Day 209: What I Wish for You

I'm part of a 30-day grief writing course.  Today's writing is in response to a prompt. What would I wish for others in this course- others who have lost? Or others who will follow this journey behind me?

September 25, 2014

I wish for you the most beautiful dress-

pink tulle and rhinestones and shiny satin.

I wish for there to be capped sleeves. Yes.

I wish for elbow-length gloves with little

pearl buttons. A clasp. Oh, let there be a clasp.

I wish for there to be a tiara, if you want one.

I wish for you teardrop earrings and a

necklace that you feel the absence of when

you take it off. I wish for you a sparkly ring.

And I wish for you shoes that click when you

walk and leave little bits of glitter each time

you take a step. I wish for you a trail of glitter.

I wish for you a jewel-encrusted hand mirror

to hold up to the sun. I wish butterflies of light

to dance around your world. I wish you light.

And I wish for your reflection to be one that

you recognize. One that you love. I’m so

pretty! You’ll say. I wish for you to twirl.

But most of all, I wish for you there, in your

perfectly relaxed grip, a pink magic wand

of exceptional quality, glowing brightly.

And there, kneeling at the swirling black

hole of your grief, I wish for you to reach

in with your wand, illuminating the dark.

Power restored. Memories sprung to life.

I wish for your baby to return to your arms.

Your partner’s lips to touch yours. I wish

for you to ride, windows down, in the heat

of the summer with your brother. Your wife.

Your mentor. Your spouse. Your love person.

I wish for it all to go back to the moment

before. Before the fall. Before the call. Before

the last goodbye and the last breath taken.

I wish for you to meet me, one day, quite

by chance, at a coffee shop or a local diner.
“Hello,” you’ll say. “This is my [loved one].”

“Nice to meet you both,” I’ll say. “And this is

Gareth.” I wish for us to shake hands like

we’ve never met. Like we’ve never lost.

And if this, if THIS, is not a possibility, then

I wish for you, I wish for me, to fall back into

it softly. Sweetly. The essence of what was.

Day 208: Grief is Everywhere

I'm part of a 30-day grief writing course.  Today's writing is in response to a prompt. Grief is everywhere...

Wednesday, September 24, 2014

This morning I was standing in my tiny red

bathroom, which also doubles as a shower.

Water spraying everywhere, my foot on the

toilet lid so I could make an attempt at shaving

my legs, I wondered when the last time was

that I changed the blades on my razor. This

thought was suddenly cut off by another. This

is how it is lately. My brain is a traffic jam of

unwanted thoughts. Sometimes there are crashes.

You should have been more compassionate. You

abandoned him. He would still be alive today if

you hadn’t have asked for space. Why did you do

that? There is no going back now. It’s over. It’s done.

Grief is everywhere. 

And sometimes it comes

when it’s not invited.

This evening I was playing “Cards Against

Humanity.” In each round, a player asks a

question from one set of cards, and the rest

of the players answer it with a card from their

own hand. The question card was put down:

“How did my last relationship end?” That was

the question. No joke. I looked at my hand.

“Dying.” That was the top card in my hand.

Dying. I laughed until tears fell and I yelled,
“I WIN! I MEAN…SERIOUSLY! I….WIN!” No

one else thought it was funny. Why did I?

Grief is everywhere. 

And it doesn’t always know

how to make friends.

People think I am moving on. They like to

think I am “better.” It reassures them to think

so. What can I say to that? That I often cannot

fall asleep until the wee hours of the morning?

That I’m going along with this- with this whole

thing, but I’m not the least bit happy about it?

What can I say to them, these people who want

to see me not grieving? That everything is ok?

Grief is everywhere.

And it doesn’t work its way out of my system

like the common cold or a seasonal bug.

Are you tired of hearing me talk about it?

Are you tired of seeing me write about it?

Believe me. I’m tired of living it. Grief is

exhausting. It is knock-you-down-time-and-

time-again exhausting. It’s I want to go back

so badly and each morning that I wake up

I have to come to terms with it all over again

exhausting. It is with my morning tea. My

drive to work. It is with my teaching in class.

