THINGS LEFT UNDONE

The weather is horrible today; cold, cloudy and rainy.  It doesn't matter, Jeanne and Bob and Nick and Izzy will be here soon, and Anne has already arrived.  Thursday will be family time with John, Amy and Brooke.  There is much for which I am thankful.  Yet, there's also a big hole in my life where Gwen was.  I suppose everyone who has lost someone they love feels that way; especially as the holidays approach; the feeling that there was so much more that we could have done together:

THINGS LEFT UNDONE

How could it have been time

for you to go?

There are so many things

left undone.

We never got around to

ordering that Slim Jim

at the Big Boy.

We didn’t get to see and hear

Celine’s show in Vegas.

There was no made from scratch

German Chocolate Cake

on my birthday.

Had you stayed

we would have done

all these things.

It hardly seems fair

to content myself with gratitude

for hours of pleasure we shared.

Yet, somehow hope remains

as life goes on. 

John A. Bayerl, November 22, 2011

There was a lot we didn't leave undone, Dear; that's the trouble with the good stuff. . . .we always want more.

Happy Memories

Yesterday, in keeping with a tradition begun several years ago, little booklets with blue covers were made available at church.  The little booklets contain six minute meditations for each of the days in Advent.  Gwen and I loved those booklets.  Each night we would take turns reading and then talk about what we had read.  It was a guaranteed way to settle down and find unity between us.  Last year I didn't do this because Advent came right after Gwen's funeral.  (Even now, a year later, it's still hard to type those words: Gwen's funeral.)  I'm not sure just how I feel about reading the booklet alone this year, but I intend to do it--out loud.  It will be good for my heart and my soul to remember those peaceful moments we shared.

Although the temperature was in the 40s today, the sun shone brightly, and I took advantage of the opportunity to play a few holes of golf.  Imagine that; playing golf on November 21!  My mind is in a jumble tonight.

Tonight, Dear, I am especially grateful for the many, many moments we spent just being with each other. Last night I had this dream where I saw you walking a beautiful beach, patiently and joyfully waiting for me.

A long, tiring day.

More than anything tonight I'm feeling tired.  Days at the football stadium, enjoyable as they may be, are still tiring.  Next weekend will be nice; it's the last game, and Anne will be home to drop me off at the game and pick me up at the end.  As is always the case, at quiet moments during the day, even though I'm there with 114,000 people, I feel lonely.  Something comes up that I want to talk with Gwen about, and as I reach for my phone, reality hits me, and I get that sad, melancholy feeling.  It just seems so unfair--and wrong.

I'll get to bed early tonight, Dear, and I'll hold tight to my memories of how perfect you were for me.  Only you know what's in my heart; as you always did.. 

Take my arm.

In a letter to a friend recently I talked about how missing Gwen is really about missing little things.  The little things pile up and become a big, empty hole in my heart.  Gwen loved clinging to my arm at social events, and I miss having her take my arm and hold it tight. I never felt that it was done in a possessive way, and I never resisted it.  It was more a sense of pride.  She was saying to the world, "Hey! look who I'm with;" I know that's how it made me feel.  I need to reflect on this some more.


The rest of my day is pretty busy, Dear; first I have lunch with our old Forestbrooke friends, then I have to head over to UM  to take part in a research study I volunteered for, and after that I have my voice lesson.  Tomorrow there is a home football game at noon, so I'll be up bright and early for that.  I'll hold you in my heart all the while.

Being who I was.

On a couple of occasions today I was once again "surprised" to remember that Gwen isn't sitting on the chair next to me.  One was when I saw an article in the paper about one of our friend Marian's grandson making the UM hockey team as a walk on.  Marian died of cancer several years ago; she was a special friend, and we always enjoyed our visits with her--like Gwen, family, especially grandchildren, meant everything to her.  It would have been such fun to read that article to Gwen.  Earlier in the week there was an article in the paper about the nurses at UM Hospitals reaching an agreement on their contract.  Gwen was always very involved with events surrounding negotiating for a contract, and I recall a time when she was on the picket line and I delivered some snacks her colleagues and her.  Gwen was careful to pick her battles, but when she picked one she always saw it through until the end.  Although she lost her battle with cancer, she fought it until the end.  What an example for the rest of us.

