, but the drive to Clarkston High School wasn't bad.  The student teacher I observed did a great job of breaking a class of 50 students into manageable groups and teaching them about basketball skills.  On the way home I stopped in Novi for a visit with Dick and Mary, that always cheers me.  I read somewhere that to some people grief feels like fear;  not me, I feel sad and weepy.  And, I  know why I feel that way.  Clarkston High's  athletic teams are called the Wolves.  One of the walls in the gym where I was this morning had a beautiful painting of a pack of wolves.  Gwen was a friend to wolves, I remember some fierce arguments she and her dad had about them.  Barney, her dad, always took the argument that wolves would decimate the deer population.  Gwen saw them as part of the natural heritage of the U. S. and valued their preservation.  What a great memory, well worth the sad and weepy drive home.  Gwen was  fond of saying that our love was alway and forever:

ALWAYS AND FOREVER

Always and forever

is how she signed

cards and letters meant for me.

Today, when those words

are no longer

just a nice idea,

I am grateful

and thankful

and blessed

that she knew to write them.

She must have known

there would be days like this

when

always and forever

is

always

and

forever.

John A. Bayerl, 2-24-11

Always and forever brings me great comfort today, dear; tinged with a little sad and weepy.

SHE ALWAYS LOVED ME BACK

Yesterday was another of those bittersweet days that others who are immersed in the grieving process tell me to expect.  The memoir writing group I've rejoined went well; my  recollections of asking  Gwen's dad, Casismir, a. k.. a. Barney, for her hand in marriage and receiving a perfunctory response of "no" was well received.  In the evening John, Jr.,  Amy and I celebrated Brooke's 8th birthday at a restaurant in Brighton.  It was such fun to see the delight on Brooke's face when I was able to present her with a new bicycle.  The bittersweet part is knowing and remembering how much Gwen enjoyed that sort of thing.  I wrote on Brooke's birthday card that she will always be in grandma's heart.

All in all, it was one of those days that was tinged with melancholy, and I  missed my perfect partner more than usual.  There never appears to be any rhyme or reason to this, it just happens that on certain days I have a much more pronounced awareness that someone who occupied such an important part of my life is never ever going to be with me again on this plane of existence. On days like that I find myself  often touching the urn with Gwen's ashes, a tangible proof that she's with me, but in a different way.   It's tough, a reminder, again, of  the  intense pain inherent in daring to love deeply; the kind of love Gwen and I experienced when we found ourselves by losing ourselves in each other.  When I read that last sentence it really sounds kind of corny, but that does nothing to lessen the truth of it as we lived it.  I wrote a few lines about it:

                                    

SHE ALWAYS LOVED ME BACK 

I told her often

how much I loved her.

Miracle of miracles,

she always loved me back,

even more.

Every single time.

Who is to blame me for missing her

with this ache in my heart?
Every single day.

John A. Bayerl, February 15, 2011

The ache in my heart is my best proof that our love goes on,  dear.  In ways I cannot imagine, we will someday see each other again.

Good news!  A delivery truck just arrived with a supply of baby raviolis  from Dina Mia Kitchens in Iron River--Yooper soul food.  They are just like the cappellettis that Gwen's mom, Bertha, used to make.  When I opened the box I saw a five dollar bill on top of the invoice.  The woman who prepared the shipment was able to combine it with another, and refunded half of the shipping cost.  Nowhere but in the U. P., eh.

Winter Seeds

Today was one of those kind of days that we loved when we lived in Marquette--bright sunshine,  crisp air, snow, the eternal enemy, beaten into submission by the Toro, looking all white and pretty.  It also reminded me of the U. P. 200 Dog Sled Race.  Gwen and I helped out as volunteers, she, with her nursing background,  worked with the veterinarians, who made sure the dogs were healthy and treated humanely.  With my limited skills, I got to help park cars.  My fondest memory of that event has to do with when we were back at our home after the race had begun.  We lived south and east of Marquette in the town of Harvey, and the trail to Munising ran right through our back yard.  Most of the time in the winter we hated having the trail so close to our home because snowmobilers used it and would go racing through any time of day or night.  The dog teams were the complete opposite.  We would get a hot cup of coffee or cocoa and sit on our back deck to await their arrival.  In contrast to the roar of the snowmobiles, the pat, pat pat of the dogs' paws and the whisper of the sled's runners were all we heard as the team would glide by with the musher standing straight and tall on the back;  often, a light snow might be falling, adding to the ethereal effect. As I continue to review and relish my life with Gwen it is those kind of moments that I look at again, cherish and the carefully stow away.  The process of grieving involves having to do that with so many precious past moments, and, at least for me,  it's good to do that.

My brother, Dick, gave me a book of meditations by Teilhard De Chardin.  Seeming to fly in the face of what I just wrote about those fond memories, this quote appears on the front cover:  "The future is more beautiful than all the pasts."  Now that is comforting and hopeful.  Apropos of  finding myself reminiscing about winter, I found this meditation in the book that speaks directly to the twin topics of grief intertwined with hope:

Do not brace yourself against suffering.
Try to close your eyes and surrender yourself,
     as if to a great loving energy.
This attitude is neither weak nor absurd,
it is the only one that cannot lead us astray.
Try to "sleep" with that active sleep of confidence
     which is that of the seed in the fields in winter.

One of the songs we chose to have sung at Gwen's funeral  was The Rose.  We all know the final lines. . . .

.just remember,
in the winter,
far beneath the bitter snow,
lies the seed 
that with the sun's love
in the spring becomes the rose.


Gwen loved roses.  I am beginning to feel spring emerging in my soul; soon it will be time to awake from that "active" sleep of winter and  work in Gwen's Garden in the back yard. You can bet there will be a rose bush, dear.