FACELESS FIGURINE

Yesterday an old friend came into town to visit with her daughter, who lives here.  She and her husband and their two children  lived next door to us when we first moved to Ann Arbor.  Her name is Elise .She and Gwen were and continued to be the best of friends.  I guess today they would be called BFF.   Elise and her husband have been living in California for quite some time now.  We had dinner last night; the first course was tears. As she and I reminisced about Gwen it became another of those miraculous moments when, just briefly, Gwen was back with us with her brightest smile.

It's fair to say that Gwen was essentially a practical person.  There was a side to her that loved doing goofy things, as the picture of her in the straw hat clearly shows.  I was always convinced that part of the reason she kept me around was so that she could have her very own goofy thing.  One of the things I found so fascinating about her was that she loved to do the unexpected, as was the case, Christmas, 2009,  when she gave me as a gift a figurine of a man and a woman in love.  I'ts only about eight inches tall; made by a company called Willow Tree.  All the gift stores have them. It's so impractical.  I wrote about it:

FACELESS FIGURINE

She and I were together at the gift store,

she asked me to leave her alone

she’d be fine in her wheelchair.

It was then she bought the

faceless figurine.

I pretended not to know

what was going on.

It was so impractical

 a gift like that figurine,

a man behind a woman

his arms around her waist

her hand on his face

nuzzling each other.

There’s a blank place

where their faces ought to be;

like a Hallmark Card without words.

The love they share

is there for all to see.

I love the faceless figurine,

it’s on my mantel  

with other treasures,

its meaning so clear to her then

 so much more to me now.

She knew,

if the two of them

had faces,

they couldn’t be us,

 it wouldn’t be

our love.

John A. Bayerl, February 6, 2011

Behind the figurine, on the mantel, I  keep a birthday card Gwen gave me three years ago.  On it, she wrote  "John, The love of my life!!  I will miss you terribly someday. . ."  I love that thought of us missing each other.  She has given me so much to hold onto, even now.

Drawing out into the light.

A while ago I came across another poem that Gwen has stashed away in a cabinet. On it she had written "For My Husband, John" and at the end signed it "Gwen."  I remember getting it from her, but it was a long time ago.  Probably during what our children refer to as our "hippy" stage.It was printed in purple ink by the old Ditto Machine.  This too has become one of my "treasures"; I framed it and display it on the mantel. Here it is:

For my husband, John

I love you

not only for what you are

but for what I am

when I am with you

I love you

not only for what you

have made of yourself

but for what you are making of me.

I love you for the part of me

that you bring out.

I love you for putting your hand

into my heaped up heart

and passing over all the foolish,

weak things that you can’t help dimly

seeing there,

and for drawing out into the light

all the beautiful belongings

that no one else had looked quite so far

tofind.

I love you because you have done

more than any creed to make me good

and more than any fate could have done

to make me happy

You have done it, without a touch,

without a word, without a sign—

you have done it by being yourself.

                                    Gwen

Found among Gwen’s belongings,

January 5, 21010

Written by Roy Croft

I remember reading this for the first time and being so taken by the part where it talks about: drawing out into the light all he beautiful belongings that no one else had looked quite so far to fnd.  Gwen certainly saw things in me that no one else did, and, although I have joked that she married me in spite of them,throughout our marriage she continued to encourage me to discover, bring into the light and develop the things that only she saw in me.  I did the same for her. I am aware too that were it the present day this poem is the sort of thing that would circulate around the Internet and be glanced at briefly before being either mindlessly forwarded or deleted.  Instead, I am able to enjoy once again her handwritten message to me and be warmed on a cold winter afternoon by my memoriesof the love that we shared.  And, be reminded once again of how she did it: 

without a touch,

without a word, without a sign—

you have done it by being yourself.   Thank you, my love.

ROGER AND BARB REMEMBERED

Roger and Barb were members of a support group that Gwen and I participated in from almost the day she was diagnosed with cancer to the day she died.  Barb died about year or so after we first met her and Roger.  I recall meeting her in a hardware store a couple of months before she died.  She loved to garden, and was picking up some gardening materials.  She had retired as a teacher with the Ann Arbor Public schools, and, on that occasion, we reminisced about about our careers as educators. In many ways, the most difficult thing about cancer is that it is not obvious when someone has it.  Gwen and I used talk about how we were going about our life, enjoying our retirement, and then one day we went to see a doctor and were told that she was going to die. Unbelievable, even now.

We met Roger at Barb's funeral, and he told us a story about the first night he came home to a house without his spouse, a story that those of us who grieve  are very familiar with.  This was three and one half years ago, yet I remember it each time I come in the door and head over to the mantel to say hello to Gwen:

Roger and Barb Remembered

At the funeral, Roger told us a story

about how, on the night Barb died,

he was driving home,

when he saw a deer,

on the side of the road.