Today, Dear, my thoughts have been about trying to re-discover who I was before that magic day when I met you.  It would be silly to say that I can go back to being that person, as I've said in the past, you have made me so much more than I was then.  What I can do is to show my appreciation for the gift of you by continuing to find ways to make a difference in the world.  Who knows?  There may even be a magic moment or two ahead for me.  Now, if I can only remember that during those melancholy times when there is such a deep longing for you.

You're not alone. . .

It's not as simple as accepting that there will be good days and bad days.  There are days when I miss Gwen terribly and want her to be with me.  Then, there are days like today when I begin to feel cheerful and hopeful, knowing that Gwen will always be with me.

A friend sent this to me today:  "You're not alone; even though right now you're on your own."  That is the crux of the problem: learning to enjoy being on my own while at the same time not bemoaning the fact that I'm alone.   Being alone doesn't have to mean being lonely.  I was on my own; then I met Gwen and didn't want to be on my own anymore.  She was not only in my life, she was my life; then we shared our love as we raised a family. Isn't it amazing to be able to say that for more than fifty years I was with first Gwen and then Gwen and the kids, and I was never once lonely?  No wonder I can't get used to being on my own now.

On days like today, Dear, I appreciate anew just what a gift it is that we found each other.  It's OK to be on my own; I'm not alone.

P. S. I looked at my page views just now,  it was 11111--today,when I'm feeling what it's like to be just one, on my own.  Kind of a wink from you, isn't it?

Trying to live in the present.

 Today at the bereavement group I heard myself saying that progress will be made in learning to live without my perfect partner when I begin to live less in the past and more in the present.  Often I ask myself what Gwen would tell me to do were she here to guide me.  Ever the level-headed pragmatist, I am sure she remains firm in her desire to have me go on with life.  It boils down to faith and trust.  Faith that for Gwen life has changed, not ended.  Trust that eventually all will become clear.

I noticed that I talked about living less in the past and more in the present but that I didn't mention the future.  It seems I've decided that by continuing to face whatever life has to throw at me the future will take care of itself.  Often I feel like I've gone back to being who I was before I met Gwen. Then I realize that, although at times I do feel all alone like I was then, the truth is that Gwen made me into a so much better person than I was then, and that will never change.  And, it's back to square one again--be grateful, few people are given the gift of a deep and abiding love that Gwen and I shared.

When I awoke this morning, Dear, warm memories of you comforted me.  It was as though you had gone to the bathroom and would soon crawl back in bed with me. All will be well. . .

Beginning another year.

Saturday and yesterday were fine, but today it's like the world came crashing in on me.  I've had that sad, melancholy feeling,and I often found myself saying things to Gwen. I miss her with my whole heart and soul.  It also saddened me yesterday when I learned that Marie, who had a stroke last week will be taken home today and put on hospice care.  I'll always have a special place in my heart for her because she transcribed the shorthand note you wrote me that night in the library at NMU.

It was good to get out of the house this morning and spend time observing my favorite student teacher.  Today she was her amazing self again as she taught second grade students about solids, liquids and gases by having them make root-beer floats.  I had no idea that students that age would understand about hypotheses!  A friend had asked me to play golf this afternoon, but then the rains came.  I did what everyone else does on a rainy Monday--went shopping at Target.

Now it's evening, and I'm getting settled down for the  night.  The Packers are on TV tonight.

It's hard to believe that I'm beginning my second year without you, Dear.  Although I miss you terribly tonight, we'll find a way to smile and get through this together.  

Silent Sunday

In loving memory.

I am blessed with many friends. One of them, a dear Internet friend in Canada, sent me this tribute to Gwen.  Her website can be pasted into a browser:

<http://bforever-awidowsperspective.blogspot.com/2011/11/in-memory-of-gwendolyn.html>

The word anniversary is not in my vocabulary when days like today arrive.  Anniversaries celebrate joyous occasions.  Today, on WUOM, our local NPR radio station, an announcement from me is being read.  It simply says: "In loving memory of my wife, Gwen."  I just heard it now, and it made me smile.  Also, this morning my doorbell rang and a local florist delivered a single, long-stem rose.  I don't know from whom it came; the enclosed card read::

Proof That True Love Lasts,
                Forever,
Remember To Find Your Smile.