My sitting alone at lunch. It is with my drive

home and my walking the dog. It is with my

heating up the soup and washing the dishes.

It is with my attempts to stop thinking about

it when I dive into virtual chatter or attempt

to read a good book. Grief does not hide itself.

Grief is everywhere.

And it doesn’t seem to prefer one activity

over another. It feels welcome for everything.

Last night I had a dream. I was on an airplane

full of passengers. There was plenty of room

to move about the cabin. In fact, there was an

arcade and a restaurant aboard. A ballgame was

on the screen, and people were jovial about all

manner of things. I was there. And so was grief.

The flight attendant nearly passed me by but

decided to stop. She gave me a clear plastic cup

filled with water. She gave grief a strong martini

with chunks of caramel floating in it. I don’t drink

alcohol. I can’t drink alcohol. I tossed back the

water and grief tossed back the martini. Oh…and

here it was…finally…the feeling of grief slipping off

of me and sliding to the floor while the rest of me

became comfortable once again in my own skin.

Day 207: The Condition of My Heart

I'm part of a 30-day grief writing course.  Today's writing is in response to a prompt.
 

I closed my eyes and asked my heart
to show itself. Show yourself to me.  A
beating vessel held gently in my hand,
perhaps. A glowing orb in my chest.

Imagine my disappointment when I
saw this: a vast desert. Dry, cracked
earth. A tattered and spiky tumbleweed
being carried across the land by the wind.

Touching down to the dusty ground and
becoming airborne again, my heart was
flying wildly out there in the desert heat.
Twisted and bare, my heart was flying

wildly. I ask to see my heart and I'm given
the image of a bundle of prickly weeds
catapulting through nothing at all. This.
This is my heart? How little I know of

myself. Also knowing very little about
tumbleweeds, I decided to research-
to learn about my heart in the form of a
tumbleweed. What was my heart doing

out there in the desert? And I learn. My
heart is the structural part of my once
above-ground anatomy. In the before it
was connected to me. Connected to Gareth.

And everyone saw it this way. When Gareth
died, my heart matured too quickly. My heart
dried. Unsure of what was feeding it, my heart
detached itself from its root, from me, and 

began tumbling wildly. The tissues of my
heart are dead, I learn. The tissues of my 
heart are dead. It is a functional death. A 
functional death? My heart, like a tumbleweed,

knows exactly what it is doing. It is
necessary for this tumbleweed, my
heart, to degrade gradually. To fall
so completely apart that the propagules

can escape during the tumbling. My heart
has propagules. How little I knew! I learn
of the propagules in my tumbleweed heart.
I learn of their one goal: to propagate an

organism (me) to the next stage in its life
cycle. I learn that I am being propogated.
I learn of my life cycle. I am my own parent
organism. Mind blown. And how do these

propagules get out and do their job? Only
by escaping as my heart detaches itself and
tumbles wildly through a vast space. I am
tumbling through the vast space of grief and

my heart is intent on surviving. Creating
again. Parenting itself. I learn that my heart,
like the tumbleweed, will eventually come
to rest in a wet location. It will be thirsty.

It will be parched, in fact. But when it
finally meets water after its jarring journey,
I learn my heart will swell again. It will absorb
the water around it and once again it will swell.

In this full state, in this nourished state,
my heart-my tumbleweed heart- will open
mechanically and release its seeds. I learn that
my dry, tumbleweed of a heart still has seeds.

I am not dead.

Day 206: What I Didn't Know

I'm part of a 30-day grief writing course. This post is in response to today's prompt, the 15th one (halfway through) asking us to examine our writing and the process so far. What have we found out about ourselves? Any surprises?

There were a few.

------------------------------------------------------

15 writing prompts in.
15 to go.

I didn't know it would be this hard.
I mean, I write all of the time.
I've had to. It's what has kept me
tethered. Alive. Connected.

Things bubble up for me and
spill out on the page. And until
I put them there, I can't sleep.
I can't eat. I'm immobilized.

What does it matter if I set the
tone or if a dictated prompt does?
How much different could
writing with a community be?