He stopped to let it cross the road.

Traffic piled up behind him.

I imagine car horns were blown.

Roger told us how, when he got home,

he rushed into the house,

anxious to tell Barb about the deer.

Then, he told us that,

of all the people there at Barb’s funeral,

he was most glad to see us.

We were part of his and Barb’s group.

We would understand his story.

We did.

 John A. Bayerl

 July 26, 2007 

Often, in the groups we attended, their true value always lay in knowing that the most important things never had to be said or talked about.  We always knew that they knew.

FLEECE SHEETS

C. S. Lewis, in his book, A Grief Observed, compares losing one's spouse to an amputation.  I know what he means, except that the phantom pains are more real than phantom.  I know it's time to begin thinking about rediscovering and reinventing myself; at least a little bit.  And, I do.  Some days my heart is in it.  Some days I'm going through the motions.  There are some constants, always the little reminders, like having someone to pull up the blankets to cover your back and keep out drafts.  That's what this poem is about, one of those not so phantom pains:

FLEECE SHEETS

I had no idea they made such a thing

My sister Terri told me about them

Fleece sheets

How warm they are.

I found some at Bed Bath and Beyond

With the 20% off coupon

I didn’t hear Gwen complain too much at the price

So I bought them.

They’re on my bed now

And they are warm

As advertised

Soft, and kind of fluffy.

It’s not like having the real thing

Nothing ever will be

 I’m the one who pulls them up in back

To keep out the winter chill.

John A. Bayerl, February 3, 2011

I woke up early this morning.  I have a busy day ahead.

WHAT I'VE LOST

It snowed last night,  Brother Dick and I commented that it was a measly six inches, in the U. P., where we grew up, as he said, "we spit on that".  Brother Andy in Boston knows what snow is like.

Humor always helps.  My neighbor, Bob, called me this morning to tell me that I shouldn't clear the snow from his sidewalk, which I usually do, because the guy he pays to do his driveway has some liability issues with my doing that.  We didn't even try to figure that out.  Bob is in his 80s and always good for a laugh or two.  This morning he, in all seriousness, asked me whether he should be concerned about some strange behaviors his wife has been exhibiting lately.  He said that she gets a lot of letters from life insurance companies, and also that she took him to Men's Warehouse where she ordered him a black suit made of asbestos.  Even the dark humor helps.

Probably no amount of humor could have helped me deal with the feelings of loss I had when I came in from clearing snow out of my driveway and sidewalk.  It's not just the empty house, it's the memories of being greeted by a smile and a hug and then a bowl of soup of cup of tea.  These are the real, tangible things that contribute to the deep sense of loss I continue to have since my perfect partner died.  I think I cherished all of that when Gwen was with me, and I don't think I'm saying I wish I would have done it any differently;  it's just a much deeper, more real feeling now.  Another of those paradoxes; I know what I have lost only because I have lost it.  I've been working on this poem for quite a while now.  It's one of those that, following Fr. Dennis Dillon's advice, I finally had to abandon.  It's done as it's going to get:

WHAT I’VE LOST

  

The hardest part

Continues to be

One simple thing

She’s not with me.

We talked about everything

The leaky sink

The cold, rusty winter

The price of gas.

I didn’t think I’d miss

All the appointments

The endless chores

That damned wheelchair.

I miss all of that

In a way, it’s like I lost my job

But, I don’t miss my job

I miss my sweetheart.

John A. Bayerl, January 27, 2011

It really is that simple; I miss that girl I married back in 1963 and everything she brought to my life;  as she would say, "In sunshine and storm."

Living in the Neighborhood

Perhaps one of the most difficult aspects of  Gwen's illness was to watch someone so vital and appreciative of every moment of life lose ground each day on the things that we simply take for granted.  Things like being able to dress, walk from one room to another, feed oneself, or even brush her teeth.  Had she been able to do so, she would have stomped her feet and said "I do not like this one bit!"  In fact, she often said words similar to that.  I have said before that caring for her was never difficult, she made it easy, and, in the process, taught our children and me a lot about unconditional love.