I'll post a picture of the rose on  my blog tomorrow.  I'm a lucky guy to be blessed with friends like this.

Today I'll try to keep it normal.  This morning I'll mow the lawn and chop up leaves, then I'll watch some football on TV, and at 5:00 I'll attend a Mass for Gwen.  This evening I'll remember what happened a year ago, and grieve the loss of the one who made me complete.  I've also prepared a poem for today:

COLD NOVEMBER SUN

The cold November sun

fills my house with grey today,

so unlike a year ago

when the same sun

warmed our hearts

as we rose to greet the gift

of another day together.

Go play in the warm sun,

but don’t be too long,

you told me.

I’ll take a nap.

You awoke from your nap

I was there, as promised.

We shared a meal,

not knowing

it would be our last.

A year later, you wish

for me to play again

in warm November suns,

and I do—

but not today

when the sun is cold and grey.

John A. Bayerl, November 12, 20111

A year later, I  miss you more than ever, Dear.  Today I am filled with gratitude for the friends we have made, and, for our children and grandchildren: I see your love in them every day.  

A Final Moment

There was a final moment when the world stood still.  It is too sacred and profound for me to attempt to write about it.  It was the moment when I saw Gwen lying in bed, no longer breathing.  Truly, everything in the world stopped; our long and loving journey together on this earth had ended, and she waits for me in the next.

A dear friend sent me this poem:

FORGET ME NOT

Forget me not
When I am gone.

My memories in stone.
When day is done
And you are all alone
Forget me not

For good times shared.
The nights we were but one
Forget me not.

With each rising moon
And the setting of the sun
Forget me not.

As you grow old
The days, they just seem longer.

Remember with each passing moment
My love for thee is stronger.

~Author Unknown by me~

Now, Dear, I will go about my business for the day; some gardening, visit my student teacher, a friend's retirement party. You will be with me. <http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gK3UZ4zAomM>

I've never been so happy. . .

I've already written about moving to Portland, Oregon, with Gwen and our young family during the third year of our marriage.  It was an an exciting, tumultuous and happy time for us.  Immediately after our wedding we lived in Marquette while I took a class that was needed in order for me to attend the NDEA Institute at the UM in the fall.. Then, we spent a year in Ann Arbor where Gwen was employed at the Veterans' Hospital  and I attended graduate school.  A year and a week after our wedding our son, John, Jr., was born.  In the late summer of that year we moved to Reedsville, Wisconsin, where I was their first guidance counselor.  At the end our our year there our daughter, Jeanne, was born and we prepared to move to Portland.

Gwen stayed with her parents in Gaastra while I drove to Portland, found us a place to stay, and began attending classes.  This was the first time we had been apart for an extended period, and, in spite of frequent telephone calls, we were anxious to be reunited as a family.  A week after I had arrived in Portland I drove to the airport to meet Gwen and the kids.  This was an era when air travel was still a pretty big deal, so it was quite an adventure for Gwen to take that flight alone with two children, one a month-old infant and the other just beginning to walk.  We were so happy to see each other that I never took the time to appreciate what an effort it must have been for Gwen to have made that trip.  Many years later, when walking became difficult for Gwen, on more than one occasion I wheeled her through airport terminals in a wheel chair.  In a sense, we had come full circle, and I was merely repeating what she had done with two children, one in a stroller, so long ago.  I see now what I didn't see then--sacrifices made in the present will echo through the history of a relationship and become opportunities to demonstrate our love for each other in ways we had never expected.

When Gwen and I greeted each other as she left the airplane the two children she had in tow were temporarily forgotten as we kissed and then held each other tight.  "I have never been so happy to see someone in my whole life," she whispered in my ear.  The "I love you." that I whispered back hardly seemed sufficient to express what was in my heart.  It was another of those sacred moments that happen in all loving relationships when time does stand still and nothing else in the world matters; two people are one.