I didn't know it would be this hard.
I didn't know I would dive in,
head-first, and days would go by
before I realized I was out of breath.

What great relief I felt to have found
my tribe. I belong here. They are
speaking a language I understand. The
language of grief. The words of trauma.

The specific dialect of sudden loss.
Yes! That's it exactly! That's how I 
feel! And you understand exactly 
the hows and whys of my sadness.

I didn't know I'd be so relieved to
read my own story in the stories of
others. The guilt. The shame. The
deep sense of longing. The fog.

I didn't know that this would come
with more duality. That relief would
be met with the heaviness of our
circumstances. Our collective loss.

Husbands gone. Taken by the water
in their lungs. Or the gun in their hands.
Or by the car of a stranger. Or by
the very cells in their body. I didn't know.

Motorcycle crash. Break-in and
murder. Drug overdose. Brain
tumor. Electrocution. Heart attack.
Suicide. Hospice. I didn't know.

Mothers gone. Siblings gone. Friends
and lovers gone. Children gone. (Why
must there be the children?) Raw.
Torn from arms of mothers. Fathers.

I didn't know. I didn't know that my
hurt and loss and missing of Gareth
would get swept up and stirred in
with the loss of others. I hurt for them.

I say the names of the ones they miss.
I look at the photos of their faces. I
look at them there with Gareth's and
I take them in. I take them all in.

Wide smiles.
Boyish grins.
Laughing eyes.
Sandy hair.
Brown hair.
Silver hair.
Golden hair.
Glasses.
No glasses.
Swaddled baby.
Graduation robe.
Sunglasses.
No sunglasses.
Sitting under a tree.
On the swings.
Bundled up for winter.
Arms wrapped around each other.
Bright red lipstick.
Light linen suit.
Soft eyes.
Hawaiian shirt.
Baseball cap.
Green scarf.

And there is Gareth among these
faces of the dead. Of the ones
we're mourning. The ones who
brought us to this writing course.

Here is his face captured in that
photo -smiling because I was behind
the camera. He was looking at me
and he was smiling. That smile.

I didn't know it would hurt so much
to see him smile. I didn't know that
I'd feel the weight of those smiles.
Those faces. These people we love.

I didn't know that sometimes I'd
admonish myself for under- qualifying.
I didn't love long enough. We weren't
married. My grief doesn't count.

I didn't know I had the capacity to be
so cruel to myself, while being so
understanding of others. I didn't know
that I could bring myself to tears.

At the same time, I underestimated what
strength could be drawn from collective
pain. It is a holy thing, this bearing witness.
This gentle kiss at the feet of grief.

I didn't know how much I needed a
place to mourn without judgement.
Without fear of being seen as selfish,
dramatic, hypocritical, or negative.

I didn't know how much I craved a
safe place. I didn't realize how unsafe
I felt beyond the confines of this little
private writing group. I feel unsafe.

Someone, upon hearing about this course,
said to me- "See? Doesn't it feel better to
know there are people out there who have
it much worse than you?" I didn't know.

I didn't know that statements like that
would make me feel like hurling glass.
Pulling hair. Screaming at the top of
my lungs and pulling all of the plugs.

I didn't know how validating it would
be to share things like that and have
an entire group of people echo back,
"That's complete and utter bullshit!"

I didn't realize I was in a club of fierce
protectors, and how much I am in need
of protecting. I didn't realize sometimes
I need protection from my own thoughts.

I didn't know this would happen. Any
of this. I didn't see myself here, writing
about Gareth, to a group of strangers.
That Gareth is gone. Gareth is gone.

Day 205: A Tour of My Apartment

September 22, 2014

I'm part of a 30-day grief writing course. This post is in response to today's prompt encouraging us to write a letter to the one we've lost and introduce them to our "new hometown"- the place we now live in without them.

In my case, it truly is a new hometown. Gareth and I met in the small town of Hadong, 2.5 hours south of Daegu. He moved in with me not long after and we spent the first 6 months living in a 3-bedroom, 2-bathroom apartment on the 8th floor, overlooking the Samjin River and the rolling hills.