In her book Kitchen Table Wisdom, Rachel Ramen makes this statement:  "The healing of our present woundedness may lie in recognizing and reclaiming the capacity we all have to heal each other, the enormous power in the simplest human relationship; the strength of a touch, the blessing of forgiveness, the grace of someone else taking you just as you are, and finding in you an unsuspected goodness." Many of you know that Gwen was diagnosed with Type I Diabetes at age 28.  As she would later do with cancer, she acknowledged that she had this disease and then went on with living her life just as she wanted; which included returning to college at the age of 36 and earning a bachelors degree in nursing.  In a funny sort of way, what happened was that my children and I loved her, not in spite of her disease, but because of her disease. Such was the strength of her character.  In my professional training and practice I have often been taken by the awesome power of unconditional love and acceptance.  Especially during her illness, Gwen showed us that power by her refusal to ever complain about either the unfairness of her illness or the manner in which we behaved toward her. In return, we all grew in our appreciation of and ability to practice unconditional love. The words below are  my attempt to capture a little piece of what that felt like:

LIVING IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD

  

I lean over

Kiss her on the neck

Do my best Mr. Rogers

I love you just the way you are.

I love you more

She whispers back

Kisses me on the cheek

Softly, gently.

Imagine doing that

For fifty years

And then no more

Welcome to my neighborhood.

John A. Bayerl, February 1,  2011

 The healing of our present woundedness may lie in recognizing and reclaiming the capacity we all have to heal each other. . .

My bed is way too big.

The sun shone most of yesterday and that made everything better.   Last night I attended a mass at 5:00 that was said for Gwen's intention.  I met a support group friend who joined me with her significant other.  We went out for a little pizza and salad later.  It was then that I remembered  that I had been her boyfriend's guidance counselor in junior high school way back when we first moved to Ann Arbor.  I joked with him, it must have seemed strange to have someone who was only ten years old as a guidance counselor.  I don't feel that old.

Nights are always a little tough, I try to maintain many of the rituals and routines that Gwen and I followed.  It's still hard to be alone in bed. Doing many of the thing I did with Gwen like writing, reading, even reading aloud, and talking with her about my day helps some.  Sooner or later it's time to turn off the lights.  That's the time when a great sadness can often overtake me.  It's reality hitting me square in the face and there's no denying it.  A while ago I learned that it helps if at a time like that I do the loving thing and ask Gwen to be there with me.  I don't wish to go into detail about how or why this works, but it does.  The poem that follows is my attempt at capturing what that feels like:

EMPTY BED

Each night

When I finish reading

I come to the same realization

My bed is way too big

It’s so empty

Without her.

I invite her to join me

She always does

I’m safe for another night

Until morning comes

Pull up the sheets and blanket

Fluff the pillow on that big bed.

We were told about the empty nest

No one thought to warn me

About the empty bed.

John A. Bayerl, January 30, 2011

I am quite certain that no one could have warned me about the empty bed.  I've learned that there are certain things that must be experienced before I can talk about them with any sense of authenticity and integrity-- back to the idea that things don't mean anything until they mean something.  Being able to feel Gwen's presence in bed with me is such a blessing.  As soon as I am able to do that I drift off to sleep.  In the morning when I make the bed it doesn't seem all that big.

On Eagle's Wings

Today is one of those cold, crisp, sunny days that is so welcome after a week of seemingly unrelenting cloudy days.  Gwen loved days like this in the winter.  Neither of us are fond of the slushy, indeterminate weather that is so common to Ann Arbor.  When we decided to move to Marquette in 1998, friends would give us a curious look and remind us (As if two born and bred Yoopers would need a reminder.) about the cold winters in the U. P.  My response was always the same, "But it's a dry cold."

Today 's bright sun reminds me of a day when we had driven from Marquette to visit Gwen's folks in Gaastra.  We were on a side-road heading to Gaastra when we rounded corner, and on the side of the ride there appeared a bright, golden,  shiny object.  As we drew nearer and the angle of the sun's rays shifted we saw that it was an eagle eating road kill.  We both marvelled at our good fortune at having had the chance to see what could only be described as an apparition, and, even when it became clear what it was, it is not a common occurrence to come upon an eagle at such close range.  Eagles play a prominent role in  lore that has accumulated around funerals in Gwen's family.  What prompted this was the song On Eagles' Wings  that was sung at Gwen's parents' funerals as well as her own. In my eulogy to Bertha, Gwen's mom, I talked about having seen eagles on the drive over to her funeral.  Afterwards, several others also mentioned having seen eagles.  Shortly after Gwen's funeral her brother, Ted, told me about having seen eagles on more than one occasion.  Did the mention of them heighten awareness to their appearance, or are they to be seen as messages from our loved ones?"  I cannot be the Judge of that; all I know is that I take comfort in a verse from  the song  On Eagles' Wings:

And He will raise you up

on Eagle's wings

bear you on the breath of dawn

make you to shine like the sun

and hold you in the palm of his hand. 