Later that evening, Dear, after we had settled into our apartment, you met Bub and Lou Ann, Mario and Joan, Paul and Jane, and Dick and Peggy; all classmates of mine and their spouses.  We all lived in the same apartment complex.

 After that, when the kids were fed and off to sleep, we finally had a chance to be alone with each other.  The sweet love we shared that evening was a testament to the miracle of our love; I've never forgotten it.  Time stood still twice for us on that day.

THE JOY OF TOUCH

Today is one of those cold, cloudy rain days when it is easy to think about spending time with Gwen; not doing anything in particular, just being with each other.  How many times I took it for granted that she would always be there for me to reach out and touch.  This poem is about that:

THE JOY OF TOUCH

I awaken, and, as I often do,

imagine her lying next to me.

She might roll on her stomach,

ask for a back rub

and maybe. . .

Slowly she relaxes under my touch

breathes a sigh of pleasure,

that feels so good, she says,

as my hand once again follows

the contours of more than a body

I never ceased to love

even as it aged beneath my touch.

Alone in my bed

I wonder how many times

we shared the pleasure

of discovering places

that only people long in love

know exist.

I understand now

how the joy of

mutual touch,

shared in a loving moment,

is stored away forever

for times like this.

John A. Bayerl, October 17, 2011

 How often, Dear, we would stop what we were doing and share a hug, or just hold hands at a movie.  We liked being in touch with each other.

After the storm.

Gwen's fourth pregnancy was progressing normally when she began experiencing headaches.  We saw her ob/gyn doctor and he thought that perhaps there was too much stress with three children at home and being pregnant.  He sent us home with a prescription for Valium.  Later that evening Gwen became sick to her stomach and began to vomit.  She was also very thirsty, and when I called the doctor he said to give her juice to drink.  All we had was Hi-C fruit punch in the refrigerator and I gave that to Gwen.  She promptly threw it up, and was becoming unconscious.  At this point I found someone to stay with the kids and took Gwen to the E. R.  A short time after she was admitted to the hospital I was told that she had been diagnosed with Type I diabetes.  What a shock that was!  She was given insulin, and soon recovered.  She went off to sleep and I went home to be with the kids and arrange for a babysitter for the next day.

When I returned to the hospital the next morning I was happy to see Gwen awake and alert; enjoying her breakfast.  Then the doctors came in with more bad news.  The baby she was carrying hadn't survived the diabetic coma she had gone into the night before.  Gwen would have to go through an induced labor.  I sat with her as she received the medicine that would cause labor to begin.  I don't remember the details of that, but am sure we consoled each other about the double dose of bad news we had received.  Then Gwen was taken to the delivery room, and I took a seat in the waiting  room.  Her doctor came in and asked whether I wanted to be in the delivery room with her.  In a decision I have always regretted, I tearfully responded that I didn't think I would be able to witness the delivery of a baby that I knew was dead.  This was forty years ago when it was quite uncommon for a father to be in the delivery room.  I saw no point in doing it.

After Gwen came back to her room I was told that she would need to rest, and I left for home.  I called Gwen's mom and told her what had happened, and she promised to come stay with us until Gwen got back on her feet.

The next morning I was at the hospital bright and early.  Gwen was alone in her room, wearing her pink negligee and duster that she always insisted on having "just in case I go to the hospital."  She was sitting in a chair, hair done up, and looking more beautiful that I had ever seen her.  She stood up and opened her arms to me.  I went to her and we embraced and wept without saying a word.  I'll never forget the feel of her warm, soft body as we clung to each other.  It's again hard for me to find the right words to describe this moment.  It was another of those moments when we were united in every sense of the word.  We mourned the loss of our child, while celebrating the fact that although Gwen would have to take insulin the rest of her life we were still two people in love who would live a long and full life together.

A few months after this, Dear, you came upstairs from doing the laundry and said: "You know, John, we don't have a lot of money, but we do have a lot of love and three healthy children..  Let's adopt a child."  We did, and, our family was strengthened and blessed by the addition of Annie B.

Back home.