After 6 months he accepted a job in Gyeongju, a 3-hour drive from Hadong. It was in Hadong and Gyeongju (and in the city of Daegu) where we spent most of our time, alternating weekends and arranging other times to go off adventuring.

On February 14th of this year, 14 days before he fell, I moved into a small 2-room apartment in Hayang, 35 minutes from where Gareth lived.  What brought me here initially was a new job after searching for one that would allow us to be closer together. We were excited about it. No more 3-hour drives to each other's places.  No more rushing to get back to our towns for work. We giggled at the thought of mid-week overnights and the convenience of spending time together.

This was before those last days in January when things made a drastic change. I often entertain a parallel universe where those January days had a different outcome and he would still be there, a short drive from my door. I think about how easy the new drive is. (I return to Gyeongju often to visit friends of ours, and pass by his new apartment as I enter the town.)

It took me a long time to stop viewing this new town I'm in through the eyes of someone who wanted to share it with Gareth. "Oh, he'd like that!" "We should check out that place to eat sometime." "That's a funny sign- I should send a picture to him." I imagine him coming to my apartment for the first time. Then I imagine his things slowly taking up space here- his toothbrush and the toothpaste he liked. His razor. His special mug with the leaves on it. His ground coffee. His spare clothes. His dirty laundry in a pile on the bedroom floor. His clean laundry hanging with mine on the rack. His jacket draped over my chair and his shoes next to mine in the little space just inside the door.

I picture these things. I remember how this was in our old apartment.

As it is, Gareth never stepped foot into this apartment. Many of his things are still here, but he is not. Ah. It hurts to even write that now.

So, the assignment is to write directly to the one we lost. I do this from time to time and it brings me a lot of comfort, actually. At first, I couldn't think of a single place here in Korea that I'd want to show him. We had seen all of these places together. There is hardly a place that has only my stamp on it.

And then I thought of my apartment.

-------------------------------------------

Dear Gareth,

You would have been thrilled at how close I really am to you. You would have loved the fact that the first time I saw this place, there was a black and white Mini Cooper (like the one I had back home) in the parking space, and the name of the apartment is 해비치, or "Haebichi," or as it sounds (and as I like to greet it each time I pull up: "Hey, bitchie.")

You'd love how easy it would have been for us to drive to Ansim station, 10 minutes away, park the car, and ride into downtown. Remember how incredibly ridiculous traffic was each time we drove into downtown Daegu? Bah. How different it is now. I think about that almost every time I make the trip, which I do at least twice a week for Korean classes.

You'd love how close I am to work and how convenient that is for me. You'd love that it's just one street over from the main street in Hayang- a Daiso right around the corner, restaurants, a Starbucks, the train station a block away. You would have loved walking the campus of Daegu Catholic University, just behind where my apartment is. And beyond that, some great hills to climb and see the sun dip down beyond the Korean horizon you loved so much.

You would NOT have been pleased with the centipede problem I came back to after visiting St. Louis, nor would you like the tiny counter space where you would have been making your famous chicken stir-fry. You would have found the fridge unacceptably tiny but you would have commented on the great water pressure in the bathroom.

You would have dug the 1970s starburst wallpaper but would have been mortified that it was shared in the same room with a more 1980s granny flower pattern. (Oh, Korea.) The storage spaces would have pleased you greatly, and you would have been so happy to see that our favorite chair (the one I rescued from the trash) made it all the way here from Hadong.

The chair. Our favorite chair. We loved that chair. Here after a night of fun poetry projects happening on the coffee table.

I have the photo of me, the one you had taped to your wall in your apartment- the one you showed me when we would skype: "Look at my girlfriend. Have you seen my girlfriend? This is her here. Isn't she pretty?" I have that same photo taped to the side of my microwave. I see it each time I enter my living room and sometimes I repeat to myself what you'd say. "Look at my girlfriend. Have you seen my girlfriend? This is her here. Isn't she pretty?" You are not here, but you are many places here. In that photo. In the folded up draft of a poem you wrote for me taped next to it. Below, on the fridge, are photos of us together- in Gyeongju, in Namhae, in Geoje, at Samseonggung, at that pension on the west coast. I see you in these pictures everyday.