Like poetry and literature, music also has the ability to help someone like me who has lost his perfect partner to begin to rediscover and redefine who I am.  I take great comfort in these words from the song.   Am I not fortunate to have the memory of Gwen and me actually seeing an eagle that was "made to shine like the sun"?  Here, on this bright, sunny January afternoon I take great pleasure in thinking of Gwen being "borne on the breath of dawn."  And He will raise you up. . .

I am not resigned..

Got up early this morning, dropped off a lab at the hospital, just something routine my doctor ordered.  Went to the gym, worked out for an hour.  My heart wasn't in it.  Then I went to a little Coney Island place for breakfast.  Gwen loved their spinach pie and  pecan pancakes. I had the pancakes.  Sometimes going to old familiar places we enjoyed together will jump start my day.  That didn't happen today.  For some reason, I've been thinking of this poem Gwen had stuck away somewhere; I don't even know if it has a title:

Down, down, down

Into the darkness of the grave

Gently they go, the beautiful

The tender, the kind,

Quietly they go, the intelligent,

The witty, the brave,

I know.  But I do not approve.

And I am not resigned.

--Edna St. Vincent Millay

Found among Gwen’s belongings, 1-5-11

I know that's the kind of "in your face", hopeful attitude that she always had and wants me to have .Most of the time I do.  It's just that today, I wish we could jump in the car, drive up to the cottage on St. Joseph Island, build a fire in the stove, pop some popcorn,  and get away for a little while. On my way over to the gym, I reached over to the seat where she would sit and held her hand for a while, that helped some.  I love you, dear, and I miss you.

It's just not right.

As part of my effort to restore  life to what it was before Gwen died, I supervise two students from NMU who are placed in student-teaching assignments near Ann Arbor.  Yesterday I visited with a young man who gave an excellent lesson on AIDS prevention to a high-school health class.  The lesson included a videotape of young people who were AIDS victims being interviewed.  At the conclusion of the video, in the credits, it was noted that two of the young people had died since the video had been completed.  Of course I cried.  (I'm sure the young man whom I was observing was moved that his teaching performance could bring an old guy to tears.) 

When I arrived home ,  I walked in the front door anxious to tell Gwen all about my interesting morning.  Is it the emptiness of the house, or the quietness that first hits me?   It's kind of like being in a Roadrunner cartoon.  I come toa screeching halt, knowing that all I can do is wait for the rock that Wiley Coyote has alread pried loose to come crashing down on me. And it does.  I've now learned that  it is possible to go through life all flattened out like that. 

The urn with Gwen's ashes is on the mantel.  As I do each time I return to the  house, I take a few minutes to talk with her and tell her about my day.  Next to the urn, there's a picuture of our second wedded kiss.  Now there's a poem waiting to be born:

IT’S JUST NOT RIGHT

Just when I think

thing are getting better

there’s a little reminder

that gets me whimpering

and whispering her name

and asking why.

Today it was

That picture of us

Kissing on the porch

Of the church in Gaastra

Right in front of  God

And everybody

Just the thought  

Of those warm, delicious lips

Excites me yet today

And I feel her wedding lace

Under my hands--

Know again what it celebrated.

The church in Gaastra

Has been moved to

The Iron County Museum

In Caspian.

The picture is on our mantel

Next to the crematorium urn.

The picture and the urn,

It’s still so hard

To comprehend

The meaning

Of those two

Artifacts.

John A. Bayerl, January 28, 2011

I wish I could say I remember that kiss.  I don't, not exactly.  What I do remember is that, after all those month of waiting, it was not a mere peck on the lips.  Also, church or not, it was more than a  kiss for the photographer. Much more.

Morning Mountain Air

A short time after Gwen had died, I gathered a folder of pictures of her that had been taken during the years of her illness and sent them to my children.  One of my daughters commented that it had helped her see that we had enjoyed a decent quality of life over that period of time.  With the help of a light-weight wheel chair that the children had bought for us, we had indeed not allowed her disease to control our lives.  Beginning with a trip to Cancun at Christmas , 2006 (shortened when Gwen broke an ankle), we spent time in New York City, visited our children in Colorado, Pennsylvania and Texas, spent time with Gwen's brother and sister in the U. P., took a farewell tour of St. Joseph Island in Canada, stayed at a friend's condo in Florida, and accepted an offer to spend a week with my sister Mary and Brother-in-law Milt at a place in Green Valley, Arizona.  At the same time we spent a couple days with our friends Tom and Marge Mackenzie in Phoenix.  I'm sure we did even more things that I've since forgotten.  It was while we were in Arizona in March of 2009 that I wrote this poem, dedicated to the members of the support groups Gwen and I attended:

MORNING MOUNTAIN AIR

In the middle of March,

in the desert,

I turn my face to the sun

and cool, dry, morning, mountain air

blesses my sense.