It's been a long day.  I so enjoyed my visit out East, and was sad in a way to come back to the empty house.  Yet, in a way it was comforting; Gwen is everywhere here.  Tonight I've been feeling pretty bummed out; I've been fighting a cold, and I think that has a lot to do with it.

It makes me feel so sad when I think that just a year ago Gwen would have been sitting here with me, and there would have been no indication that in a few days she would die.  Why does that still seem so unreal?  There was also a moment while I was driving home today when it suddenly hit me that Gwen won't be there to help me when my time comes.  At least, she won't be there physically.  That isn't a scary thought so much as a sad one.  It wasn't always easy caring for Gwen, but when it was time to settle down for the night she was there in the room with me, and I could kiss her good night.  Tomorrow I will write about another magic moment we shared, and that will make me feel better, I am sure.

There are times, Dear, when I am keenly aware that my partner and pal isn't with me--could have used your navigating skills in the car today when I wandered off the freeway; you know me, my sense of direction stops after up and down.  On Friday I drove through State College, and had a nice visit with Bob's parent, Tom and Ann.  It's at times like that when I so miss your cheerful presence.  

No Silent Sunday

In a way it's been kind of nice not having access to my computer or my e-mail.  We can live without them. This morning Mike and Deann have gone for a walk with four of their "kids."  It's a chance for me to use Mike's computer to do an update on my trip to Pennsylvania.  Yesterday was a rewarding day.  First I met with Joe and his wife, Jenn, and their daughter, Caroline, as well as his mother-in-law, sister-in-law and brother-in law.  They made me feel most welcome, and I enjoyed being with them..  Nice people.  After that, I drove a sort distance to visit with Jim, Liz, Max, Luna and Anna.  My goodness!  How those youngsters have grown; and they are as loving and affectionate as ever--the whole family.  Then it was back to Hershey for dinner with Mike and Deann.

I've come down with a cold; I can't remember that last time I had one.  Today I'm going to just take it easy.  It's a beautiful day, sunny and bright.  Gwen is near me here.  There are so many reminders of times we visited here; she always enjoyed it so.  The bed I've slept in the past two beds is the same one that she and I slept in.  The green comforter that is on the bed is one Gwen picked out; I think it may have been an anniversary gift.  Good memories all of them.

Sometimes I do pretty good things almost by accident.  This trip is an example of that.  I have really wanted to drive out to visit with Mike and Deann for quite some time now.  It is always easy to be with them, and then there was the additional bonus of spending time with my nephews and their families.  In that way, I'm a really lucky guy.  On the night Gwen died, I had gone to answer a phone call from Mike, and when I returned to her bedside she was no longer breathing.  Somehow it is fitting that I am here with Mike as November 12 approaches.  I'll write more about that later; it's one of those moments when time stood still.  Now, I'm going to watch Mike shoot some arrows at targets, and then we'll visit his office at the hospital.  Bright and early tomorrow I will be on my way back to Ann Arbor.

I'ts been good to feel your presence here, Dear, you are so much a part of all this.  Just this morning Mike told me that it flashed through his mind that we ought to give Mom a call.  Anne, Jeanne, and John have had similar experiences.  We are family.

Another trip.

Today I will drive out to PA to visit with Mike and Deann.  I'm excited about seeing them--it's been a while.  Then, there's the other side of it; being there without Gwen for the first time.  Mostly, though, it's always good to be with family, and I've been feeling a little restless lately.

The car is packed, and I'm ready to go.

You'll be there in the car with me, Dear.  

One Thing Didn't Change

Lately I've been thinking about how much life has changed in the past year since Gwen died.  Soon it will be a year since I first faced the reality that it would no longer be John and Gwen; just John.  What has been harder; becoming accustomed to being without Gwen today, or re-living memories accumulated over 50 years of having her with me?   Earlier today I heard the Rolling Stones singing Ruby Tuesday.  Instantly I was taken back to a car trip when our whole family sang that song on our way to the U. P. for a visit with Gwen's folks.  (I wonder why we sang that song instead of Over The River and Through The Woods; must have been in the summertime.)  Reality comes crashing in when I remind myself that that was then and this is now.   And, the battle between what was and what is goes on with the hope that over time the what is will become as joyful as the what was.