There's a framed photo of you, me, and cousin Isaac from that weekend in Geoje the three of us loved so much. I have it on my kitchen counter and talk to the both of you sometimes when I'm cooking. Isaac is in Vietnam now. Ah- you knew that. He moved before you left us.

Other things of yours are tucked here and there throughout this tiny living space. Some t-shirts of yours are folded up among mine in my closet. A collection of your books sit below my tv. The last little plant you bought me is still in its blue container, although the plant died long ago. I can't bring myself to throw it out.

The brass Buddha you bought in Hwagae is on my bookshelf, as are the little stones we collected on the beach. A few stuffed toys you got me are also there. You were always sneaking little things into my bag or surprising me with them at odd times. God, I miss you.

I laminated your handwritten version of "Get Me" and pinned it up next to my mirror. I read it most mornings when I'm putting on my make-up. The other poems you wrote for me, all 88 of them, are in a binder in my closet. Sometimes I pull it out and spend some time with your words. I find myself in there when I feel like I'm otherwise lost.

The watch you bought me for Christmas is on my dresser, as is the one you bought me for my birthday. Other little bracelets and trinkets you gave me sit there, as well. The black and silver dragonfly pin- the one you got in Jeonju when I was also sneaking and getting something for you (the watch with the burgundy band)- is on my jewelry tray. I'm about 3/4 through the bottle of grapefruit body spritz that you bought me. That's on the dresser, too.

In the bottom drawer of that dresser are the "special lady clothes" I brought back that first summer to surprise you. I have such delightful memories of presenting those to you. Really- it was funny. I'm certain I won't wear them for or around anyone else, so I'm not sure why I still have a drawer dedicated to them, but I can't seem to throw them out, just like with the dead plant. The Daegu Theater Troupe is putting on The Rocky Horror Picture Show, so perhaps these garments will see the light of day, after all. Funny. We don't think about these things at the time. I certainly never thought about any of this when I was packing them in the summer of 2013.

The bed is not the same bed from our old apartment. And I'm glad about that. I don't think I could stomach climbing into that same sacred space with its now gaping emptiness. This bed, the one I sleep in, already feels like I'm floating alone, out in the middle of a dark, turbulent ocean each time I get in it. I hate that you're not there. For the first few weeks, I balled up a shirt and put it down where your hand would have rested in the middle of the bed. We used to hold hands in our sleep, and waking up to reach for your hand and find you not there was too much. I held onto that shirt. This would have made you sad to see.

The last thing I reach for each time I leave the apartment is your key chain- the one with the little Lego flashlight man I bought for you and the piece of leather I got for you in Jeonju. When we found your keys after you had fallen, I wept and wept with happiness that you still had those two things on your key ring. You had them. You didn't destroy them in your rage. You had my photo tucked away in a book that I got for you. You had notes I'd written, crumbled as though you meant to throw them away and then carefully folded again as though you'd changed your mind.

I found myself in your belongings, too. I found myself all over your apartment. My hairdryer. Little gifts I had given you. Hand-drawn directions from Gyeongju to Hayang. You moved me with you, as I moved you with me. I love you for that, sweet one.


So, let's tour this place, shall we? Here it is. Haebitchi Apartments.

I'm on the ground floor. Like- actually right there on the ground floor. My apartment is the only one like that. The rest are inside of the building. I like to consider myself kind of the janitor who does nothing.

That sliding door with the gold goes to all the apartments. But that's not where I go! I don't even know the code. I'm that grey door to the left. It made it really easy to move my things in!

Open the door and this is what you see- the tiny kitchen, bathroom straight ahead, and a room to the left and to the right.

This is not at all like the kitchen we had in Hadong with the full table in chairs in it. Yikes. This is tiny. My washing machine is under my stove and it fits about a small size of diapers to be laundered. Too bad I don't wear diapers.

On the kitchen counter is this photo of you, me, and cousin Isaac in Geoje. What a fun weekend!

Above the sink- dishes for one. I don't need much, I guess. I got a new running bottle, since I sat mine down on a run to take photos of flowers and forgot about it. I went back the next day and it had been swiped. Somewhere out there is an ajumma with a really durable water bottle made for running long distances.