My mind, my heart, my soul,

are cleansed of burdensome winter

by the chattering of birds

and scent of flowers.

I bring to mind my friends,

who each Tuesday night tell their stories.

 Of doors slamming shut on bricks  in their heads.

Working hard so that sweat hides the tears.

Flopping like a fish out of water.

Marching in place in endless circles;

like a snowball forever rolling downhill.

They take comfort that

this feeling of being on a bongo board

 will someday stop.

This train I didn’t choose to board

will return to  the station.

For now, they cry, my happiness machine

is missing its battery pack,

and even when I feel good

I feel bad.

And here in Arizona

on this cleansing morning,

I keep these friends in my heart

and pray for them to have

sunlit faces

and cool, dry, morning mountain air.

John A. Bayerl

March, 2009

Friends and relatives have asked me to spend time with them in their homes or rental in warm climates.  I am not ready to do that yet.  Although I feel good when I feel good, the battery pack for my happiness machine is still on the charger.

Prepare and Hope

When Gwen was originally diagnosed with cancer she was told by her doctors that she had a likelihood of living from nine months to a year.  She refused to believe that, and opted instead for what Dr. Kalemkarian at The University of Michigan Comprehensive Cancer Center told her:  "Probabilities are for statisticians, when it comes to individuals we must consider only possibilities."  Her daughter Anne, upon hearing this, asked her mother to go for five more years, a goal she came within five months of achieving.(In her eulogy to her mom Anne ruefully reflected that she wished she had asked for ten year.) Certainly chemotherapy and radiation treatments contributed to Gwen's ability to enjoy those years with a reasonable quality of life.  Above and beyond that, simply put; she had an indomitable spirit.  As her children so eloquently stated in her obituary:  "Refusing to let life after cancer define her, she chose to cope with her disease the way she lived her life; with undaunted strength, unshakable courage, limitless hope and her characteristic, unflappable good cheer." 

Because of her background and years of service as a nurse, Gwen was realistic about her disease.    She was always anxious to learn what other treatment options might be available.  She knew that her ability to maintain hope was hinged to her ability to remain physically strong and active for as long as she could. During the winter of 2009 she participated in a program a the YMCA called Live Strong, sponsored by the Lance Armstrong Foundation.  I was fortunate to participate in the program with her, and also saw the value of preparing for the worst while hoping for the best.  This is a poem about that:

PREPARE FOR THE WORST
HOPE FOR THE BEST

It’s a healthy thing to do,

preparing for the worst,

riding my exercise bike

with its heavy, steel flywheel

and automatic speedometer

that counts the miles I’ve

travelled from where I began

to where I remain;

and the only change in scenery

is The View on the TV.

It’s a healthy place to be,

hoping for the best,

riding my fancy bike

around the circle of life

with my group of friends

who tell their stories

and cry their tears

and laugh out loud;

as we mourn the missing

and celebrate those who remain.

John A. Bayerl,  September, 2010

I attended a bereavement group this morning.  The task we face in the group is not that different from the one Gwen taught me to face as her caregiver--how to remain grounded and somewhat stationary while at the same time learning to ride hopefully around the circle of life. There is a painful difference;  no matter which bike I ride, I ride it alone. And, I mean no disrespect to my many friends. And, I remember and try to emulate this about my perfect partner. . . ." undaunted strength, unshakable courage, limitless hope and her characteristic, unflappable good cheer."  

Then we hug.

Today I attended, for the first time, a bereavement group that is offered by the hospice that  worked with Gwen and me for the final six months of her life.  Gwen and I belonged to and attended three different support groups during the time she was ill.  One was at St. Jospeh Mercy Hospital, where she was being treated, one was at The University of Michigan Comprehensive Cancer Center, where we went for second opinions, and the other was at was then called The Wellness Community of Southeast Michigan.  The first two of these groups met monthly.  The one at the Wellness Community met weekly, and Gwen attended a group for cancer survivors while I attended one for caregivers.  In their own way, each group was immensely helpful in that it provided an opportunity for us to connect and communicate with others who shared our experience of dealing with cancer.  Although the poem below was written with the groups at The Wellness Community in mind, it could have been written about either of the other two:

COMMUNITY WELLNESS

Each week

we begin again

as strangers;

talking about

talking about

feelings.

Being positive,

being real,

spirituality trumps reality.

Words are said,

tears are shed,

grief replaces fear,

the new normal becomes

never being normal again.

Now friends

more than strangers;

hand in hand,

we draw near

the campfire of hope.

Then we hug.

John A. Bayerl

July, 2008

The many friends Gwen and I made through our participation in these groups continue to support and enrich me as I learn to live without my perfect partner.  Each time I encounter any of them, the last line in the poem tells us what to do.  And we do. And sometimes that's all we can do.