Then I am reminded of what a beautiful day it was when Gwen and I promised to love each other forever and always.  Also included in that promise were the words "until death does us part."  Who thinks about what those words really mean on their wedding day?  However, at some level we always knew that sooner or later one would go and the other would stay.  After all, life is all about change.

There were subtle changes and dramatic changes as our marriage flourished and four children came into our lives. Gwen and I finished college and we entered long, rewarding careers.  In many ways we became far different individuals than the two young lovers who promised to love each other until death parted us.  The outward trappings of the love that formed the bond between us certainly changed over time.  However, the "I love you" that Gwen and I said to each other on her last night on earth was the same "I love you" that we first said to each other on a warm spring night in Gaastra.  Here on this earth, for us, it was the one thing that never changed.

Now I take great comfort, Dear, in the faith that life has not ended for you; it has changed, and our love goes on.

   

Things remembered.

Grief continues to be its sneaky self.  This week I've played golf twice at the Barton Hills Country Club.  People who know Ann Arbor will know what it means to play golf at Barton Hills.  Through a series of events involving one of the ushers with whom I work at UM football games I was invited to play at this exclusive country club.  That's neither here nor there; when I entered the clubhouse I was reminded of a time when Gwen and I had attended a holiday party there.  This was when she was an OR nurse at Kellogg Eye Center.  One of the surgeons with whom she worked was a member at Barton Hills.

Memories flooded over me when I walked into the reception and dining area.  Gwen was dressed in her finest, and I was so proud of her when people with whom she worked talked with me about what a fine person and professional she was.  Gwen never blew her own horn; she went to work and did what she was supposed to do without a lot of fanfare.  Occasions like that were the only time when I got a glimpse of her that I rarely saw.

When I was driving home later, I once again re-lived those wonderful times.  Luckily, I was on a road through a sparsely-populate area, and was able to pull off onto a side road and have myself a nice cry.  Will the time ever come when I am no longer surprised by my grief?  Do I want that time to come?

It's still so strange, Dear, driving home and thinking about how excited you will be to hear about my day.  Then, that devastating moment when I remember that there's no one waiting at home for me.  It's a strange feeling; the one of complete freedom.  I've thought this many times:  "Now that I can do anything I want, there's nothing I want to do."  

Two are one.

All day today I’ve been thinking of our wedding day.  Everything had gone perfectly; aside from a little shower (Rain at a wedding promises fertility.), it was the bright and shiny day we hoped it would be.  We left the reception as man and wife, and changed clothes at Gwen’s folks’ house.  It felt so natural to have Gwen ask me to unlace the back of a garment she had worn under her wedding gown--and so good!

We then drove a few miles to the Valley View Motel in Crystal Falls; where, as is said, we consummated our marriage.  How could anyone forget any of that?  I surely haven’t.  Finally, we kissed, good night, said "I love you" for the zillionth time that day, and curled close to each other as we prepared to spend the first of what we knew would be a lifetime of nights together.

As Gwen lay close to me and we began to drift off to sleep, one of those magic moments occurred when time seemed to stop.  In the most unexplainable yet joyous way possible, I felt Gwen’s body next to mine as though it were part of my own; there was no difference between her and me.  A feeling of contentment and deep relaxation came over me.  “All of her is here, with me, next to me,” I thought, and the feeling I experienced was one of great gratitude that she loved me and accepted me into her life exactly as I loved and accepted her into my life.  For the briefest of moments time stood still and all that mattered in the world was there with us in that bed, nothing else was important.  The joy we had anticipated for so long was real, and it was ours.  As my dear wife would say, “It can’t be explained with words; it’s love, plain and simple.”

As I recall that miraculous moment with Gwen, I am also reminded that, every night, especially during her long illness, all my cares of the day would disappear into the soft warmth of Gwen lying next to me.  The word grief is simply inadequate when trying to describe what the absence of that feels like.

You are with me each night, Dear, as I settle down to sleep. For just a little while the world goes away and it is just you and I, alone, lying next to each other: I again feel all of you there with me.