Redrum! Redrum! The bathroom is about the same size as the one you had in Gyeongju. It's not that great tub/shower that we had in Hadong, but I'm used to it now.

Standing in the bathroom and looking back out through the kitchen to the front door. Living room on the left, bedroom on the right. Dog right in front of you.

Ok. Back to the front door/walking in view to orient yourself. We'll be stepping in and going to the right, where my living room is.

Dog. And the chair from Hadong! So glad I brought it. Good storage ahead. Tiny little fridge to the right. Couch and table to the left.

I have photos that I took in the first 1.5 years along the wall. Most of them are of Hadong. Such a beautiful place to have lived.

Dog. And on the fridge are photos of us as well as an amazing magnet set of Philopena that my friend Lisa made for me.

Dog. And better view of the magnet set.

Better view of some of the photos I have up. Helped me not feel homesick when I moved from Hadong to Hayang.

Looking back out into the kitchen. I don't have a stove, but I do have a microwave on top of the fridge. The photos of St. Louis and of me and Maud are up there. These were on the kitchen counter in Hadong. I also have our dinosaurs under the lamp. Remember those?

We played with these a lot during breakfast in Hadong. they were under the same lamp, which sat on the kitchen table.

Dog in new dog bed. Same couch/fold-out bed from Hadong. Same coffee table. We put that one together. Some art pieces from the trash in Hadong. Oh, and there's Lambie! Deputy Snuggle! This is where I do all of my writing. And eating. And just about everything.

Under the tv is your collection of Niel Gaiman books as well as some poetry books of yours. Some went home with your Mum and Dad, but these- which had special meaning for us and some were gifted by me to you- stayed here. In our first days of knowing each other, before we began dating, we would skype for hours and you would read "American Gods" to me until I fell asleep.

Back to the orientation spot- and we're going to the left now, where my bedroom is.

Remember that HUGE bedroom we had in Hadong? Maybe twice the size of this one. There's another great print I got from the trash behind Daegyung Apartments. I think it was just to the left of the bathroom in our place, wasn't it?

New bed. Bookshelf with the same books we had in the bedroom. Lots of little things that make me feel good. Dog bed.

There's that 1970s starburst wallpaper I think you'd like. The prints that I got in Vietnam and had tacked above the couch at our old place were finally framed just before I moved here.

All my dresses! You commented time and time again about my wardrobe. You loved my dresses, particularly, and thought I had a great sense of style. You were quite complimentary. Thank you for that.

When I moved in, each room had one of these, a twin bed, and a desk. I had them take the twin beds out, the desks out, and I put these in the closet for clothes storage. It flipped their little lids, but I did it anyway. Lost of bracelets from you hanging there.

The brown leather band you bought in Busan and wore frequently sits with the brown watch you got me last December and the beaded bracelet you wore every day. You were wearing it when you fell. There's the black and white Skagen you bought for me, too. Was that our first Christmas together, I think?

Behind my bedroom door is the pink lamb hat I bought when we went to Busan the first time. And there's the other little pink rabbit thing with the mittens. I wore that a lot in the apartment with you when it was chilly.

A copy of "Get Me" by my mirror.

How many times did you recite this to me? I really couldn't begin to count.

Lots of feel goods on these shelves.

Bah! Our toy cars! Like children we'd lie on our tummies and vroom these around the floors of the old apartment. Looks like they may need a bath.

Those little hand poker things I bought for you in that underground shop in Busan when we were off finding gifties for each other. And the little antique piece I got when you go the brass Buddha.

A photo from our Chuseok trip to the luxury pension with some rocks we collected.

Looking back to the front door from the kitchen. I bought the red hanging piece in Thailand in January. The drawings on the back of the door are the very first things I ever hung in the Hadong apartment. Solly painted them.

And your key chain with the two little pieces I bought for you hanging from them. It feels really good to reach for these every morning knowing that you did the same each day. This is what you reached for before you left your apartment. It's what you had with you on your last night out. These things. These things I gave you. I was with you in them as you are with me in them now.