V-8 LOW-SODIUM VEGETABLE JUICE

I suppose that in many ways this it a bit of whimsical positng.  There isn't anything a whole lot more common than the juice we drink at breakfast.  What I am learning is that weighty matters are determined not by their physical presence, althougn a big jug of vegertable juice is pretty darn weighty, it's the emotional weight of these commonplace items that counts the most.  Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined that I would one day write a poem about V-8 Juice.  Here it is:

V-8 LOW-SODIUM VEGETABLE JUICE

She loved certain foods

V-8 low-sodium vegetable juice

was a real favorite.

She drank some every day.

She made me buy a big jug of it

the day before she died,

always the optimist.

That juice is not only good,

it’s good for you.

with all those vitamins

and mineral and such.

I get an added bonus,

it’s really good

for my soul.

Now I drink a glass of it every day.

I resist the urge to add a little salt.

She wants me to stay healthy.

Today I got a little worried,

That big jug of V-8

low-sodium vegetable juice

is nearly empty.

 

John A. Bayerl

January 24, 2011

To make matters worse, I don't really like orange juice that much.



Family matters.

Today's posting contains a verse that was read at Gwen's funeral. This reading was suggested to me by Sister Dorothy Ederer.  Sister Dorothy has, as have all members of the clergy, staff and parishioners at my faith community, St. Mary Student Parish, been of immeasurable assistance since Gwen's death.  She is one of the most genuine, spiritual and loving people whom I know--and, she also writes books about golf.  Who am I to not follow her recommendations?  This is a part of that reading from Collosians 3 12-14:

Put on then, as God's chosen ones, holy and beloved, heartfelt compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience, bearing with one another and forgiving one another,  if one has a grievance against another; as the Lord has forgiven you, so must you also do. And over all these put on love, that is, the bond of perfection. 

When my children and I talked about who might be the best person for this reading we agreed that her brother Ted should be the one.  The reading talks about the values that Gwen loved so dearly and tried to put into practice in everything she did.  Above all, she valued family. Living in a family always requires that we remember little and forgive much, "bearing with one another and forgiving one another", as the reading states. It was fitting that her oldest sibling represent her family by reading it.

Compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience, all mentioned in the reading, were also characteristics that we loved so much in Gwen.  Most of all, she had a generosity of spirit, especially when it came to her family.  As our daughter talked about in her eulogy, Gwen would literally give you the shirt off her back.  As Jeanne put it, if one were to compliment Gwen on a blouse she was wearing, she would launder it,  iron it, put it in a box, wrap it, and make up a reason to give it to you as a gift. We miss that, and so much more about you, Gwen, and we thank you for your years of  love that lives on and continues to bind us together as a family.

FINAL ACTS

Fridays are hard for me.  Gwen died on a Friday night.  A week and a day before she died, she asked the nurse "How long do I have left?"  The nurse said that she wasn't God and didn't know the answer to that, but maybe Thanksgiving, Christmas, the New Year.  I recall being stunned to hear those words.  The nurse then asked Gwen whether she was at peace with that.  In her inimitable, understated manner, Gwen said, "Of course I'm at peace with that. I've had almost five years to get ready.  I'm OK as long as John and the kids are."  The next day I reminded her of that conversation and asked whether she was still at peace.  Again she said she was fine with it as long as the kids and I were.  I thought I was.  Events a week later would prove me wrong.  I thought I knew what it would be like to be without the one who had been at the center of my life for all those years.  How could anyone be prepared for that?  In spite of books and articles I had read, lectures I heard, even the first-hand accounts of others whose loved ones had died I was unable to take in the fact that my pal, my beloved, my perfect partner,  would soon die.  This poem is about that:

FINAL ACTS

She awoke from her afternoon nap

and asked when we were going home.

We are home, I assured her

see, here’s our family picture, the TV,

the crystal bell from your folks’ 50^th.

This time it was different.

No, she said, I’m at the train station

I’ll soon be going on a trip

Get my suitcase.

Oh, I said.

A little later she wanted to know

when we were leaving for the cemetery.

Cemetery?  Whose funeral is it?

Mine, she replied.

Oh, I said again.

I couldn’t, or wouldn’t,

Or simply chose not to

Hear what she was telling me

In that final act of love.

On that sunny, early November afternoon,

I couldn’t imagine what lay ahead.

I remember everything she said

yet I never heard a word of it.

John A. Bayerl, January 22, 2011

And maybe it's OK that those of us who dare to love deeply prefer the anesthesia of denial to the cold comfort of knowing.  I recently read a quote from Thomas Merton:  "As soon as you know it, you no longer believe it, at least not in the same way as you know it."  I marked the page where I found that quote with a marker that the funeral home provided.  On it is the picture of Gwen with the happy smile and straw hat.  Each time I move that bookmark I find that I have to kiss her picture.  Maybe if I were to stop doing that I would have to stop believing something.  I'm not sure what it is that I'm not ready to accept, what I am sure of is that I'm not ready to do it yet.

Courting Gwen

When I look at  pictures of Gwen taken through the years and realize yet again what a beautiful woman she was, I sometimes experience a rather unique feeling; I am jealous of myself. Jealous of the guy she wound up sharing her life and love with.  That, of course, was me. We didn't always get along, over the course of 50 years there were bound to be many misunderstandings, and periods of what we came to call "silent movies", those times when we weren't speaking to each other.  As most couples who are in it for the long haul learn to do, we found ways to resolve our differences and tried always to live by the "don't let the sun set on your anger" rule.   The point I'm getting to is that for the entire time that Gwen was ill it would have been laughable and totally ridiculous to get caught up in one of those "silent movies". What a wast of time that would have been. When time is all that matters, there is nothing more precious than time.

Early on in our relationship things didn't always go smoothly either, as evidenced by a poem I wrote then:

COURTING GWEN

Some words fall on a young man’s ears

And cause him a world of joy,

Words like “success” and “I love you dear”

Will never him annoy.

And there are words to trouble his mind,

That cause him naught but woe,

These words come from lips of wine

The words are “I don’t know.”

For a young man’s world consists of dreams

Of a future filled with bliss,

Of someone to share in all his schemes,

Of loving that uncertain Miss.

But dreams must be built on certainty,

On faith, devotion and trust,

Less they someday become non-reality,

And lie shattered to bitter dust.

                                                       John A. Bayerl,  circa winter, 1962

Ignoring the really bad poetry, (I  removed the last stanza, it was stupid, something about feeling nine feet tall.),  it tickles me now  that even then I could see that my future bride was someone who would complete my life.  Just today I heard a friend talking about someone who, when his wife was diagnosed with cancer, decided to leave her.  This is not an uncommon occurrence, and it is not up to me to judge the circumstances that lead to such a decision.  For me, I was so jealous of myself for all those years that there was simply no way I would ever, ever consider leaving that woman to whom I had entrusted my soul all those years earlier.

Waves of Grief

Not only is grief painful, it is also sly, sneaky and cunning.  Just when I think it's not going to appear in my life quite as dramatically as it initially did; something happens that lets me know how wrong I am about that.  On Tuesday a gentleman from the funeral home where Gwen's wake was held called and informed me that he was a grief counselor.  (Good, I thought, grief could use some counseling!).  Among other things, he told me that he had a little book for me, and would I like to come by to get it.  Of course, I did, not having any idea what he might be talking about; I hadn't ordered any book.  He presented me with a book that had tastefully and beautifully incorporated Gwen's obituary, pictures of her, and on-line comments from friend as well as quotes apropos to the pictures.  Needless to say, as I read through the book, my old friend grief  came to visit and, as usual, overstayed its welcome.

It is important for me to remind myself about what my therapist friend told me about grief.  First, it is a healthy and important part of the process of dealing with the loss of my perfect partner who occupied such a large, loving part of my life for so long. Second, when grief has me on my knees, my only choice is to find a way to stand up.  I now find myself standing most of the time, and, when I am on my knees it's usually because I'm in church.  As the poem below tries to explain, I have found ways to leave behind the stormy seas and cling to higher ground:

SAFE IN HER EMBRACE

I will find other seas.

A line from a song

sung at her funeral

now sustains me

when waves of grief

pound my shores

and take me to their depths.

Feeling the pain

of their relentless surge,

I struggle to stay afloat.

Then I recall warm summer nights

swimming at the lake

gently floating in her warm embrace.

Once fierce waves

that carried me out to stormy seas

 now take me to higher ground.

 John A. Bayerl

December 14, 2010

How fortunate we were to have those warm summer nights at Chicaugoan Lake in Iron County, so long ago.  How fortunate for me, to have them now.

The Holy Ordinary

This morning, as I reached in the cabinet to get a cup for my coffee, I realized that it was time to run the dishwasher.  There was a cup left, but I couldn't use it--it was Gwen's favorite cup.  I chide myself about this; after all, I use "her" bowls for cereal that I eat with a spoon that she used.  For goodness sake, most of the air you breathe is air she breathed.  The coffee cup has joined what I have come to call the holy ordinary, list; those ordinary items in my life that are in some way made holy through their association with that which makes all things holy--love. That cup reminds me of so many late afternoons spent enjoying a cup of tea with Gwen, something we both loved doing.  Later this morning, as I pedaled the Nu-Step at the gym, the song Red Red Wine played on my i-Pod.  Let the tears begin.  The song instantly took me back twenty some years to a week vacation at a resort on St. Kitts.  One day we took a ride on a catamaran to St. Nevis, and that song was played incessantly. I clearly recall Gwen's delight at the amazing life we discovered beneath us as we snorkeled for the first time.  The conch shell on display in one of our bathrooms I found on a beach there.  It will be looked at with much more reverence today. I'm sure any of those who might read this will be generating their own holy ordinary  lists as they read. We who love find holiness in those we love and all things close to them.

In addition to coffee cups, songs and other artifacts that Gwen and I shared, during the years she was ill we shared a bedroom in a lower level of our home.  Most of that time we shared a big old queen-sized bed, but, as her disease progressed, she slept in a hospital bed on loan from the hospice, and I slept near her in a twin bed.  Immediately after her death my children wisely moved me to the bedroom Gwen and I had used prior to her illness.  The hospital bed was returned to the hospice, and another bed replaced my twin bed in the room where she died. This is another instance where to talk about it too much will profane it, so I offer this poem about the room where I often spend time and can feel Gwen's presence:

THE ROOM MADE HOLY

The room in our house

where she took her last breath

is my hallowed place.

I meet her there often.

You really did it this time!

I say to her.

It’s Christmas, the kids will be home.

How could you?

I lie there, in that room

where we shared it all,

and I ask her to be with me.

I learn the truth

about the price of great love;

grief of equal proportion.

I discover that I love her

in ways I never knew I did,

or could.

John A. Bayerl 

December 9, 2010

This poem  was written about a month after Gwen died.  As I read it now I find that the anger I had then has somewhat dissipated.  The waves of grief, tomorrow's topic, are not as frequent, and I get an occasional glimpse of what life without Gwen at my side is going to look like.  It's not going to get better; just different.  As for the new normal, who want to be normal anyway?

Little things mean everything.

Things don't mean anything until they mean something.  This explains why it is always the little things that add meaning to what are often the most ordinary of events in life. The nurse from the hospice who came to offiicially document the death of my dear wife placed a stethoscpope on her chest and listened for what seemed like forever.  I recall starting to say something to her, and  then stopping because I wanted her to be able to hear better.  One of Gwen's and my favorite songs was the Simon and Garfunkle classic, The Sounds of  Silence.  I thought of that as the nurse listened in vain.  She then said some words making the time of death official, and told me that the funeral home had been notified and their representatives would soon be here for the body.  I know, even as I write these words more than two months later, that people are dying right now.  But, on November 12, 2010, at 9:40 P. M., it was my perfect partner, my soulmate, who had died.  That means something!  To me, that means everything!  These words that I write won't bring her back to life, I hope they will keep her memory, and, more importantly, her meaning, alive.  Gwen lived a rich and full life, and it meant something.  I'm selfish to the extent that I don't want her to be soon forgotten.

In an hour or so, two men arrived to take Gwen's body to the mortuary at the funeral parlor.  They were polite, respectful and unbelieveably sympathetic.  I remember that about them, but what I remember most of all is that one  of them had beer on his breath.  Again, it's the little things that add meaning.  I couldn't bring myself to accompany them to the room where her body was.  I soon heard them carrying the stretcher  up the stairs. They let her lie in state in the hallway near the front door.  I kissed her good night, and,  prepared to spend my first night without her presence under my roof.  My youngest sister and her husband live nearby, and I had called to ask them to be with me.  Her husband had to return home, but she stayed with me that night. I am now becoming  comfortable with spending my nights alone;  It would have been a hard thing to spend that night alone.

I knew that whatever it had been that animated my wife's body, her spirit, her life force, or, as I believe to be the case, her soul, had now left it, and what remained was just that, her remains.  Yet, all I could think of as I watched the two men carry her off to the waiting hearse, was that she was going to be so alone.  This is a poem about that:

OFF TO SOMEWHERE

Early in  October,

on her 68^th birthday,

she was so happy

as her children carried her

in her wheelchair

out the door and down the porch steps.

 She was off to the movies.

Now, a month later,
two strange men,

one with beer on his breath

carry her lifeless body

on a hospital stretcher,

out the same door and down the same steps.

I can’t say where she was off to.

I know where she has gone.

 John A. Bayerl,  January 2, 2011

As I was preparing to write this a friend of mine called.  She knew Gwen very well.  I read the poem to her, and asked for her response.  She cried and  said, "It sucks."  I agree.  I don't think she meant that the poem sucks.